CHAPTER 92: A FAIRY TALE

CHAPTER 92: A FAIRY TALE
KRISTIAN

I didn’t mean to hear it. But now I can’t stop replaying it.

If I’m being honest with myself, I did hope to catch a bit of Lucas’ conversation with his mother.

I wanted to know if the real reason for the switch was because Isabella had seen us holding hands.

Did she know her son was bisexual? Did she know what the handholding meant?

I didn’t, however, expect to hear the heartbreaking conversation. 

Luca told me that night in the collapsed building that he’s never hidden his sexuality from anyone.

And I believed that included his mother. I thought that even though she was quick to criticize him, she fully accepted him for who he is.

It turns out that’s not the case. 

And I suspect that somewhere in Luca’s heart, he knew she didn’t. But he only properly confirmed it tonight, and from the look on his face, from the way he removed his hands from mine, he must be heartbroken. 

The whole conversation is stuck in my head. 

Luca’s voice, sharp and shaking. His mother’s silence. The way his hand slipped out of mine like I burned him.

I lie awake most of the night, something wide and hollow growing in my chest.

Helplessness.

The longer I stay in Italy, the more helpless I feel.

I used to think Luca was this carefree guy who breezed through life. But I realize now that he’s so much more than that. I can see that he's carrying around so much weight, but I don’t know a single thing that I can do to ease it. 

When the sun finally filters through the sheer curtains of my guest suite, I get up and go through the motions. Shower. Shave. Suit up in a pale grey jacket and a crisp white shirt.

But I feel like a man dressing for a performance.

By the time I enter the dining room, the Prime Minister is already seated at the head of the table as usual. A polished silver teapot steams beside her. She greets me with a nod.

“Prince Kristian. How was your night?”

I manage a smile and nod. “Good morning, Prime Minister. It was lovely. Thank you.” 

She smiles and says nothing. I glance toward the empty chair at the other side of the table.

No Luca.

We wait in silence. The scent of espresso blends with the aroma of toasted bread and soft cheese. We wait for almost thirty minutes, and still, he doesn’t come.

Lucas’ mother taps her spoon against her saucer, then turns to one of the guards. 

“Please get me—” 

Before she can complete her statement, Giovanni steps into the room. He doesn’t approach the table; instead, he stands quietly near the wall. 

He’s about to speak, but she cuts in. “Giovanni, dov’è Luca?”

“He left early,” Giovanni answers without fully looking at Isabella. “He’s overseeing the setup for the press shoot. He asked that you and His Highness go ahead with breakfast.”

Her mouth tightens slightly as she nods. “Very well.”

“Your Highness.” Giovanni acknowledges me with a bow, and I try not to look as disappointed as I feel.

“Good morning, Giovanni.”

With a nod, he looks at Luca’s mother. “If you would excuse me, ma’am.” And with that, he leaves. 

We begin eating in silence. Tense, awkward silence.

After a few bites of sfogliatelle and ricotta, I set my fork down. I can barely swallow or taste the food I’m eating. All I can think of is Luca.

“If Luca is working,” I say calmly, “then I should join him. It is, after all, a joint project.”

The Prime Minister doesn’t speak right away. Her eyes search mine.

Then she gives a single, tight nod. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

With that, I politely excuse myself from the table, trying my hardest not to run.

With instructions from the workers in the Palazzo, I find my way outside. 

The courtyard outside the west wing is buzzing with people. Folding tables. Camera rigs. Ladders scraping stone. A giant white backdrop being clipped into place.

And in the middle of it all is Luca.

He’s wearing a black polo that exposes his forearms and dark jeans. His curls are wild from the wind, and he’s holding a color palette in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“Move the main backdrop three meters left,” he says in Italian, quick and clear. “No, not like that—fold the edge inward. If the fabric catches the sun directly, we’ll lose the texture.”

He spins and points to another assistant. “Tell the florist we want neutral tones—beige, soft pinks, no reds. This isn’t a fashion ad. It’s supposed to feel authentic.”

Then, softer, to a young intern standing nervously by the lighting rig: “Don’t worry, you’re doing fine. Just center the left flood a bit more.”

Watching him like this—commanding, thoughtful, quick on his feet—does something to my chest.

He’s not just beautiful. He’s brilliant. And so much more than what the press frames him to be.

I step forward.

“Impressive,” I call out.

Luca stiffens at the sound of my voice, shoulders tightening. Then I hear him take a deep breath before he turns.

A smile forms—but not the kind that reaches his eyes.

“Morning, Your Highness,” he says lightly. “Sleep well?”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” I say.

His smile twitches. “I’m not pretending. I was simply asking how your night was.”

“But your smile is…”

I trail off because I don’t even know how to put it properly. He blinks at me—and then turns his back, walking to the next station.

I follow.

He starts sorting through a box of fabric samples, clearly avoiding eye contact. I kneel beside him to help, handing him a folded white backdrop.

“You didn’t come to breakfast.”

“Wasn’t hungry.”

“Luca—”

“I’m working, Kristian.”

I don’t push again.

But I stay.

I help tape down wires. Move chairs. Hold ladders. Luca doesn’t say much, but he doesn’t send me away either.

Until I try to lower a backdrop frame alone and misjudge the weight.

I stumble back. My ankle rolls, and I barely catch myself.

“Shit,” I hiss, grabbing the side of a lighting stand to steady myself.

Luca’s there in a flash.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice is low and furious. “You could’ve torn something.”

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that. Then you end up with bruised ribs or twisted ankles.” He steps closer. “You’re not made of stone, you know.”

His hands hover, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know if he should.

The tension pulls tight between us.

“Why are you pretending everything’s okay? Why are you trying so hard to push me away?” I ask, meeting his eyes.

“You”—he glances away—“distract me.”

“You never minded that before. Why now?”

“Because,” he breathes, leaning in a little. “Being back home has made me realize that you’re like a fairy tale.”

“And?”

He swallows hard.

“And I live in the real world.”

The words drop between us like something breaking.

And even though the air smells like sweat and floral tape and fresh-cut fabric—

Even though cameras are being mounted and assistants are laughing somewhere behind us—

The world narrows to this moment—Luca stepping back from me.

Putting space between us. Again.

And the worst part?

I still want to follow.


Dov’è Luca? (Italian)- Where is Luca?