Carlo wasn’t expecting visitors.
He’d been halfway through a glass of wine, barefoot in sweatpants, a soft jazz playlist drifting through the apartment speakers, when the doorbell rang. For a second, he froze. No one dropped by unannounced - not unless they were security, or trouble, or both.
But when he opened the door and saw her - saw his mother - everything fell still.
“Mamma?”
Queen Elena stood there without ceremony, wearing a simple ivory blouse and a travel coat, her hair pulled back, eyes shining not with judgement, but something gentler. Older. Tired. Loving.
“Carlo,” she said, voice thick with something he couldn’t quite name.
He didn’t hesitate. He reached for her, and she stepped into his arms.
They held each other for a long moment - too long to be formal, too long to pretend it was just a surprise visit. Carlo’s face pressed into her shoulder like he was twelve again, like all the layers he’d built up in the press, in politics, in distance, cracked the moment she walked through his door.
“I missed you,” he murmured.
Elena drew back slightly, her hands still on his arms. “Oh, figlio mio, I missed you too.”
He laughed softly, self-consciously, brushing at his eyes. “You should’ve called. I would’ve- ”
“You wouldn’t have let me come,” she said gently. “Not right now. Not with everything that’s happened.”
She stepped into the apartment without asking, the way only a mother could. She looked around briefly - her gaze lingering on a sketchpad on the coffee table, a half-eaten salad, the streaked wineglass - but she didn’t comment. Instead, she turned back to him and gave him a soft smile.
“Do you have another glass, or must I drink from the bottle?”
Carlo chuckled, grateful for the pause in tension, and walked to the kitchen. “Of course. You still like that California Syrah?”
“As long as it doesn’t taste like it was aged in a gym bag,” she quipped.
He brought her the glass of wine, and they sat - her in the armchair, him on the couch - just looking at each other for a minute.
“How long are you here for?” he asked.
“Only a day or two,” she said. “But I came for one reason.”
Carlo’s stomach tightened.
“I came to see you,” she continued, watching him carefully. “Not the prince. Not the scandal. Just my son.”
He nodded slowly, setting his glass down.
“I’ve been worried,” she said. “Not about the palace – they’re already recovering, as they always do. Not about the headlines, or the advisors, or even your father’s endless pacing. I’ve been worried about you.”
His shoulders dropped. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
She leaned forward, setting her glass aside.
“Carlo… you disappeared. Into silence. Into a carefully crafted lie. And that’s not like you.”
He closed his eyes. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
Elena tilted her head. “Is it true? What the press is saying about you and Liam?”
He hesitated.
“You don’t have to answer like a prince,” she said, softer now. “Answer like my son.”
He nodded slowly, voice barely audible. “Yes.”
A quiet smile touched her lips — not smug, not surprised, but quietly affirming.
“And?” she asked.
He looked up. “And I care about him. A lot.”
“But you let him go.”
“I thought I was protecting him,” Carlo said, his voice hoarse. “The press, the scrutiny, the palace… it’s a nightmare. I didn’t want to drag him into that. He didn’t ask for any of it.”
Elena nodded, absorbing his words.
“I thought,” Carlo continued, “if I told a half lie, it would all die down. That maybe we could go back to how it was. Quiet. Private. Safe.”
“Did he know what he meant to you?”
Carlo’s throat bobbed. “I think so. I hope so.”
“And you?” she asked. “Do you know what you meant to him?”
He looked away. “I’m not so sure anymore.”
There was a silence. Then:
“I met with him,” she said softly.
Carlo’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Earlier tonight. I had dinner with Liam. In a private villa I’m renting. No press. No advisors. Just the two of us.”
“You - he went?”
“He did,” she said. “He didn’t know what to expect, but he came. And he was… kind. Candid. Grounded.”
Carlo’s heart beat hard in his chest. He vividly remembered everything about Liam that made him in fall in love with him.
“He told me he still cares for you,” she continued. “And he didn’t say it with bitterness. He said it with hope. Even if it hurt.”
Carlo sank back into the couch, overwhelmed.
“You lied to the world to protect him,” Elena said. “But in doing so, you hurt him more than the world ever could.”
Tears prickled behind Carlo’s eyes.
“I know,” he whispered.
Elena stood and crossed to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“You still have time,” she said. “To be honest. To be brave. To let love be something you walk toward, not something you hide from.”
He looked up at her, eyes shining.
“I’m so afraid, Mamma.”
“I know,” she said, brushing his hair gently. “But you don’t have to be anymore.”
She paused, then added softly:
“Tell him the truth, Carlo. Tell him what you told me. And maybe - just maybe - you’ll get the kind of life your father and I were never brave enough to imagine.”
Carlo nodded, something opening in his chest for the first time in weeks.
He wasn’t sure what tomorrow would bring. But for the first time in a long time, he knew where he had to go.
And who he had to go to.
Later that night, alone and sleepless, Carlo opened Instagram for the first time in days. He had deliberately avoided both social media and the TV news channels, but the first story that loaded showed a shaky, zoomed-in video of Liam leaving his apartment, hounded by reporters. He clicked another. Then another. He switched on the TV, flipped through the news channels, this story had blown up.
Liam and Carlo were everywhere. They were being discussed in detail. Some celebrities even weighed in on the matter – some were making fun of them but most agreed that the two men’s private lives should not have become fodder for public examination.
One tagline read: PRINCE'S EX HARRASSED OUTSIDE HOME.
Another: TRAINER TRAPPED BY ROYAL SCANDAL.
Carlo’s heart started to pound. A video showed Liam wincing as a flash went off in his face. Another had audio of reporters asking lewd questions.
It hit Carlo like a freight train: he hadn’t just hurt Liam with silence. He’d left him defenceless.
He stood up. Paced. Tried calling Liam, but the line went straight to voicemail. Again. And again.
_____
By the time Carlo made up his mind to go to Liam, it was already worse than what he saw on the news.
The press corps outside Liam’s apartment had only grown.
The swarm of cameras stationed outside Liam’s front door snapped photos through drawn curtains, the reporters shouted questions up to his windows. Is it true you dated the prince? Did you break his heart? Are you being paid to stay silent?
Liam had tried to ignore it at first. He’d heard all those inane questions before anyway. He buried himself in workouts, saw clients cancel sessions, stopped answering texts from friends. But the noise only grew louder, more vicious, more invasive. Photos of him in his sweats carrying groceries appeared online with headlines like Scorned Trainer Hides in Shame. His gym was forced to post a statement. Most of his clients dropped him. Another asked if he’d ever trained Prince Carlo shirtless.
He barely slept. Barely ate. The lights stayed off all day.
He thought about leaving - disappearing entirely – but the minute he stepped outside, at least a dozen photographers surrounded him, yelling questions he couldn’t even register. A camera flashed so close to his face he stumbled back, heart hammering, the ground tilting beneath him. He didn’t know if he was angry or ashamed or just… empty.
____
In the quiet, windswept town of Jacobs Bay, South Africa, the sea spoke more loudly than the news. But even the rhythmic lull of waves couldn’t soften the blow of what Anna Marais saw that morning.
She was standing at her kitchen sink, folding dish towels, when her neighbour popped her head through the open window, clutching a dog-eared newspaper. The headline was in bold across the front:
PRINCE’S SECRET LOVE? TRAINER TARGETED IN ROYAL FALLOUT
Anna took the paper with a frown. Her eyes narrowed on the photo - a grainy, intrusive snapshot of her son. Liam. Hoodie pulled low, sunglasses on, head down. The smile she knew so well - bright, teasing, unbothered - now gone.
She read the first few lines of the article and felt her stomach twist.
She didn’t waste time.
She wiped her hands on her apron and went straight to the sunroom where the sea breeze curled through the gauzy curtains. Her fingers were steady as she dialled the American mobile number she knew so well. The phone rang twice before Liam picked up.
“Hello Mamma,” he said quietly. Too quietly.
“You didn't think to call?” she asked, her voice warm but lined with disappointment.
He exhaled. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Well, you’ve done a damn fine job of it anyway,” she said, her tone accusatory, but soft, caring. “Liam, my kind, we raised you better than to suffer in silence. And we learnt of your hardship from a newspaper article brought to us by a well-meaning neighbour.”
There was a pause. The kind that came when a child realized they couldn’t hide from their mother’s knowing - even across continents.
“I didn’t want you and Pappa dragged into this,” he said. “It’s a circus here. The press. The cameras. They know where I live now.”
“And what? You thought we’d just sit back and watch from the shoreline while they tore you apart?” she asked.
Liam was quiet again. The silence said everything.
“You’re our child before you are anyone else’s headline,” she continued. “I know you think protecting us means shutting us out. But that’s not how this family works. That’s not who you are.”
Her voice held the same steady strength that had gotten Liam through exams, breakups, and one brutal injury in his rugby days. It reminded him of Queen Elena in a way he hadn’t noticed before - elegant, maternal, quietly formidable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice cracking.
“I know you are,” she replied gently. “But apologies don’t help when you’re burning alone in the middle of a storm.”
Outside the sunroom, Anna’s husband Willem had been listening. A tall man with sun-darkened skin and a lifetime of quiet wisdom carved into the lines around his eyes, he didn’t interrupt. He didn’t need to.
By the time Anna ended the call with a tearful, “We love you, Boeta” Willem had already opened the hall closet.
“You’re packing?” she asked, watching him pull out his old leather duffel.
“I’m flying to him,” he said.
Anna blinked. “Now?”
He looked at her, jaw set like stone. “That boy is drowning. And the one person who should’ve stood beside him – this prince - left him out there to take the fall.”
Anna nodded slowly. “Do you think this prince ever loved him?”
Willem zipped up the bag. “Love only hides when it’s inconvenient.”
The flight to Los Angeles was long, but Willem spent every hour of it wide awake, watching the downloaded news clips on his tablet. The media frenzy was worse than he’d imagined. Liam being followed on the street, photographers shouting accusations, strangers commenting like they knew him. Each video carved deeper into his composure.
By the time he reached Liam’s building, he was a steel wall of quiet fury.
Liam opened the door to a knock he assumed was yet another reporter - but froze when he saw his father standing there.
“Pappa?”
“Get dressed,” Willem said calmly, stepping over the threshold. “We’re going home.”
“Wait - what? You came all the way from - ”
“Home,” Willem said firmly, “is never too far when your son’s being hunted like an animal.”
Liam blinked, stunned. “I can’t just leave -”
“Yes, you can.” Willem turned and gave his son a look that could cut through concrete. “You need air. And family. Not strangers pointing cameras in your face while the man who was supposed to care for you says nothing.”
Liam swallowed hard. “It isn’t that simple, Pa. Carlo - he’s scared. He thought hiding it would keep me safe.”
Willem’s face darkened. “And how safe do you feel now?”
Liam had no answer for that. He looked down at his hands, scraped and calloused from work, from holding on. But he was tired. So tired.
“He didn’t lie to hurt me,” Liam murmured. “He lied because he didn’t know what else to do.”
“That’s still a choice,” Willem replied. “And sometimes, protecting someone means facing the fire with them, not watching from the sidelines.”
“Are you angry with him?” Liam asked.
“I’m angry he let you suffer alone,” Willem said simply. “No crown is worth that.”
Liam didn’t argue. He let his father pack his bags. He didn’t protest when Willem took his phone and silenced the notifications. He didn’t flinch when they slipped out the back entrance to a waiting car, avoiding the crowd out front.
He just let it happen.
For once, someone else could carry the weight.
Liam looked around the apartment one last time. This wasn’t escape. It was survival. And maybe—just maybe—the first step back toward himself.
____
The next morning, a royal aide knocked softly on Queen Elena’s office door. She was already reading the morning brief, lips pursed, when he entered.
“Your Majesty,” he said hesitantly, “we’ve just been informed… Liam Hart has left Los Angeles.”
She looked up sharply.
“Where did he go?”
“South Africa, ma’am. With his father. A Mr. Willem Marais.”
She set the papers down.
“And Carlo?”
“He escaped his security detail sometime between your visit to him and early this morning Ma’am. We’ve lost him. But we’re doing all we can to trace him”
Elena’s heart sank.
She closed her eyes and whispered, “I pray my son is safe. And I pray Liam doesn’t think Carlo didn’t come for him.”
The aide hesitated. “Should we make a statement? We’re receiving pressure to address the situation.”
Elena shook her head slowly. “No. Not yet. Find Carlo first. And find out where in South Africa Liam is.”
Because she knew something now - Carlo might have been ready to face the storm, but Liam was already in the eye of it. And without protection, without love made visible, no one survives that kind of spotlight unscathed.
She only hoped it wasn’t too late for her son to catch up to the truth. Or for the man who had loved him enough to walk through hell and never say a word.
____
Carlo reached Liam’s apartment just before dawn - the sky painted in streaks of rose and gold as the city below began to hum with its usual feverish rhythm. He hadn’t slept. Not since he realised the danger that Liam was in.
The press were still there.
Cameras clicked like a firing squad, lenses telescoping toward his face as if trying to read his thoughts. He shoved his hood up, ducking his head, heart hammering as he moved toward the entrance. Flashes stung his eyes. Voices rose like a storm.
“Prince Carlo! Is it true you lied to protect your crown?”
“Is Liam Hart in hiding?”
“Is he your lover?”
“Do you feel guilty?”
He didn’t answer. He pushed past them, furious and focused, running into the building, where the doorman met him with tight lips and apologetic eyes.
“Your Highness, Mr. Hart left last night. His father took him.”
Carlo blinked, stunned. “What? Took him where?”
“Back home. South Africa.”
Still, he refused to believe he was too late.
“No, no, that’s not - ” Carlo’s hands trembled. The doorman reluctantly handed over the emergency key. With a quick glance that said “thank you”, Carlo turned, running to the elevator. He punched in Liam’s floor number with desperation. He needed to see the space for himself. Maybe the doorman was wrong.
The elevator doors opened, and Liam’s hallway was cold and still. The apartment door was locked. Lights off.
Carlo stood there, staring, something hollow blooming inside him. He let himself in, and apart from the familiar furniture and the lingering smell of Liam, he found nothing.
Liam was gone.
Really gone.
He walked out the front door and slid down the wall in the hallway until he was sitting on the floor, his breath shallow, his hands fisted in his hair. Gone. He had been so sure he could fix this. He’d finally found the courage to chase Liam, to own the truth. He’d told his mother, told himself he didn’t care what the world thought anymore - only to arrive with nothing to show for it but absence.
And the press were still outside, yelling. One of them had managed to follow him into the lobby, snapping photos from the security glass.
Something snapped inside Carlo too.
He got up, stormed back to the entrance, shoved the glass door open and stepped straight into the chaos.
“Leave me alone!” he roared.
The reporters swarmed like sharks to blood.
“Did Liam abandon you, Your Highness?”
“Are you here to win him back?”
“Why didn’t you come sooner?”
“Was this all a lie?”
“Are you in love with him?”
“I SAID—” Carlo’s voice broke as he shouted over them. “Leave us the hell alone!”
Flashbulbs lit up his face. A mic nearly hit his cheek.
“Is this why Liam ran?” someone called. “Are you violent when angry?” another did.
Carlo’s hands were shaking violently. “He didn’t run—you drove him out!”
His voice cracked. His chest heaved.
“You followed him. You stalked him. You’re camping outside his home like he’s a fugitive when all he ever did was love someone he wasn’t supposed to.”
More questions. More shouting. The crowd swelled.
“YOU ruined him,” Carlo snapped, pointing at a camera. “And I let it happen. And I didn’t stop it.”, he said, more to himself than to the assembled crowd of press and curious bystanders.
And then, in front of dozens of reporters, live cameras, and a gawking public, Prince Carlo of Bologna - always measured, always dignified - broke.
He screamed. Guttural, raw. The kind of scream that ripped through the air like a wound. The kind of scream that didn’t care about titles or image or who might be watching. He doubled over, clutching his face, his knees buckling onto the pavement outside Liam’s building. And he sobbed. Days of worry and guilt tore out of his body.
Carlo’s security detail - alerted to his whereabouts by the doorman, rushed in, pushing the press back. A few aides scrambled to block the worst angles, but it was too late. The world had already seen.
Carlo. On his knees. Shouting into the noise. Tears streaming down his face.
“I should have protected him,” he cried, over and over, voice hoarse, broken. “I should have protected him.”
An hour later, he was in the back of a black SUV, face blank, body limp, as the driver pulled steered him to safety. His personal assistant handed him a bottle of water and a damp cloth. He didn’t take either.
In the silence, the reality began to sink in.
Liam had lived this.
Day after day.
The flashing lights. The relentless cameras. The hounding. The questions. The invasion.
Carlo had only dipped his toes into the waters Liam had been drowning in for weeks. It nearly destroyed him.
And Liam had faced it alone.
Carlo leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Guilt throbbed like a second heartbeat.
He remembered how Liam had smiled at him in that tiny kitchen the night after their first kiss - shirt half-buttoned, toast burning in the pan, hair sticking up in every direction. He remembered how Liam had taken his hand without hesitation, how he’d whispered, “I’d follow you anywhere,” like it was a promise carved into bone.
And Carlo had left him to rot in the ruins of that promise.
The SUV turned onto Sunset Boulevard, and Carlo finally spoke when the driver asked quietly, “Where to, Your Highness?”
Carlo lifted his head. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
“South Africa.”
The aide turned. “Your Highness, with respect, the optics—”
“South. Africa.”
The man fell silent and made the call. Because Carlo knew something now that he hadn’t before: love meant showing up. Not when it was convenient, not when it was easy. Always.
And this time, Carlo was going to show up.
No matter what it took.
Even if he had to face every camera on earth again.
Even if he had to fly to the edge of the continent.
Even if Liam didn’t want to see him.
He owed him that much - and more.
