CHAPTER 90: A MAZE

CHAPTER 90: A MAZE
KRISTIAN

My stay in Rome has been a rollercoaster of so many emotions, my head constantly hurts.

I spend half of my days thinking. 

Thinking of my responsibilities as the Prince of Sweden, thinking of Luca, thinking of the outreach, thinking of Luca—and then thinking of Luca some more. 

Despite a couple of glowing reviews of the work we’ve done, there’s still a handful of public speculation that we’re playing a role, covering up conflict.

It reminds me of what my parents said about someone working on the inside to sabotage us. 

I wonder who and why.

Right now, we’re at a community shelter on the outskirts of Rome—a warm, sunbaked building with chipped paint and walls covered in crayon drawings. It smells like tomato sauce, hand sanitizer, and laundry detergent—a weird combination that isn’t as bad as one would expect. 

The place is run by a group of nuns and social workers who greet us at the door with tired smiles and firm handshakes.

Luca’s mother arrived ahead of us, all hand gestures and charisma, giving a short press statement about the importance of “human dignity at every level of society.”

Giovanni stands nearby, checking something off a clipboard, and Henrik’s at my side, scanning the perimeter like he expects an assassination attempt to leap from behind the playground.

I don’t think the man knows the difference between being a bodyguard and being an aide. 

“Where are the children?” Luca asks when we’re done exchanging pleasantries. Out of the many things I’ve learnt about Luca, I know that his love for children and his interaction with them are genuine.

“Inside,” one of the nuns answers as she ushers us in. 

Inside, the children swarm us like ants to sugar. They’re mostly immigrants—North African, Syrian, a few from the Balkans. Some have families, others don’t.

Luca's face immediately lights up at the sight of the tiny faces in the room. They’re looking at us like we’re strange aliens, and he’s looking at them like they’re tiny diamonds. 

I’ve also learned from Luca that with children, it’s okay to make the first move. 

“Hey buddy,” he says as he crouches to tie a boy’s shoelace, teaching him the step-by-step process as he goes.

When he’s done, the kid throws his arms around him like they’ve known each other for years. Luca laughs and hugs the boy back, and naturally, all the children start gravitating towards him. 

I stand awkwardly and watch for a while till I hear, “And that’s my friend, Kristian. He’s a prince.”

The children gasp and look towards me. 

“If you’re nice to him, he might even take you to his palace someday.”

“Can we see the king?” a little girl asks, and Luca turns to look at me. 

“Why don’t we let the prince answer that himself?”

And a handful of the children start to flood toward me and ask a thousand questions about the palace. 

We stay with the children for as long as possible and take plenty of pictures. Then we help serve lunch in the kitchen, handing out bowls of pasta and fresh bread while the shelter volunteers direct traffic. The older kids line up, eyes wide, chattering in rapid Italian.

Luca nudges me with his elbow. “They think you’re a star.”

I grin. “Should I be handing out autographs?”

He shrugs. “You could just sign their lunch trays.”

We laugh. It sounds real. But Luca’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

And then he zones out halfway through handing out juice boxes.

A girl tugs on his sleeve three times before he notices.

And when he has zoned out almost a dozen times during the course of the day, I know I have to do something. 

The second I find the chance and space, I pull Luca aside near the laundry room, away from the others.

“You okay?” I ask.

He frowns. “Yeah.”

“That’s not true.”

“I’m fine, Kris,” he says confidently, but doesn’t meet my eyes 

“No, you’re not.”

I reach for his hand, and to my relief, he lets me take it. His fingers are cold.

“I just—” he starts, then stops. “I’ve had a weird couple of days.”

“What happened?”

The sound of soft heels clicking behind us preempts his answer.

We turn.

Isabella Romano stands there, dressed in a crisp cream blazer and fitted trousers. She looks shocked for a second, but that quickly fades and is replaced by a smile—tight and sharp.

“I’ve been looking for you two,” she says.

Luca drops my hand instantly.

I straighten.

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t be,” she says smoothly. “I just need your help with something.”

“What is it?” I ask.

She gestures toward the courtyard. “We’re giving out care packages. I’d like both of you to assist. It’ll look good in the photos.”

Luca forces a smile. “Of course.”

Her eyes rest on him for a second longer than necessary. Then she walks away.

But something tightens in my gut as we follow, and for the rest of the day, Luca keeps his distance from me.  

Back at the palace, the evening light pools across the marble floors like warm syrup. I shower, change into a fresh shirt, and make my way to the dining hall.

I enter just as Luca does.

And then I stop.

The table is long, polished to a mirror shine, set with cream napkins and gold-rimmed plates, and our seats—usually side by side…aren’t anymore.

Luca’s name card is across the table.

He pauses, brows pulling together. “Mamma?”

She’s already seated, sipping white wine. “Yes, dear?”

He holds up the card. “Why the switch?”

She smiles without blinking. “I thought it would be better for balance. With the Swedish guests and Italian hosts on opposite sides.”

“But I’ve been sitting next to Kristian every night.”

“Yes, and I thought it might be time for a little variety. We don’t want the press assuming anything, do we?”

Her voice is light. But her meaning is not.

Luca doesn’t argue. He just sits in his new seat.

Giovanni enters last. He notices the seating. Says nothing.

I take my seat, my chest tight.

The food is beautiful—handmade gnocchi, roasted sea bass, grilled fennel—but I barely taste it.

I steal a glance at Luca.

His shoulders are stiff. His jaw’s tight.

He doesn’t look across the table.

And I don’t know what scares me more—his mother’s interference. Or the distance—literally and figuratively—I can feel yawning between us.

I was excited for Italy. I thought it would give us space to grow.

But I feel like I’m in a maze.

And someone else is holding the map.