Chapter One
AS A LITTLE GIRL, the winter solstice Starlight ball had been Astrid’s favourite event.
Even as a child, she’d been coaxed into a fine, sparkly dress, had her hair styled into a long braid and held her mother’s hand as they’d ascended the wide steps of the palace to welcome guests to the ancient court.
Back then, magic had seemed thick in the air and she had never been able to get her fill.
From the ivy that was draped across the marbled halls, to the fires that roared in the grates making the room flicker and glow with warmth, to the traditional foods that weighed down a sumptuous banquet table and the music that was played by Norvenheim’s most prestigious orchestra suspended on a balcony above them, the night was always one of special beauty.
And that was before the story of the wish was brought to bear. Legend had it that, on the night of the ball, if someone looked to the stars overhead and uttered a secret hope it would come true by the end of the twelve nights of Christmas.
Now, as an adult of twenty-five, Queen Astrid Thyra of Norvenheim suspected she should have outgrown the tradition. But wish she did, regardless, with every single part of her.
Let me find someone I won’t care about losing.
As a child, she’d believed in magic.
Now…how could she?
The last eleven years of her life had shown that fairytales were a lie.
“Happily ever after” was pure wishful thinking.
All she had left was to fulfil her purpose in life and serve her people as the kind of queen her parents, and older brother, would have been proud of, if they’d survived to see it.
Emotions clawed at her, but Astrid kept them at bay with practiced professionalism.
Ever since she was fourteen and an accident had turned her world upside down, shunting her into the role of regent queen in waiting, she’d walked alongside her grief.
She was aware that while it was a part of her, it could never take over, never be seen.
For her people had likewise been grieving and in that grief, they’d turned to Astrid for comfort.
Even in her darkest hour, she’d known what was expected of her, what her parents would want her to be.
And if she’d ever risked forgetting, her Regency council had been there to remind her.
Perfect. Beyond reproach.
At her coronation, six months before the Starlight ball, she’d sat at the front of the abbey on a warm afternoon.
She’d been aware of the space to her left, where a royal consort would usually sit, aware of the front rows that were packed with politicians and visiting dignitaries, rather than swelled by loving family, and had felt an aching, yawning sense of absolute loneliness.
The kind of loneliness that had dug into her chest and refused to give way, despite the practiced smile that was carefully pinned to her face.
Duty was a funny thing and hers was ingrained.
With the death of her parents and brother, she became the sole surviving heir to the royal family.
Oh, there were distant cousins, but none of them known to the people.
None of them related closely enough to step into the role of royalty.
No, the duty had fallen to Astrid and Astrid alone. She knew what must come next.
She must marry. Then, she must have children of her own.
A family, the one thing she was deathly afraid of and didn’t want, was an absolute imperative for her as queen.
Time was running out, as the prime minister—once the head of her Regency council—reminded her often.
The whole country was braying for a union and she knew she’d almost outrun their patience.
A royal engagement would need to be announced within months and, hopefully, a pregnancy soon after the wedding.
A familiar sense of ice ran through her veins as she imagined the pain of that.
Not of pregnancy and childbirth themselves, but of letting herself love again.
Not her husband. That she knew she would be able to control.
But what of loving her children? How could she, when she knew the all-consuming pain that came from loss?
The suddenness of it. After storing her heart in a freezer for so many years, would it even be possible to love her children?
Perhaps it was better if she didn’t, anyway.
Losing her parents and brother had destroyed her.
How could she risk going through that again? And with her own child?
Overhead, the orchestra struck up a familiar song, one of the oldest dances in the kingdom.
As the assembled guests took to the marble floor and began to move, Astrid watched with a serene expression on her face that gave nothing of her inner tumult away.
Nothing of the dread she was feeling when it came to marrying and having children.
Her eyes swept the room, landing as they so often did at these events, on Otto Diamandi.
He was dancing with his mother, which brought a smile to her lips.
The two of them were very close and had been ever since the death of Otto’s father.
Astrid knew she could do a lot worse than choosing him as her partner.
They were on friendly enough terms. He was well-respected, and came from the kind of family that her people would instantly accept—an old, Norvenheim bloodline that simply made sense.
Better yet, when she thought of marrying him, she felt nothing but relief. No stirring of heat or passion, no risk of love. He was a safe pair of hands.
Over the years, Astrid had done what most people would consider to be dating.
But for her it had been about interviewing.
She’d been screening, always, for a potential spouse.
Looking for someone she could introduce to her kingdom as a husband, a king and a man to stand by her side and rule, while having absolutely no claim on her feelings and no touch on her heart.
Yet, the matter of an heir was pressing down on her, reminding her daily that if anything were to happen to Astrid, the safe keeping she’d been entrusted with would have failed, despite her sacrifices. Despite her best efforts.
Which made it particularly pressing to set this ball in motion. Where better, she pondered with the hint of a glacial smile, than at the Starlight ball. On the night of wishes?
* * *
Javier Diamandi surveyed the scene with undisguised mockery.
It was everything he hated. About wealth, power and, mostly, about this country he’d once called home.
Here in one of Europe’s oldest palaces, hosted by one of the wealthiest monarchies, partied the crème de la crème of Norvenheim, laughing, dancing and making wishes as though their charmed lives required any further advantage.
By his side, his hand flexed into a fist, as he contemplated what he was about to do.
The revenge he’d planned for years was now within his grasp.
He had flown to Norvenheim on this night, the winter solstice, for the sole purpose of throwing his triumph in his stepmother and half-brother’s faces.
That he had been secretly buying up shares of his late father’s company whenever they were offered and had finally acquired the last ten per cent that made him majority owner, was a dagger he couldn’t wait to proverbially drive through their hearts.
What they had denied him, and taken such pleasure in denying him, would be his regardless. As it always should have been.
Through the swirling motion of tulle and lace, diamonds and tuxedos, he saw them. Golden boy Otto, dancing with the evil stepmother Carlotta. She was as beautiful as ever, with her silvery blonde hair styled into a bun and a small tiara fixed on the top of her head.
Carlotta leaned close and whispered something to Otto, who glanced towards the end of the room, where a stage was positioned to have maximum view of the stately space. Javier’s eyes narrowed as they fell upon the queen—recently crowned, he knew from the wide-spread global coverage.
Queen Astrid Thyra had been only a teenager when her family had died in a car accident—of which she was the sole survivor. Somehow, despite her parents’ and brother’s almost immediate deaths, Astrid had walked away with only a broken wrist.
The whole world had rallied behind her. He’d remembered, because it had been impossible, even in Spain, to go anywhere without seeing news of the Norvenheim royal family on the front of the papers.
He’d hated it, because he hated, then, to be reminded of this place.
This place that had burned him so badly. This place that had once been his home.
The queen was very beautiful, he acknowledged, the same mocking sneer on his face that he’d felt ever since arriving at the ball.
Of course she was. Because here in Norvenheim, things were perfect.
There was nothing quite so resplendent as a woman who’d risen from the ashes of her grief to become the immaculate and beloved queen.
She wore an understated gown that was as white as the snow-capped mountains in the distance. It had long, bell sleeves and was fitted to her slender frame, leaving only her natural beauty to shine.
Her light brown hair was styled in glossy waves around her face, shimmering and soft.
Her features were delicate—eyes a deep brown, lips wide and curved in a gentle smile as she glanced across the room.
As he watched, those same intelligent eyes landed on Otto, who was looking up at her.
Something rolled through Javier, though he couldn’t properly explain it.
But then, Carlotta said something else and winked, then smiled that smile Javier knew oh so well.
Javier had seen the Machiavellian inner-workings of his stepmother’s mind.
As a boy, he had felt the jab of her cruelty again and again, had known the pain of her evil heart. He knew instantly what was in her mind.