Inside the love story of Hasnat Khan and Princess Diana

Princess Diana was known for her heartfelt visits to hospitals, where she brought joy and hope to those in need.

However, one visit turned into something far more — a passionate love affair that remained shrouded in secrecy for years.

It’s 1995 – just two months prior to the infamous Panorama interview that would forever alter Diana’s life. You might remember that interview, when Princess Diana came clean about her struggles with mental health and the trials of her marriage, capturing the world’s empathy.

Two months before that interview, Diana crossed paths with a handsome doctor, a Muslim whose dark good looks were compared to the charming actor Omar Sharif.

The dashing heart surgeon, Dr. Hasnat Khan, worked at the Royal Brompton Hospital in London. But how did this unlikely pair end up together?

Diana at Royal Brompton Hospital / Getty Images

Well, that’s because Joe Toffolo, the patient who underwent surgery, was married to Oonagh Shanley-Toffolo, an Irish nun and acupuncturist who was a close confidante of Princess Diana.

After the initial visit, Diana returned to the hospital almost daily for three weeks, eager to pursue the handsome surgeon. The connection was electric.

Smoked cigarettes and loved KFC

Today, when we look back at countless photos of Diana visiting the hospital, it’s officially stated that she went to cheer up sick children or raise awareness for cystic fibrosis.

That’s definitely true. However, she also had personal reasons. Beneath the surface, her motivations were deeply personal. Because at 35, Diana had discovered a reason to smile once more.

Pakistani surgeon Hasnat Khan, identified as an “ex-lover” of Lady Diana, Princess of Wales.
(Photo by Stan Karczmarz/Sygma via Getty Images)

When Diana and Khan started seeing each other, it marked Diana’s most serious involvement since her separation from Prince Charles three years earlier.

But it came shrouded in secrecy. Few knew about their budding romance, a bond that seemed improbable at first glance. Dr. Khan, then 37, was a heart surgeon
that was running fat and smoked a pack of cigarettes a day,

He had penchant for late-night jazz clubs and Kentucky Fried Chicken — an unconventional match for the Princess of Wales.

But this didn’t stop Diana.

”He’s drop-dead gorgeous,” Diana reportedly told Oonagh Toffolo.

Secret messages

To keep their love under wraps, Diana cleverly disguised her messages for Khan, using the alias ”Dr. Armani.” They met in secret, often in unconventional spots to avoid prying eyes.

On one occasion, Diana donned a black wig to sneak into Ronnie Scott’s, a famous jazz club in Soho. In another instance, Khan hid in the boot of a car to slip into Kensington Palace, aided by Diana’s loyal butler, Paul Burrell.

Their romance flourished even during casual outings.

Diana, Princess Of Wales, arriving at The Royal Brompton Hospital, Fulham Road, London. The Princess is wearing a high-buttoning pale blue jacket designed by Versace / Tim Graham / Getty Images

One day, when Diana was feeling low, Khan whisked her away to a pub near Harefield Hospital where he had worked. The name? The Prince of Wales.

”She thought it was hilarious,” he recalled with a chuckle.

Diana was so enamored that she even asked her butler to find a priest who could marry them, despite Khan’s Muslim faith. Their love deepened as they spent time together, sharing laughter and discovering each other’s worlds.

Diana reportedly read books on Islam and cherished a photograph of “my dishy doctor.” She even visited Khan’s family in Lahore, Pakistan, where she embraced their culture and enjoyed a delightful afternoon tea.

Met William and Harry

This whirlwind romance took a more serious turn when Diana introduced Khan to her sons, William and Harry.

She described him as “Mr. Wonderful” and, according to her butler Burrell, she referred to Khan as her soulmate. Friends of Diana stated that he was ”the love of her life” and that she expressed distress when their relationship ended.

Yet, as love stories often go, their fairytale faced obstacles.

Muhammad Iqbal, Lady Diana and Jemima Michelle Khan (wife of Imran khan) and his son / Wikipedia Commons

The mounting pressure from the media began to take a toll on their relationship. While Diana was accustomed to the limelight, for Khan, the intense scrutiny was daunting.

He feared that pursuing their relationship publicly could jeopardize his career.

They discussed possible solutions, including moving to Pakistan — a plan that nearly came to fruition. Talks of relocating to Australia or South Africa were also on the table, but nothing materialized. According to The Guardian, Diana’s desire for public acknowledgment clashed with Khan’s reluctance, leading to a heartbreaking conclusion: the romance ended in July 1997.

Khan finds out about Dodi

Just a month later, tragedy struck. In the early hours of August 31, 1997, Diana died in a car crash in Paris, alongside her partner Dodi Fayed and their driver, Henri Paul.

Khan was blindsided by the news of Diana’s relationship with Dodi, discovering it only after it became public. ”When I found out, I was really mad; mad as hell,” he confessed in a 2012 interview.

Khan attended her funeral at Westminster Abbey.

Dr Hasnat Khan in 1997. (Photo by Antony Jones/UK Press via Getty Images)

The shadow of her tragic death looms over him still. “Sometimes I feel like screaming,” Khan shared, reflecting on the emotional turmoil. “There have been very bad times. I have moved on, but it keeps coming back.”

Despite the heartbreak, Khan fondly remembers Diana: ”We all have our drawbacks, but I found her a very normal person with great qualities and some personal drawbacks, like bad habits.”

Hasnat Khan today

In 2006, Khan married Hadia Sher Ali, a 28-year-old woman descended from Afghan royalty, but the couple divorced two years later.

He now lives in the UK, continuing his work as a heart surgeon and engaging in humanitarian efforts in Pakistan and Saudi Arabia.

Reflecting on his life, Khan shared: ”It is very good to be home. I am quite relieved to be home. My blood pressure is stable—I go fishing, I go for walks. It feels like a sanctuary. It’s very peaceful.”

Though the romance between Princess Diana and Dr. Hasnat Khan was short-lived, it remains an interesting chapter in her life, a testament to the complexity of love in the face of royal duty and public scrutiny.

As we remember the Princess, we celebrate not just her legacy, but also the love she shared with a man who saw her for who she truly was—a normal person with extraordinary qualities.

My Son Is Failing School After Moving in with His Dad — I Just Found Out What’s Really Going on in That House

After her teenage son moves in with his dad, Claire tries not to interfere, until his silence speaks louder than words. When she finds out what’s really happening in that house, she does what mothers do best: she shows up. This is a quiet, powerful story of rescue, resilience, and unconditional love.

When my 14-year-old son, Mason, asked to live with his dad after the divorce, I said yes.

Not because I wanted to (believe me, I would have preferred to have him with me). But because I didn’t want to stand in the way of a father and son trying to find each other again. I still had Mason with me on weekends and whenever he wanted. I just didn’t have him every single day.

A teenage boy sitting on a porch | Source: Midjourney

A teenage boy sitting on a porch | Source: Midjourney

He’d missed Eddie. His goofy, fun-loving dad who made pancakes at midnight and wore backward baseball caps to soccer games. And Eddie seemed eager to step up. He wanted to be involved. More grounded.

So, I let Mason go.

I told myself that I was doing the right thing. That giving my son space wasn’t giving him up.

A man holding a stack of pancakes | Source: Midjourney

A man holding a stack of pancakes | Source: Midjourney

I didn’t expect it to break me quietly.

At first, Mason called often. He sent me silly selfies and updates about the pizza-and-movie nights with his dad. He sent me snapshots of half-burnt waffles and goofy grins.

I saved every photo. I rewatched every video time and time again. I missed him but I told myself this was good.

This was what he needed.

A stack of half-burnt waffles on a plate | Source: Midjourney

A stack of half-burnt waffles on a plate | Source: Midjourney

He sounded happy. Free. And I wanted to believe that meant he was okay.

But then the calls slowed down. The texts came less frequently. Conversations turned into one-word replies.

Then silence.

And then calls started coming from somewhere else. Mason’s teachers.

A concerned teacher | Source: Midjourney

A concerned teacher | Source: Midjourney

One emailed about missing homework.

“He said he forgot, Claire. But it’s not like him.”

Another called during her lunch break, speaking in between bites of a sandwich, I assumed.

“He seems disconnected. Like he’s here but not really… Is everything okay at home?”

A sandwich on a plate | Source: Midjourney

A sandwich on a plate | Source: Midjourney

And then the worst one, his math teacher.

“We caught him cheating during a quiz. That’s not typical behavior. I just thought you should know… he looked lost.”

That word stuck to me like static.

A side profile of a worried woman | Source: Midjourney

A side profile of a worried woman | Source: Midjourney

Lost.

Not rebellious. Not difficult. Just… lost.

It landed in my chest with a cold weight. Because that wasn’t my Mason. My boy had always been thoughtful, careful. The kind of kid who double-checked his work and blushed when he didn’t get an A.

I tried calling him that night. No answer. I left a voicemail.

A boy sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney

A boy sitting at a table | Source: Midjourney

Hours passed. Nothing.

I sat on the edge of my bed, phone in hand, staring at the last photo he’d sent—him and Eddie holding up a burnt pizza like a joke.

But it didn’t feel funny anymore. Something was wrong. And the silence was screaming.

I called Eddie. Not accusatory, just concerned. My voice soft, neutral, trying to keep the peace.

A close up of a concerned woman | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a concerned woman | Source: Midjourney

I was careful, walking that tightrope divorced moms know too well, where one wrong word can be used as proof that you’re “controlling” or “dramatic.”

His response?

A sigh. A tired, dismissive sigh.

“He’s a teenager, Claire,” he said. “They get lazy from time to time. You’re overthinking again.”

A man talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

A man talking on the phone | Source: Midjourney

Overthinking. I hated that word.

It hit something in me. He used to say that when Mason was a baby and colicky. When I hadn’t slept in three nights and sat on the bathroom floor crying, holding our screaming newborn while Eddie snored through it.

“You worry too much,” he’d mumbled back then. “Relax. He’ll be fine.”

A crying baby | Source: Midjourney

A crying baby | Source: Midjourney

And I believed him. I wanted to believe him. Because the alternative… that I was alone in the trenches… was just too heavy to carry.

Now here I was again.

Mason still crying, just silently this time. And Eddie still rolling over, pretending everything was okay.

But this time? My silence had consequences.

A woman holding her head | Source: Midjourney

A woman holding her head | Source: Midjourney

This wasn’t a newborn with reflux. This was a boy unraveling quietly in another house.

And something deep inside me, the part of me that’s always known when Mason needed me, started to scream out.

One Thursday afternoon, I didn’t ask Eddie’s permission. I just drove to Mason’s school to fetch him. It was raining, a thin, steady drizzle that blurred the world into soft edges. The kind of weather that makes you feel like time is holding its breath.

A worried woman sitting in a car | Source: Midjourney

A worried woman sitting in a car | Source: Midjourney

I parked where I knew he’d see me. Turned off the engine. Waited.

When the bell rang, kids poured out in clusters, laughing, yelling, dodging puddles. Then I saw him, alone, walking slowly, like each step cost my baby something.

He slid into the passenger seat without a word.

A pensive teenage boy | Source: Midjourney

A pensive teenage boy | Source: Midjourney

And my heart shattered.

His hoodie clung to him. His shoes were soaked. His backpack hung off one shoulder like an afterthought. But it was his face that undid me.

Sunken eyes. Lips pale and cracked. Shoulders curved inward like he was trying to make himself disappear.

I handed him a granola bar with shaking hands. He stared at it but didn’t move.

A granola bar on a piece of paper | Source: Midjourney

A granola bar on a piece of paper | Source: Midjourney

The heater ticked, warming the space between us but not enough to thaw the ache in my chest.

Then, he whispered, barely above the sound of the rain on the windshield.

“I can’t sleep, Mom. I don’t know what to do…”

That was the moment I knew, my son was not okay.

An upset boy sitting in a car | Source: Midjourney

An upset boy sitting in a car | Source: Midjourney

The words came slowly. Like he was holding them in with both hands, trying not to spill. Like if he let go, he might shatter.

Eddie had lost his job. Just weeks after Mason moved in. He didn’t tell anyone. Not Mason. Not me. He tried to keep the illusion alive, same routines, same smile, same tired jokes.

But behind the curtain, everything was falling apart.

An upset man sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

An upset man sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

The fridge was almost always empty. Lights flickered constantly. Mason said he stopped using the microwave because it made a weird noise when it ran too long. Eddie was out most nights.

“Job interviews,” he claimed but Mason said that he didn’t always come back.

So my son made do. He had cereal for breakfast. Sometimes dry because there was no milk. He did laundry when he ran out of socks. He ate spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar and called it lunch. Dried crackers for dinner.

A plate of crackers | Source: Midjourney

A plate of crackers | Source: Midjourney

He did his homework in the dark, hoping that the Wi-Fi would hold long enough to submit assignments.

“I didn’t want you to think less of him,” Mason said. “Or me.”

That’s when the truth hit. He wasn’t lazy. He wasn’t rebelling.

He was drowning. And all the while, he was trying to keep his father afloat. Trying to hold up a house that was already caving in. Trying to protect two parents from breaking further.

A boy doing his homework | Source: Midjourney

A boy doing his homework | Source: Midjourney

And I hadn’t seen it.

Not because I didn’t care. But because I told myself staying out of it was respectful. That giving them space was the right thing.

But Mason didn’t need space. He needed someone to call him back home.

That night, I took him back with me. There were no court orders. No phone calls. Just instinct. He didn’t argue at all.

The exterior of a cozy home | Source: Midjourney

The exterior of a cozy home | Source: Midjourney

He slept for 14 hours straight. His face was relaxed, like his body was finally safe enough to let go.

The next morning, he sat at the kitchen table and asked if I still had that old robot mug. The one with the chipped handle.

I found it tucked in the back of the cupboard. He smiled into it and I stepped out of the room before he could see my eyes fill.

A sleeping boy | Source: Midjourney

A sleeping boy | Source: Midjourney

“Mom?” he asked a bit later. “Can you make me something to eat?”

“How about a full breakfast plate?” I asked. “Bacon, eggs, sausages… the entire thing!”

He just smiled and nodded.

A breakfast plate | Source: Midjourney

A breakfast plate | Source: Midjourney

I filed for a custody change quietly. I didn’t want to tear him apart. I didn’t want to tear either of them apart. I knew that my ex-husband was struggling too.

But I didn’t send Mason back. Not until there was trust again. Not until Mason felt like he had a choice. And a place where he could simply breathe and know that someone was holding the air steady for him.

It took time. But healing always does, doesn’t it?

At first, Mason barely spoke. He’d come home from school, drop his backpack by the door and drift to the couch like a ghost. He’d stare at the TV without really watching.

A boy sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

A boy sitting on a couch | Source: Midjourney

Some nights, he’d pick at his dinner like the food was too much for him to handle.

I didn’t push. I didn’t pepper him with questions or hover with worried eyes.

I just made the space soft. Predictable. Safe.

We started therapy. Gently. No pressure. I let him choose the schedule, the therapist, even the music on the car ride there. I told him we didn’t have to fix everything at once, we just had to keep showing up.

A smiling therapist sitting in her office | Source: Midjourney

A smiling therapist sitting in her office | Source: Midjourney

And then, quietly, I started leaving notes on his bedroom door.

“Proud of you.”

“You’re doing better than you think, honey.”

“You don’t have to talk. I see you anyway.”

“There’s no one else like you.”

Colored Post-its stuck on a door | Source: Midjourney

Colored Post-its stuck on a door | Source: Midjourney

For a while, they stayed untouched. I’d find them curled at the edges, the tape starting to yellow. But I left them up anyway.

Then one morning, I found a sticky note on my bedside table. Written in pencil with shaky handwriting.

“Thanks for seeing me. Even when I didn’t say anything. You’re the best, Mom.”

I sat on the edge of my bed and held that note like it was something sacred.

A pink Post-it pad on a nightstand | Source: Midjourney

A pink Post-it pad on a nightstand | Source: Midjourney

A month in, Mason stood in the kitchen one afternoon, backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Hey, Mom? Would it be okay if I stayed after school for robotics club?”

I froze, mid-stir, the sauce bubbling quietly on the stove.

“Yeah,” I said, careful not to sound too excited. “Of course. That sounds great.”

Students at a robotics club | Source: Midjourney

Students at a robotics club | Source: Midjourney

His eyes flicked up, almost shyly.

“I think I want to start building stuff again.”

And I smiled because I knew exactly what that meant.

“Go, honey,” I said. “I’ll make some garlic bread and we can pop it in the oven when you get back.”

A tray of cheesy garlic bread | Source: Midjourney

A tray of cheesy garlic bread | Source: Midjourney

Two weeks later, he brought home a model bridge made of popsicle sticks and hot glue. It collapsed the second he picked it up.

He stared at the wreckage for a second, then laughed. Like, really laughed.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’ll build another one.”

God, I wanted to freeze that moment. Bottle it. Frame it. I wanted this moment to last forever. Because that was my boy.

A model bridge made of popsicle sticks | Source: Midjourney

A model bridge made of popsicle sticks | Source: Midjourney

The one who used to build LEGO cities and dream out loud about being an engineer. The one who’d been buried under silence, shame, and survival.

And now he was finding his way back. One stick, one smile, and one note at a time.

In May, I got an email from his teacher. End-of-year assembly.

LEGO blocks on a carpet | Source: Midjourney

LEGO blocks on a carpet | Source: Midjourney

“You’ll want to be there,” she wrote.

They called his name and my hands started shaking.

“Most Resilient Student!”

He walked to the stage, not rushed or embarrassed. He stood tall and proud. He paused, scanned the crowd, and smiled.

A smiling boy standing on a stage | Source: Midjourney

A smiling boy standing on a stage | Source: Midjourney

One hand lifted toward me, the other toward Eddie, sitting quietly in the back row, tears shining.

That one gesture said everything we hadn’t been able to say. We were all in this together. Healing.

Eddie still calls. Sometimes it’s short, just a quick, “How was school?” or “You still into that robot stuff, son?”

Sometimes they talk about movies they used to watch together. Sometimes there are awkward silences. But Mason always picks up.

A close up of a smiling woman | Source: Midjourney

A close up of a smiling woman | Source: Midjourney

It’s not perfect. But it’s something.

Mason lives with me full-time now. His room is messy again, in the good way. The alive way. Clothes draped over his chair. Music too loud. Cups mysteriously migrating to the bathroom sink.

I find little notes he writes to himself taped to the wall above his desk.

A messy room | Source: Midjourney

A messy room | Source: Midjourney

Things like:

“Remember to breathe.”

“One step at a time.”

“You’re not alone, Mase.”

He teases me about an ancient phone and greying hair. He complains about the asparagus I give him with his grilled fish. He tries to talk me into letting him dye his hair green.

Grilled fish and asparagus on a plate | Source: Midjourney

Grilled fish and asparagus on a plate | Source: Midjourney

And when he walks past me in the kitchen and asks for help, I stop what I’m doing and do it.

Not because I have all the answers. But because he asked. Because he trusts me enough to ask. And that matters more than any fix.

I’ve forgiven myself for not seeing it sooner. I understand now that silence isn’t peace. That distance isn’t always respect.

A happy teenage boy | Source: Midjourney

A happy teenage boy | Source: Midjourney

Sometimes, love is loud. Sometimes, it’s showing up uninvited. Sometimes, it’s saying, I know you didn’t call but I’m here anyway.

Mason didn’t need freedom. He needed rescue. And I’ll never regret reaching for him when he was slipping under.

Because that’s what moms do. We dive in. We hold tight. And we don’t let go until the breathing steadies, the eyes open and the light comes back.

A smiling woman sitting on a porch | Source: Midjourney

A smiling woman sitting on a porch | Source: Midjourney

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