Chapter One #2
Queen Astrid Thyra of Norvenheim might have been beloved and adored, but she was also the subject of merciless gossip regarding her perennially single status.
The world—particularly this country—was braying for a royal romance.
Moreso, desperately clinging to the idea of her marrying and starting a family.
She only had to speak to a man for it to make the papers and stay there like glue.
It was possible that his stepmother simply wanted the publicity that would come from Otto appearing to be intimate with the queen.
But Javier doubted it. For Carlotta, the greatest achievement in life would be manoeuvring her son into marrying royalty.
What happiness that would bring her; what validation and pleasure.
Javier continued to watch as his stepmother spoke again, before dropping her hands and stepping backwards, giving one last encouraging nod.
Then, Otto was moving towards the other side of the room, where the queen stood and watched.
Strange how isolated she looked, even though she was technically hosting the ball.
Javier’s gut did a strange twist as Otto approached the small stage and made a comment that drew a cautious smile from the queen. Her lips, painted a natural pale pink colour, moved and Otto laughed, then held out his hand.
Anger stormed through Javier.
Here, in his moment of victory, which he’d worked hard to obtain for years, Javier could not—would not—allow Otto to take away from his success.
Why would his stepmother care for Javier’s triumph if she had a triumph of her own to celebrate?
This was about revenge—an act he was thoroughly entitled to—and the sting of it would be too substantially lessened if his half-brother were to succeed in charming the most eligible woman in Europe tonight.
Javier watched from the shadows as they began to dance, the queen keeping a careful distance, a polite smile on her face, as though she knew every single movement would be dissected by the world’s media.
There was no press at the event, but a series of court photographers were moving around, taking photographs that would no doubt be heavily screened and vetted by the palace before being released for the world’s consumption.
Yet there was Carlotta removing a cell phone from her clutch and surreptitiously filming for ten seconds or so, despite the request that guests not take any photos or videos of the event.
His jaw tightened as he regarded his stepmother flouting the rules, doing whatever she wanted to achieve her ends. He would put any amount of his considerable, self-made fortune on her anonymously uploading that footage to social media by the end of the night.
Anything to get the gossip working in her favour.
Which was a game two could play at…
Suddenly, it wasn’t just about Carlotta and Otto and the pain they’d caused him all his life.
It wasn’t about the constant sense of rejection, hatred and cruelty he’d been forced to live with.
It wasn’t about the way they’d cast him out after the sudden death of his father, so he lost anyone and anything with which he was familiar.
It was about Juanita now, too. The woman he’d once loved and had planned to spend the rest of his life with.
Whom he had dated in secret for two years before her family found out and insisted she break up with him.
Who had walked away from him without a backwards glance.
Juanita had underscored the lessons Carlotta had taught him almost his entire life—that he was worth nothing and never would be.
After all, he was nothing but the illegitimate, unwanted son of a once-great man.
Javier’s fist tightened, as he imagined how they would react to seeing him dance with the queen. The fear his stepmother would feel when she wondered if he was going to make a play for her—as though he cared about royalty.
For the briefest moment, he even imagined what it would be like to do more than dance with Astrid.
To make her his. To seduce her, so he would privately know that he had taken something even more from his stepmother and half-brother.
Thwarting them in every avenue of their lives, as they had sought to do to him.
Marriage, though, was not something Javier would ever commit to.
Not even to pain his stepmother. Not even when he hated her as he did.
In some ways, Javier had thought himself far past the pain of his past. The revenge scheme he had planned to throw at Carlotta and Otto was more about taking back what should have been his all along—the company they’d shown such delight in denying him ownership of, despite his father’s wishes.
Or, in fact, because of it. He’d wanted to hurt them because they deserved it.
Because they’d frequently sought to injure him.
Back when he was a boy and his father wasn’t around and, ultimately, when his father had died and they’d delighted in casting him out.
Reflecting on Juanita and the ways her rejection had played into the wounds his stepmother and her son had created, made his spine fire with a familiar sense of steel and determination.
A darkness that demanded answering.
These people, this place, had betrayed him, but it had turned him into the man he was now. It was time for them to reckon with what they’d created. It was time for them to reckon with him.
* * *
It was a break in protocol for anyone unknown to the queen to approach her. Though generally, at an event such as this, every person in attendance was pre-screened and, on some level, known to either Astrid or to her prime minister.
Yet the man who was standing before her was both slightly familiar and a total stranger.
She wracked her brain mortified by the unfamiliar sense of having put a foot wrong, for she never forgot a person’s name or face.
It was one of the most vital aspects of her job.
She cast about, desperately trying to remember where they’d meet.
Surely, though, they hadn’t. Because if Astrid had ever come face to face with this man, she suspected it would have been genuinely impossible to forget.
Not just because of his imposing frame, though there was that.
He easily stood six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders that looked only reluctantly contained by the jet-black tuxedo he wore.
His hair was light and shaved close cropped.
His jaw was square and his eyes a glittering blue, reminding her forcibly of the Viking heroes who’d built this kingdom all those centuries ago.
Yes, he gave off serious Viking energy, reminding her of the famed kings of days gone by.
More than just his looks. It was in his very bearing.
From the way his ice-cold eyes landed on her face and held there, regarding her without fear, without deference, without the respect to which she’d become so accustomed.
And she didn’t hate that.
For a woman who’d spent her whole life being curtseyed and bowed to, who’d known only the friendship of hand-selected, ‘suitable’ children, who’d been raised to understand that she was different and special, it was somehow thrilling to come face to face with a man who looked at her as though she were simply a woman.
‘Your Majesty.’ His lips twisted with a hint of cynicism, almost as though he found the title laughable.
She cocked a single brow and held out a fine, gloved hand.
‘I apologise if I’m mistaken, but I don’t believe we’ve met.’
‘You’re not mistaken.’
‘Ah.’ Relief washed over her. ‘I thought not.’