WILLIAM CARTER - BACK TO BEING FRIENDS...(?)

The world didn’t just listen to Back to Being Friends—it devoured it.

One billion streams became two. Then three. The song was everywhere, suffocating in its reach. Cabs rolled through Asgard City blaring the chorus out of open windows, children hummed it absentmindedly in palace courtyards, orchestras begged permission to arrange it for galas. For weeks—no, months—it refused to budge from the number one spot on every chart across the continent. It became the anthem of heartbreak, of nostalgia, of messy love that refused to fade cleanly.

And because it was his, it became the center of a storm.

The press never let up. They printed the lyrics line by line as if dissecting scripture. They tore apart William’s performances, analyzing every expression, every hesitation, every note he held too long. They hounded him, desperate for the identity of the “you” who haunted the song.

THE PRINCE’S SECRET AFFAIR—WHO ARE THEY? ‘Back to Being Friends’: A Confession or a Scandal? Has Crown Prince William Doomed His Own Reputation with a Love Song? ROYAL ROMANCE: MYSTERY EX LOVER BEHIND CHART-BREAKING HIT?

By the third month, the headlines had grown so sharp they felt like knives. And the palace could no longer pretend it was harmless.

The audience with his father was anything but gentle.

King Alaric paced the length of the chamber, every word cutting like steel. He slammed a newspaper onto the table, the ink still smelling of fresh print.

“‘CROWN IN CRISIS: PRINCE WILLIAM IN LOVE WITH A COMMONER?’” His voice thundered against the stone walls, the headline under his palm like a brand. “Do you understand what this does to us? To the crown? You’ve invited vultures to our table!”

Another paper landed atop the first, flung with disdain. ‘Royal Musician or Royal Liability?’

“You’ve written your private life into a spectacle,” Alaric snarled. “And now the people are dissecting you like a carcass. Is this what you want your reign to begin with? Scandal? A kingdom laughing at the heir who can’t control his own heart?”

William stood stiff, jaw tight, hands balled into fists at his sides. The words scraped at him, not because they weren’t expected, but because they came from his father’s mouth with such venom. He’d grown up in this palace, raised under the weight of expectation, but nothing had prepared him for seeing his art—the only place he could breathe—turned into a weapon against him.

“It’s a song,” William forced out, low and even. “My song. And the people love it. They don’t love your policies, they don’t love your speeches, but they love this. Me. My voice. The truth in it.”

Alaric’s hand curled into a fist on the table. “They don’t love you, William—they love the story. They love tearing you apart and guessing at shadows. And you refuse to name them, so they will name every person who’s ever stood near you. Is that what you want?”

William’s chest burned. “I won’t drag them into this circus.”

The king’s eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “So you admit there is someone.”

The silence that followed was heavy enough to choke. Queen Selene shifted in her chair, her voice softer, pleading. “William… you must understand. It’s not just you this touches. It’s all of us. Your sister, the crown, the stability of the throne—”

“Elara can handle herself,” William snapped, the edge of his composure cracking. His eyes stung with something he couldn’t name, frustration coiled so tightly in his chest he thought it might split him open. “This song isn’t about the throne. It’s about me. And for once, I won’t let you twist it into politics.”

Alaric’s jaw clenched, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. “Then perhaps you are not ready for the crown at all.”

That cut deeper than any headline ever could.

William left the chamber that night with his mother’s worried eyes following him and his father’s condemnation echoing in his skull. The song still played on the streets, in the markets, in every corner of the kingdom he was meant to one day rule. But instead of pride, all he felt was the sting of being trapped in a story that the world had claimed as theirs.

Weeks blurred together—performances, appearances, forced smiles. Each time, the same chorus hummed back at him, reminding him that the song was no longer his, not really. It belonged to everyone but the one person it had been written for.

And then—by some cruel twist of fate—he saw them again.

It wasn’t planned, wasn’t rehearsed, wasn’t wrapped in ceremony or guarded by aides. One moment, he was cutting through the city to clear his head, cap pulled low to avoid attention. The next, he froze.

{{user}}.

The crowd thinned around him, noise fading like the tide pulling back. His heart stuttered, his lungs locked. For months he had carried this weight, watched the world speculate, defended their anonymity with everything he had—and suddenly, there they stood. Real. Tangible. Unchanged by the circus that had turned his life into a headline.

And in the distance, as if mocking him, a street performer’s guitar picked up the first chords of Back to Being Friends. The melody spilled into the air, soft and cruel, the words that had haunted him now circling between them like a ghost.

William’s chest ached, frustration and longing colliding until he couldn’t breathe. Before he knew what he was doing, he pushed through the crowd, fingers closing gently but firmly around their wrist.

“Come with me,” he muttered, his voice low, rougher than he intended. He didn’t wait for an answer, just tugged them into a narrow side street away from the press of bodies, where the music bled quieter against stone walls.

There, with only shadows around them, he finally let it slip. His voice cracked raw, more confession than accusation:

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?”