PROLOGUE
His Royal Highness Ra’if Alin Fayez, Crown Prince of Dashan, exalted heir to the throne, stared at the portrait and felt as though his heart was breaking all over again. He could only be thankful his younger brother Zamir was not there to witness the unveiling of the spectacular piece of art.
“What do you think?” The artist asked, addressing the twelve year old boy with the deference due to his rank.
Ra’if took a step closer. The painting was enormous. It hung almost from ceiling to floor, showing the four of them as they’d been before.
The likeness was striking. His father had been perfectly captured, his dark skin, intelligent eyes and strong physique that was clothed in the country’s military uniform. The princes were similarly dressed; Zamir in the outfit the naval officers wore and Ra’if in a commander’s regalia, as befitted the boy who would one day be King.
Their mother drew his attention last of all, and he had to brace every fibre of his body in order to look into her piercing green eyes with any degree of composure.
He felt grief – the emotion he kept all to himself – writhe through his gut, stabbing him painfully with each shift and alteration.
“It is like her, no?” The artist asked eagerly, forgetting momentarily that Ra’if was not to be spoken to unless inviting conversation.
Ra’if didn’t answer. He felt no need to assuage the artist’s concerns, nor to indulge his ego, though the likeness was exceptional. Heart-wrenchingly so.
She was smiling in the portrait, as she often had in real life. Her skin was luminescent, her hair shimmering. She wore an emerald green gown, and at her neck, the diamond necklace his father had given to her.
At twelve, Ra’if had carried his grief for six long years.
She was dead.
It was a fact of life that all things died eventually.
He had mourned her death; he had lived with her absence. But he wasn’t sure he would ever truly get used to the hole that had been ripped wide when she’d left him. When she’d died.
“It is good,” he murmured finally, giving the artist the praise he sought. “It hangs with pride,” he added for good measure. “The family thanks you.”
The artist bowed low. “And I thank you, your highness, for the opportunity.”
Ra’if nodded. “Go now.”
He waited until the room had cleared and he was alone before moving closer to the painting. It was one week until Christmas, but that wasn’t why the painting had been commissioned. The timing was just a coincidence.
Ra’if had learned from birth not to express his emotions. Not to express what he felt and thought, but rather to speak only in the best interests of his Kingdom. So it was not difficult for him to look at the painting without the appearance of pain, though it pained him greatly.
Particularly now, so close to the holiday that his mother had always made so special. It was a time of hope, of belief, of love and blind faith.
Ra’if fluttered his eyes closed and made a wish: a wish that one day, he wouldn’t feel this emptiness in his heart. That he would find a way to fill it, forevermore. One day…
CHAPTER ONE
It was the fifth time he’d been in rehab, and he’d lasted the shortest amount of time yet.
Four days.
Four stupid, stinking days.
The tinsel on the desk across from Melinda was sparkling and gay. It was making a mockery of the darkness of her emotions, and she flicked it angrily, her brown hair echoing the movement and swishing against her shoulders.
For five Christmases she’d put Jordan off but now, he wasn’t having it any more.
I want to see him. I want to wake up on Christmas morning with my dad.
Tears sparkled in her eyes and she let a foul curse rip into the deserted real estate offices.
The word reverberated around the space, ringing in her ears with satisfying brutality. She relished it and, in that moment, she almost wished Jordan’s father had just died. Instead of limping his way through his half-life, getting so strung out on whichever drug he was into at the time, living rough, living cheap, and only turning up on her doorstep when he was either desperate for a fix and in need of money, or in the brief periods of health that made him realise how much he’d lost.
She picked up her phone and scrolled down to his name. She waited for it to connect but instead a disembodied voice told her that the number was not in service.
Not in service! What an understatement.
The whole damned mess was ‘not in service.’
Outside the window, snow was dusting in large swirls, swimming in the dark evening sky.
Brent was out there somewhere. Was he safe? High? Dead? Alive?
And could she really bring herself to care any more?
She grabbed her bag up from under the desk and slipped her feet into the heels she’d discarded earlier that day. Checking the heating was off and flicking the lights, she entered the alarm code and locked the front door to their offices.
A man was still working in the adjacent accountants. She smiled at him as she passed, then pushed out of the building. It was dark, and cold, and she was anxious suddenly to be home. Jordan would be out for at least a few more hours, which meant she’d have the apartment to herself. Thoughts of a warm shower and an episode of The Great British Bake Off danced tantalisingly before her.
“Oy. You. Give me your money.”
She froze, not sure she’d heard correctly. Her heart accelerated and she spun, her eyes searching for the owner of the rough, cockney accent.
And at once she was afraid, because he looked both wild and unhinged, and in his hand, there was a gun. “I said give me money,” he muttered, taking a step closer and holding the weapon at her face.
“And don’t make a sound.”
“I won’t.” She thought of Jordan and her heart ached. “You can take whatever you want. Please, just don’t hurt me.”
His smile was disgusting; his teeth yellow, his lips chapped. “We’ll see.”
Melinda reached into her bag and pulled out a handful of notes. “Here. Just take this. Please.”
The narrow street was dark. Evidently the council hadn’t prioritised sprinkling festive lights down the tiny side alleys of London Bridge. The buildings above housed offices, and though it was only eight o’clock, most of the workers had gone home. A train whistled in the distance but it was gaining speed; no one would see her as more than a terrified blur. The snow was still falling, though slowly now.