Chapter 23
Ella
I pace the marble floor of the east wing corridor, my nerves still raw from the past week. The memory of that CNN alert makes my stomach clench even now. I'd been midway through my morning coffee when my phone buzzed with breaking news.
"Danish Crown Prince Harald's Secret Gay Romance Exposed."
I remember how my coffee mug slipped from my fingers, shattering against the tile. My hands trembled so badly I could barely tap Harald's number. When he finally answered, his voice had already shattered into pieces.
"Ella?" he'd whispered, terror threading through that single word.
"Harry, turn on CNN right now! You need to see what's happening!" My voice had risen with each word, panic taking hold as I realized what this meant.
The sounds that followed still haunt me—the raised voices in the background, Daniel's shout of betrayal, my brother's desperate pleas, Erik crying out that they needed to go. I'd clutched my phone so tightly my knuckles went white, listening helplessly as Harald's world collapsed in real time.
"I need to fix this—I need—" Harald's voice had broken, and I'd never felt more useless than in that moment, thousands of kilometres away while my little brother's heart splintered.
The moment his plane landed, I broke every protocol to meet him at the front entrance of the palace.
I'll never forget how Harald looked stepping out of that car—hollowed out, his eyes haunted, shoulders curled inward as if trying to disappear.
Not the Crown Prince of Denmark, just my broken little brother.
It's been three weeks since Harald returned, and I barely recognize my brother anymore.
This morning, I find him at the breakfast table, staring vacantly at an untouched plate of food. His cheekbones jut sharply beneath pale skin, the hollows beneath his eyes dark as bruises. When did he get so thin?
"Harry," I say, sliding into the chair beside him. "You need to eat something."
He blinks slowly, as if waking from a dream. "I'm not hungry."
His royal blue sweater, once fitted, now hangs from his frame. I reach across and push the plate closer, but he just shakes his head.
"I saw the staff removed the television from your chambers," I mention, trying to keep my voice casual.
"I asked them to." He runs a finger around the rim of his untouched coffee mug. "I'm tired of seeing my face everywhere. Tired of the speculation. Tired of seeing the reminder."
Each day, he withdraws further into himself. The few times he's ventured from his rooms, I've caught him checking his phone, that brief flicker of hope followed by crushing disappointment when there's nothing from Daniel.
Last night, I heard him through the wall—crying. Not the quiet, controlled tears of a prince, but the raw, gasping sobs of someone coming apart. I sat outside his door, my own tears falling, feeling helpless.
"Father wants me to issue a formal statement." Harald's voice brings me back to the present. "About my 'indiscretion'."
I reach for his hand, alarmed by how cold his fingers feel. "What did you tell him?"
"Nothing. I just walked out." A ghost of a smile touches his lips, then vanishes. "Probably the first time I've ever done that."
He stands abruptly, chair legs scraping against marble. For a moment, he sways slightly, and I wonder when he last slept properly.
"Council meeting in twenty minutes," he mumbles, though his eyes are unfocused, distant.
I watch him shuffle away, shoulders hunched, each step heavy as if gravity pulls at him with extra force. My brother is disappearing before my eyes, fading like a photograph left too long in sunlight. Something essential is being bleached from him, day by empty day.
I slip away from breakfast to my private sitting room, hand trembling as I dial Ingrid's number. Three rings, four—please answer.
"Hello, Ella." Ingrid's warm voice usually brings comfort, but today I'm too frayed.
"I don't know what to do anymore," I blurt, pacing the length of my room.
"It's getting worse. He's not eating, barely sleeping.
This morning he could hardly focus on a simple conversation.
" The words tumble out, my voice pitching higher.
"I'm scared, Ingrid. I've never seen him like this, not even after—"
I can't bring myself to say it—after the hospital. After those terrifying weeks when we nearly lost him.
"Has he been responding to your messages?" I ask. "He mentioned you'd reached out."
Ingrid sighs, the sound heavy. "I've called several times, sent texts. He responds with single words, if at all. He's cancelled our last three appointments."
My stomach drops. "He's not seeing you either? I thought—I assumed he was at least talking to you."
"I'm afraid not. From what you're describing, this is deeply concerning, Ella. His pattern of isolation, refusing food, emotional withdrawal..." She pauses, her professional tone faltering slightly. "These are warning signs we can't ignore."
The words I've been afraid to speak crystalize in my throat.
"Do you think... do we need to consider the hospital again?" My voice cracks. "I can't bear the thought, but I'm watching him fade away right in front of me."
"It may come to that if he continues on this path," Ingrid says gently. "Self-neglect at this level can become dangerous quickly. His history means we need to be particularly vigilant."
I sink onto my sofa, a cold dread washing over me. "He would never forgive us."
"This isn't about forgiveness, Ella. It's about keeping him safe until he can find his way back."
I press my fingertips to my temples, fighting back tears. The memory of Harald's face the last time—hollow-eyed, betrayed—as security escorted him to the private psychiatric facility haunts me still. How he'd looked at me like I was a stranger.
"I'll try again today," I whisper. "But I don't know how much longer we can wait."
Erik
I fold the measuring tape between my fingers as Harald stands motionless before the mirror. The numbers shrink with each visit. Another centimetre gone from his waist. Two from his chest. The sharp angles of his collarbones push against skin that once filled his suits properly.
"We'll need to take these in again, Your Highness." I keep my voice neutral, professional. The tailor scribbles notes, casting concerned glances my way.
Harald doesn't respond. He stares at his reflection without seeing it, the way he does everything these days. When the tailor leaves, I help him out of the jacket that hangs from his shoulders like a child playing dress-up.
"Perhaps we should order a new set instead of these constant alterations." I suggest, folding the offending garment.
He shrugs. The gesture lacks the energy to be dismissive.
Later, in my office, I place an order for three new suits. Size 46 instead of 52. Shirts with smaller collars. Trousers that won't pool around his thighs. Each click of the mouse feels like an admission of my failure to help him. I've been useless in the face of his heartbreak.
The order confirmation arrives in my inbox alongside another calendar alert: the Climate Council wishes to reschedule their meeting with the Crown Prince.
The third postponement this week. I open the shared royal calendar and my stomach tightens at the sea of red.
Crossed-out engagements. Rescheduled appearances. Cancelled charity visits.
I add the Climate Council to the growing list of disappointments and make a note to craft another polite excuse. "His Royal Highness regrets that he is indisposed at present..." The same words in different arrangements, a diplomatic way of saying he lacks the strength to leave his rooms.
The phone rings. It's the Danish Medical Association. Their gala dinner is next week, and they're hoping to confirm the Crown Prince's attendance. I glance at yesterday's untouched dinner tray outside Harald's chamber door.
"I'm afraid His Royal Highness's schedule is currently being reassessed," I hear myself say, adding another red mark to the calendar. "I'll contact you when we have more certainty regarding his availability."
Another cancellation. Another day Harald retreats further into himself. Another moment I stand by, arranging his shrinking clothes and diminishing life, wondering if there's anything I could have done differently.
I watch him from the doorway as he fumbles with his belt, thin fingers struggling with the leather strap.
The sound of it sliding through the loops echoes in the cavernous dressing room.
One notch. Two. Three. Each click of the prong finding a new hole pierces my heart.
That belt—I'd had it custom-made in Florence last year as a birthday gift.
Now he's run out of pre-punched holes and uses the rough one he made himself with a letter opener.
"Harald," I say, my voice barely carrying across the room. "Your breakfast—"
"I'm not hungry." He doesn't look up, just continues dressing with the methodical emptiness that's become his daily ritual.
My eyes trace the hollow of his cheeks, the shadows beneath his eyes that never seem to fade.
I remember the Harald from before—the one whose laughter would fill a room, whose eyes sparkled with mischief during tedious state functions, who would steal pastries from the kitchen and share them with me while we reviewed his schedule.
This skeletal figure before me is a stranger wearing his face.
I can barely reconcile him with the vibrant prince I've served for years.
His collarbones jut beneath his crisp shirt, and the royal garments that once fitted perfectly now hang loose on his frame.
It's as if some hollow doppelg?nger has replaced my Harald, stealing away not just his flesh but the light that once animated his features.
Each morning I find myself searching his eyes for some flicker of the man I've devoted my life to.
When he turns to reach for his watch, I notice how his shirt collar gaps around his neck, how his trousers bunch awkwardly despite the overtightened belt. The royal tailors have taken in his clothes three times in as many weeks, and still they hang from him like borrowed garments.
A wave of tenderness crashes over me, washing away any lingering jealousy.
Whatever romantic feelings I've harboured for years seem trivial now, mere footnotes in the margins of a story that was never meant to be mine.
My heart aches with a strange mixture of longing and resignation as I watch him waste away.
I'd gladly watch him love Daniel forever if it meant seeing him healthy again, seeing him care about something—anything.
I would trade every secret daydream, every accidental brush of our hands over state documents, every private smile he's ever given me, if only to see colour return to his hollow cheeks and purpose light those eyes that once commanded a room simply by glancing into it.
Harald's happiness has always meant more to me than my own impossible wishes—this is the bargain I made with myself long ago when I chose to stay by his side.
"You need to eat something," I try again.
He glances up, and for a brief moment, I catch a glimpse of the old Harald—vulnerable, present—before the shutters come down again.
"I said I'm not hungry, Erik." His voice is soft but firm, that familiar stubbornness threading through each word.
It's the same tone he's used since we were young men, when he would refuse royal banquets after particularly harsh criticism from his father.
I recognize the gentle dismissal for what it is—another small wall erected between himself and anyone who might care enough to worry.
The click of his belt being fastened to that makeshift hole haunts me. It sounds like failure—my failure to protect him, to help him heal, to bring him back from wherever he's retreated.
Ella
I can't stop pacing the hallway outside Harald's room. My hands won't stop shaking as I watch the medical team enter—Ingrid leading them, her usual composure shattering the moment she sees my brother.
"Oh, my dear boy," Ingrid whispers, and my heart breaks at the tears welling in her eyes. My brother lies there, barely conscious, drowning in blankets that can't hide how skeletal he's become. The hospital gown they've put on him makes him look smaller, more fragile than I've ever seen him.
I want to scream, to fight, to do something—anything—but I know this is necessary. I've tried everything else. Watching the paramedics carefully transfer Harald onto the stretcher feels like I've failed him, even though I know deep down this is the only way forward.
Ingrid touches Harald's hand, her fingers gentle against his protruding bones.
"We'll take care of him," she promises me, but her voice wavers.
In all the years we've known her, I've never seen Ingrid cry.
The sight of those tears rolling down her weathered cheeks tells me more than any medical report could about how serious this has become.
"I'm coming with him," I announce, my tone leaving no room for argument. Nobody tries to stop me as I fall into step beside the stretcher. Harald's eyes flutter open briefly, finding mine in a moment of clarity.
"Ells?" His voice is barely a whisper.
"I'm here, Harry. I'm right here." I grab his hand, so thin and cold, as they wheel him toward the waiting ambulance. The same hospital as before—the place that helped him once, that needs to help him again. "I'm not going anywhere."
The lights in the corridor feel too bright, too harsh, highlighting every sharp angle of my brother's face.
Staff members pause and turn away, unable to watch their Crown Prince being taken out on a stretcher.
I hold my head high, daring anyone to whisper, to judge.
Let them see. Let them know that even princes can break, can need help.
As they load Harald into the ambulance, Ingrid places a hand on my shoulder. "He's stronger than he knows," she says softly, though her eyes are still wet. "And he has you."
I climb into the ambulance, taking my place beside my brother. As the doors close and the engine starts, I think of all the times I've protected Harald—from our father's harsh words, from society gossip, from his own demons. But this time, I have to trust others to help fight this battle.
I squeeze his hand gently, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. "We're going to get through this," I whisper, as much to myself as to him. "Just like last time. I promise."
The ambulance moves through the night, carrying us both back to the place where Harald once found his way back to himself. I pray it can work its magic again, that somewhere in my brother's too-thin frame, that fighting spirit still lives.
In the meantime, there's something I have to do. Save my brother.