Would you take me along? Darling, my—
Anya, bathed in the blinding light of the stadium's colossal screens, paused mid-lyric, her voice—the voice that had sold out Wembley five nights in a row and dominated every streaming chart for the past twenty years—suddenly faltering. Twenty rows back, a phone, held aloft by a frantic fan, was projecting an image onto the massive screen usually reserved for dazzling visuals of Anya herself. It was a still from an old news report, grainy but unmistakable. A young girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, perched beside a stern-faced King and Queen on a gilded throne along with an unknown princess beside them with a tiny, glittering tiara askew on her head. Her face, even in that low resolution, was hers.
A hush, thick and suffocating, fell over the 90,000-strong crowd. Murmurs rippled through the stadium, growing in intensity like a rising tide. Anya's bandmates, usually a blur of coordinated energy, froze, their instruments suddenly silent. The stage manager was yelling into his headset, a frantic, muffled voice in her earpiece. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, off-beat drum. She could feel the stares, the sudden shift from adoration to bewildered, hungry curiosity. The image on the screen zoomed in, then zoomed out, showing the portrait of the Royal family with her face side by side on the screen.
"Is that... Princess Lyra of Eldoria?" someone shrieked from the mosh pit.
The whisper became a roar. "Anya is Princess Lyra!"
The lights seemed to intensify, burning into her. For years, she'd meticulously constructed this persona, this sanctuary of sound and anonymity. She'd built an empire on raw emotion, on lyrics that spoke of freedom and escape, never once revealing the gilded cage she'd fled. Now, in a single, shattering moment, her two lives had collided, spectacularly and irrevocably, on the biggest stage imaginable. Her carefully guarded secret, the very foundation of her freedom, had just exploded in front of the entire world. The roar of the crowd morphed from excitement to a deafening clamor of disbelief, curiosity, and betrayal. Anya stood frozen, holding back her tears from her eyes, with the microphone she still clutched in her hand, the ghost of a tiara suddenly heavy on her head.
The stage lights, once her allies, now felt like spotlights in an interrogation room. Anya's mind raced, a chaotic blur of headlines, shattered dreams, and the image of her parents' faces. Security guards, suddenly appearing from the wings, began ushering the band off the stage, their movements urgent, almost panicked. A roar of "Anya! Anya! Anya!" erupted, quickly changing to "Lyra! Lyra! Lyra!" The sheer volume was deafening, a physical force pressing down on her.
She barely registered the hand on her arm, pulling her back towards the safety of backstage. It was Sarah, her long-time manager, Her face a mask of grim determination. Sarah hustled her past frantic crew members and bewildered security, through a maze of corridors that usually felt familiar but now seemed foreign. The shouts of the crowd still echoed, even muffled by concrete and steel, a constant reminder of the world she had just lost and the one she was about to be dragged back into.
In the dimly lit dressing room, the air was thick with tension. Her bandmates stood awkwardly, their expressions a mix of shock and concern. Sarah paced, running a hand through his already disheveled hair.
"It's everywhere, Anya," she said, her voice strained. "Social media is exploding. Every news outlet. Eldoria's official channels have just released a statement confirming it. They're demanding your immediate return."
Anya sank onto the plush couch, the adrenaline beginning to fade, leaving her numb. She looked at her reflection in the mirror, not seeing the global pop sensation Anya Spencer, but a ghost of Princess Lyra, trapped in a reflection that was no longer her own. The freedom she had fought so desperately for, the identity she had meticulously crafted, felt fragile, ready to splinter into a thousand pieces.
"What do we do?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the dispersing crowd. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of shattered dreams and a destiny she had tried so hard to escape. She knew, with chilling certainty, that the fairytale of Anya Spencer was over. The crown was calling her home, and this time, there was no escaping its pull.
As if on cue, her old phone, which she rarely used, vibrated on the makeup table. It was a video call from an unfamiliar number. Sarah glanced at the screen, then at Lyra, a silent question passing between them. Anya hesitated for a moment before tapping to accept the call.
The screen flickered, revealing a face she knew intimately but hadn't seen in years. Sebastian. His dark hair was slightly longer, and a few lines had etched around his eyes, a testament to a decade that had passed since their last meeting on what was supposed to be their wedding day. Despite the years, he remained impossibly handsome, his gaze intense and filled not with anger or command, but with profound concern and a deep, unwavering love.
"Lyra, my love," he whispered, his voice low and gentle, yet laced with an undeniable weight of worry that pierced through the chaos of the room. "Are you alright? I saw what happened. Even though the world is aware, you don't have to do this alone. I'm here for you, always."
Anya sank onto the plush couch, her adrenaline fading, leaving her numb. She gazed at her reflection in the mirror, not recognizing the global pop sensation Anya Spencer, but a ghostly figure of Princess Lyra, trapped in a reflection that was no longer her own. The freedom she had fought so desperately for, the identity she had meticulously crafted, felt fragile, already shatter into a thousand pieces.
Her gaze drifted to a small, framed photo on her dressing table. It was a candid shot of a bright-eyed ten-year-old boy with a mischievous grin, his arm slung around a worn guitar. Astarion. Her son. Sebastian's son. A son he didn't know he had, a secret she had carried and fiercely protected for a decade. He was a living testament to the life she had built away from the crown. The thought of him, oblivious to the storm now raging, sent a fresh wave of terror through her.
"What do I do now?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant roar of the dispersing crowd. The question hung in the air, heavy with the weight of shattered dreams and a destiny she had tried so hard to escape. She knew, with chilling certainty, that the fairytale of Anya Spencer was over. The crown was calling her home, and this time, there was no escaping its pull. And now, for the first time, she had another life she was responsible for, a life that would be irrevocably altered by the truth of her past.
Sebastian's face on the screen softened further, as if he could sense her internal collapse. "Lily, please. Just tell me what you need."
"What… I need?" Anya's voice cracked, the absurdity of her situation in this moment of public exposure almost comical. For the past ten years, she had meticulously kept her secret from the world, ensuring that her stage persona wouldn't collide with her birthright. She looked at Sarah, then at her bandmates, whose faces mirrored the frantic, worried expressions of family. But they weren't family in the way the world knew it for Princess Lyra.
Her gaze snapped back to the photo of Astarion. His bright, innocent eyes, brimming with unburdened joy, starkly contrasted with the chaotic storm swirling around her. She envisioned him back in their small, anonymous apartment, likely asleep, oblivious to the impending upheaval of his world. How could she possibly explain this to him? That his mother, Anya, the cool musician who captivated him with bedtime stories about touring and songwriting, was also Princess of Eldoria, a runaway royal? And that his father, the man on the screen whose concern was so palpable, was a man he had never met—the heir apparent from one of the powerful royal houses in the world, whom she had kept hidden for a decade.
"Tian… I can't just 'come home,'" she finally managed, her voice barely a whisper. She couldn't reveal the reason, not yet. Not about Astarion. That secret, even now, felt too precious, too fragile to be exposed to the sudden, blinding scrutiny of the world.
"There's… there's so much more to you than you realize." Sebastian's brow furrowed, a fleeting expression of hurt crossing his features, swiftly replaced by his determination. "Then please tell me," he urged, his voice still gentle but tinged with an underlying urgency. "We'll face whatever it is together, my love. We were always meant to stand by each other's side."
The words lingered in the air, a haunting echo of a past life and a destiny she had chosen to shatter. However, now, it wasn't just her future that hung in the balance. Astarion's future was at stake too. The roar of the stadium had finally subsided, replaced by the persistent hum of her phone. New messages and notifications flooded in, each one a stark reminder that her two worlds had merged. The fairytale was over. The crown was calling, and she had a son, who needed her to guide him through the storm that Princess Lyra had unleashed.
Sebastian's expression hardened almost imperceptibly, a fleeting glimpse of the princely authority she had once possessed. "Lyra, you've had a decade to 'figure things out.' This isn't merely about you anymore. Your country needs you, I need you… I need to know you're safe." He paused, his voice softening once more. "But fine. Twenty-four hours. After that, I'll come, with or without your permission. And Lyra, please… don't disappear on me again."
"No, you can't," she blurted, her words coming out too quickly. "It's simply not safe right now, for anyone. The media is a circus. Give me twenty-four hours. I need to… I need to figure things out. I'll call you back. I promise."
A fresh wave of panic tightened around Anya's chest. Sebastian, here? In her world? In Astarion's world? It was one thing for her secret to explode publicly; it was another for the life she'd meticulously built to be physically invaded by the past. The thought of him meeting Astarion, of explaining everything, sent a chilling dread through her. How could she possibly reconcile the gentle, brilliant boy who drew superheroes and adored her silly made-up songs with the formal, reserved the Crown Prince Sebastian, the man she'd left behind?
Sebastian nodded slowly, a hint of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Then I'm coming to you," he declared firmly, not as a question, but as a statement. "Where are you, Lyra? I'll be on the next available flight."
"I… I can't talk about it like this," she finally admitted, her voice trembling. "Not over a video call. It's too much." Her gaze shifted to Sarah, who had ceased pacing and was now observing her with an intense focus. She had pieced together the puzzle. The framed photo, her evasiveness, and her unwavering defense of her private life all pointed to the same conclusion.
The silence on the video call stretched, heavy with unspoken years and devastating truths. Sebastian's unwavering gaze pleaded with Anya, but she knew she couldn't evade the inevitable any longer. The media storm outside was a prelude to the hurricane that would descend once the full scope of her secret life, especially Astarion's.
The call ended, leaving Anya staring at her own drained reflection on the dark screen. Sarah finally spoke, her voice low and cautious. "Rio," she said, not as a question, but as confirmation. "He's his, isn't he?"
Anya closed her eyes, a single tear tracing a path through the stage makeup on her cheek. "Yes," she whispered, the admission tearing at something deep inside her. "He's his. And he doesn't know."
The weight of that confession, the enormity of the secret she had guarded for a decade, pressed down on her. The crown was calling her home, but she wasn't just Lyra anymore. She was Anya Spencer, the global pop sensation, and more importantly, she was Astarion's mother. And now, the past she had fled was not only demanding her return but was about to shatter the quiet, beautiful life she had built for her son.
The dressing room, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison. Sarah was already engrossed in a rapid-fire conversation on her phone, discussing damage control, legal teams, and emergency PR. However, Anya barely registered her words. Her gaze remained fixed on Astarion's photo, the weight of her secret pressing down on her more heavily than any crown ever could.
"We must leave this place immediately," Sarah finally interrupted the chaos, snapping her phone shut. "The perimeter has already been breached. Paparazzi are swarming the service exits, and the Eldorian embassy has likely dispatched its officials."
As if on cue, a sharp, authoritative knock reverberated through the dressing room. Everyone froze in place. Sarah held a finger to her lips, signaling for silence. The knocking intensified, accompanied by a firm, formal voice speaking in a foreign language.
Anya's heart pounded, but an unusual determination settled over her. Running had been her defining characteristic for the past decade, but now, it meant risking everything for Astarion. Sebastian's words echoed in her mind, a surprising source of support amidst the chaos. This wasn't just about her anymore; it was about their son, Astarion, the one she had vowed to protect. If confronting her past, her parents, and her lover, whom she had once left, meant securing her freedom, then she would face her fears head-on.
"Open it, Sarah," she said, her voice clear, surprising even herself.
Sarah stared at her, astounded. "Are you serious, Anya? They're here to take you!"
"I know," she replied, her gaze firm. "And they'll get what they came for." She took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. The Anya Spencer persona, the fiercely independent pop star, was still fighting, even as Princess Lyra prepared for her inevitable return. "If I'm going back, I will do so with my head held high. And I'm doing it for my son."
With a reluctant nod, Sarah unlatched the door. Two impeccably dressed Eldorian royal security officers, their faces stern and unyielding, stood in the hallway, flanked by stadium security. Their eyes widened slightly as they recognized the global superstar standing before them, no longer hidden by a stage persona, but revealed as their long-lost princess.
"Your Royal Highness," one of them began, his voice formal, "we have been instructed to escort you back to Eldoria immediately, and your brothers are awaiting your arrival at the private airfield, ma'am."
Anya met his gaze evenly. "I understand." She glanced at Sarah, a silent instruction passing between them. She nodded, already anticipating her next move. The roar from the stadium had finally begun to fade, replaced by the hushed tension of the dressing room. The fairytale was over, but Anya was not going quietly. The crown was calling, and she had a son whose future depended on how she behaved.