Once Upon A [Stolen] Time: [Stolen] Series I

By Samreen Ahsan

2015…

All her life, Myra Farrow has been obsessed with medieval castles—and the kings and princes who once inhabited them. Now, wealthy videogame designer Steve Bernard wants her to model for a princess character in his new game. Myra can’t resist his offer, especially when she learns that Steve plans to film inside the

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samreen Ahsan
• Release date: Nov 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781999264420

Samreen Ahsan

Samreen Ahsan is an international award-winning author. She is a traveller and a history buff by heart. However, art and literature are her passions. She loves visiting historical cities, their architecture and art galleries. She lives in Milton, Canada

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ARC REVIEWS

At the outset, I’d like to say I just love the premise of this book and think it would make an awesome movie; producers and film makers please check out this interesting novel.

– Kristin Ravelle (Author of The Everlasting Spell) 

It’s impossible you will not love Once Upon A [Stolen] Time. 5-stars!

- Tine’s Review Book Blog 

This book was hard to turn away from once you start reading it, it’s that good. It should be made into a movie or tv series 5-Stars!

- Country Girl Bookaholic Book Blog

Author’s style is magical in itself as she sets the past and present onto a direct collision course. 5-stars!

- Tome Tender Book Blog

This book is amazing!!! This is the first Fantasy novel I’ve read in a while and I loved it.

- NerdGirlLola’s Review 

If you are a fan of fantasy, romance and a hint of classic rewrite, this series should be on your radar.

- Penny for My Thoughts Blog 

The story is intense with dramatic moments, and suspense. Overall I felt Once Upon A [Stolen] Time was an enjoyable read and highly recommend to those who love Adult-Romantic-Fantasy. A definite five-star read!

- Amazon Reviewer

This is a mesmerizing story that keeps you swiping your e-reader to get to the next page. It’s well worth a read.

- Scott Bury (Author of Army of Worn Soles)

The plot is really good. The author thought of every detail and the story has no flaws or holes. 4.5 Stars!

- Reading...Dreaming Book Blog

Heartwarming read that will make you realize that true love holds no bounds.

- Ms. Me28 Book Blog

DISCLAIMER

The characters in this book are purely fictional. Hue Castle and its residents are created solely out of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Some relevant facts have been added, which were part of our history.

This is book ONE of the series and ends with a cliff-hanger. This book is intended for mature audience and not suitable for the readers who do not enjoy suspense endings.

All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced or distributed without the author’s consent.

PROLOGUE

There is nothing better than being ordinary.

You can smell the flowers, touch them, feel them. You can bask in the sunshine. You can walk on green grass. You can see yourself in the looking glass.

And…

You can fall in love without being the reason for anyone’s death.

But I was no ordinary man.

A cursed crown prince who lives a fateful life. He who has everything a man can wish but owns nothing. Who can have anything his heart desires but not her.

She is my dream—the one I cannot fulfil.

My greed to execute the dream has risked her life.

My selfishness has destroyed what I value most. Her!

We are captured and deceived by time, which has become our greatest enemy. We are struck by a spell which has bound us together.

No witch has cast any spell.

I was born with a curse that runs in my bloodline. It has stolen my past, tortured my present and changed my future.

"The curious are always in some danger.

If you are curious you might never come home."

—Jeanette Winterson

♕

CHAPTER 1

MYRA

APRIL 2015

There are certain moments in your life when you start questioning your existence.

Who are you?

What’s your aim in life?

Do you truly belong here?

Are you going to make a difference, wishing your name to be exalted, leaving a mark in history?

Will someone take your name in bygone stories, perhaps a part of a fable or a fairy tale?

Will you become a legend that passes on from generation to generation—in beautiful folklore, wrapped in entreats and twisted imaginations?

As a child, I fancied the idea of reading those stories again and again like a song on repeat mode, hoping one day that they would be entwined with my life and I’d find my way through those magical worlds, enchanting forests, unwrapping twisted tales and mysteries.

I didn’t want to die as a nameless soul. I wanted to make a difference. Not that I desired to be a scientist to create something for the future, but rather become a legend. I wanted my name written somewhere in history books, so when I died, I remained like a shrouded mystery for future generations to ponder.

I wanted people to talk about me, think about me, and ask questions about me like a character in a book club—even after centuries had passed. How I wish to become a legend in some artist’s remarkable painting, or a poet’s muse, or a character driven by some writer’s fantasy as his inspiration. How I wish I were born in a bygone era, lived like a real princess, courted by handsome princes and knights with valour and grace.

Yes, I was always attracted to the idea of princes, kings, dukes, and knights—anything regal. My friends in school had always told me that I lived in dreams and that imagining the life of a medieval noble residing in a castle was a preposterous idea.

Now, I live in a time of artificial intelligence and virtual reality, where love works on logic and calculations—where knights and princes don’t court a woman to win her heart. Where the idea of a prince rescuing is just a fantasy novel or a movie, and honestly, rescue me from what? I wasn’t locked up in any tower guarded by some dragon, so a prince would come one night to save me. I wasn’t even living with a stepmother who treated me like Cinderella. I know the wish is absurd. I was deluding myself with stupid and impractical fantasies. I live a much better life than millions of people in this world, and I still want more. Have I gone insane? What am I hoping for?

Perhaps I didn’t know myself. Raised with an obsession with Disney movies and bygone fairy tales, reading medieval literature, poetry, and history during my degree program, I fell in love with the past. The stories of knights—their chivalry, how noble they were, how they laid their hearts upon just a look at a beautiful maiden. Indeed, the princes and kings that existed before the sixteenth century had become my fantasies. In my fiction world, they were all gentlemen. I loved the idea of how they treated a woman as a lady—with respect and kindness. These days, blokes don’t even bother holding a door for a girl.

Though I was now twenty-two, my fantasies of these castles had not withered. I still get excited when I discover and visit a new historical site, maybe an old church or tower—anything that was built before the nineteenth century. I’d snap up any new historical novel, taking me back to the Victorian Era. I’d watched every period drama and movie.

People who knew me closely would tease me that I had been so obsessed with the historical places that I should have lived in the past, and there was no place for me in this twenty-first century. They called me ‘old school.’ Maybe I was old school.

Towers, fortresses, castles, renaissance palaces—they had always held a special place in my heart and what better place to live than England for a person like me? Since childhood, every time I’d visited a castle, I’d pictured myself as a princess living there. My parents had always encouraged me in my crazy adventures for these historical places. They had taken me to almost every castle and palace in the UK. Later, during high school, I had a chance to visit France and Italy and admire their remarkable architecture. I used to write stories after visiting these places—creating new characters that had lived there.

The only castle that I never got to visit in England was Hue Castle. The legends said it had been under a wicked spell for eight centuries. It had been abandoned since the mid-fifteenth century and closed to the public for over two hundred years under the administration of the British government.

Since the beginning of time, humans have been tempted by forbidden things. Like Eve in the Garden of Eden, I was intrigued and fascinated by the stories of Hue Castle, clueless that I could be cast out from my world should I not resist the forbidden fruit. I didn’t know how much truth those myths held, but I desperately wanted to get inside the castle and find out as if Lucifer himself was luring me.

Raised as a single child, I had lived my life with fairy tales and legends. My only companions were my dolls, who, in my mind, were my ladies-in-waiting, dressed in beautiful gowns like me. Despite bidding farewell to my childhood partners, I’d still hold onto my little friends.

Girls of my age were either living with their boyfriends or engaged, or in a serious relationship. Despite living in a modern world, my parents still wished to see me married as soon as possible. Of course, they had to. After all, I was their only child. All my cousins the same age or older than me had their boyfriends, fiancées, or husbands, and I was the only one still single. Every time I attended a family gathering, all they talked about was my future husband. My parents had tried to set me up for dates many times with good, decent men from wealthy families, but I had let them down—as always.

They had even asked me if I were a lesbian, although they knew that wasn’t the case. My mother had talked to me and tried to show me the reality of the situation: the kind of man I fancy doesn’t exist in the modern world. People these days are not as noble as they used to be. Perhaps she was right. Still, it was my stupid, vague desire to meet someone like that at least once before I died. It wasn’t that I never got a chance to meet any dukes or real princes. I did meet gentlemen from royal families who lived in those palaces I fancied, but meeting them made me less eager to marry anyone. They were not even close to what I had read about them in books.

***

Taking early morning runs through London in the spring was a spectacular experience. I loved the smell of morning dew and fresh flowers—the trees exhaling oxygen, the morning mist licking the green grounds as the city had barely witnessed the cerulean canvas crushed under the leaden sky this past winter. I loved the musical sounds of birds chirping, the laughter and giggles of innocent children walking to school, and today, as the new day began with Spring sun, I caught myself entrapped in its warmth—its song, pure and strong, rising and falling, immersing me with its innocent, sweet joy.

As I walked back to my house, I was greeted by Mum’s warming smile. She was setting the table for Sunday morning breakfast.

Hello, my love.

Good morning, Mum. I kissed her forehead and ran upstairs for a shower.

Come down soon, sweetie. Breakfast is ready. Mum’s voice followed me up the stairs.

After my shower, Mum, Papa, and I gathered at the table. As usual, Papa was busy with his morning newspaper, and Mum’s eyes were glued to a Sunday morning television show with some new recipes.

My mother, Paula Farrow, loved baking. Her passion drove her to start a business and reach the heights of success in a city like London. Paula’s Café was considered one of the finest eateries in London. Not only did they make cakes, pastries, and cupcakes, but they also provided a lunch menu of sandwiches, croissants, and other deli items. All my life, I had the benefit of bringing the best sandwiches to school. Every morning, from Monday to Friday, Mum managed to produce a huge line-up of breakfast items. Her food was always fresh because, by late morning, all the items on her menu were sold out. Many people had asked her for franchise options or to open on the weekends, but she chose to keep the business small and spend her weekends with her family.

I was so proud of her. Not that I ever confessed my feelings; she knew how I felt. My father, Colton Farrow, had left his job as an editor for a political magazine and joined my mother in her business. I was sure he saw great potential in it. While Mum was busy making food for people, Papa oversaw the front sales. They made good money, but in all those years, I hadn’t noticed them running after it. They were content with what they had.

When they wanted to take time off, they would close the bakery for a week or two and take a family vacation. It was our ritual—once in every quarter of the year, we’d choose a destination and visit a new place for ten days. It seemed like the vacations kept my parents young and energetic. I hoped when I reached that age, I would have that much energy and enthusiasm. Right now, this idea is distant and blurred. I honestly didn’t have any enthusiasm—any thrill in my life.

Wow, something smells really good. What are you making, honey? Papa looked up from the paper, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose.

Quiche Florentine. Mum glanced at Papa, exchanging a smile with him.

They had this strange, unspoken connection with each other through their eyes, understanding what the other person meant without saying a single word. It always amazed me how our eyes can talk like that. I craved this connection, and to have that, I needed a partner in crime.

Can I help, Mum? I asked, pouring a cup of tea, and taking a sip. Heaven!

You can set up the plates. Mum knew I had no interest in her cooking, and apparently, I was not born with cooking skills. I could hardly make a good pizza. It was a shame that the only child of Paula Farrow was no good at cooking or baking.

I once asked Mum why she named me Myra, and this question drained the colour of her face. Once, she told me that she and Papa went to Turkey on honeymoon and visited the Greek Civilisation of the ancient city of Myra, from where they probably assumed they had conceived me. She said it was because of my name that I had this unique interest in history and bygone eras.

I remember when I was seven, I fantasised about being the princess who’d fallen asleep because of a spell and would only wake up from true love’s kiss. This idea used to come into my mind every night before going to sleep. Or whenever Mum asked me to eat an apple, I had this silly idea that the apple was poisoned, and I would fall asleep forever. My parents used to laugh at my imaginings.

The breakfast was delectable. Papa and I jumped in and started eating like ravenous beasts.

Mum, you’re the best baker in the world, I said in between bites. Mum gave me her sweet smile.

Myra…dear…we need to talk to you about something. She exchanged glances with Papa.

What? The quiche was still in my mouth.

You need to start taking your life seriously, said Papa, taking a sip of his tea. You’ve recently graduated and—

Papa, I’m going to get a job soon. Don’t worry. I’ve applied to many places. You know I have interviews lined up next week. I patted his hand.

It’s not about your job, honey. Mum poured tea into her cup. We are talking about your marriage here.

I was irritated. Not again! Sometimes, I felt like sitting inside Jane Austen’s novel, where the sole topic of discussion was marriage. And I wished I had older sisters who’d take all my parents’ attention when it came to the idea of matrimony.

You’re twenty-two. All your cousins are either engaged or married, or at least they’re seeing someone. You don’t show any interest in boys, and—

Mum. I don’t know how many frogs I must kiss to get the prince.

Honey, there is no prince. And you reject even the good ones. Stop living in a fantasy. She was trying her best to burst my bubble. I knew they weren’t going to support my fantasy any further. It had started bothering them now.

You kissed the ugly frog once, my dear, Papa pointed out. That truth pierced right through me. Not all men are as bad as he was.

He was right. I had kissed an ugly frog once, and the bitter taste of his kiss was still in my mouth, which was not allowing me to let anyone else into my life.

During secondary school, I fell in love (or I thought so) with my friend’s elder brother, who was twenty-three at the time. It was that head-over-heels feeling. Sleeping, eating, walking—he was always on my mind, and I thought he was my Prince Charming until the night after my prom when he tried to take advantage of my innocent love. I was ready to surrender myself to him in his bedroom when another girl, who had been his victim, came banging on his door. She yelled at his entire family that this pervert misused her and took photos and videos of their sex together. I was half-naked at the time and realised his room had hidden cameras. It was his way of making quick money—seducing girls with his charms and selling those photos to God knows who.

Papa was enraged at this act—although they were our family friends. He filed a complaint against the boy, and his parents were so remorseful that they didn’t even bother to post his bail. He was found guilty and stayed behind bars for six months. Later, we moved to a new neighbourhood and lost track of what happened to him. Papa was smart enough to get all the photo and video files from him and made sure any duplicates were deleted. After that, I had locked my heart in a shell and had thrown the key into some unknown well.

No other man had swept me away after that. And I wasn’t sure if this feeling would last forever or not.

This discussion has surfaced many times. My parents wanted me to see someone. I knew they were not demanding marriage yet. None of my cousins or even family friends were living with their parents at my age. They have moved on with their own lives. It wasn’t that my parents wanted to kick me out, nor was I willing to leave my pretty room. And even if I started a job, I’d prefer living with them to living alone in boredom. My mother was a great companion. We could talk about our book heroes and romanticise the idea of meeting those men. We could go out and enjoy window shopping together. And because of being so close to her, I never felt the need for a sister or any other friend.

Myra, there are so many nice men out there, Mum interrupted my thoughts. We are going for lunch at Mrs Bernard’s. We’d like you to join us.

And what’s their son’s name? I asked sarcastically while trying to think about how to avoid it.

Myra, honey, you know Mr and Mrs Bernard like you so much. The truth was my father was fond of them.

The Bernard family was one of the richest families in the United Kingdom. And apparently, they were old school, too. They wanted to pick a girl for their son, who had gone to the States for a few years to study and work in the animation and gaming industry. I had heard about him constantly for the past year in every luncheon I had attended with Mum, where every second, women rave about Steve Bernard as if he was Mr Darcy from Pride & Prejudice.

Papa, what if their son doesn’t like me?

You must give him a chance in order to find out. Papa took a sip of his tea. Look at the bright side. The Bernards like you, and in fact, they always treat you as Steve’s wife.

That’s why we’re asking you to come with us, Mum adds. Mrs Bernard called this morning and asked for you, especially. Her son has come home after six years. We’d like you to meet him. See if you two click. And maybe you would. I saw sparkles of hope in my mother’s eyes. Didn’t she know I was a hopeless case?

All right… I sighed with resignation. I’ll come. And in truth, I wanted to see how that mysterious Mr Darcy was, whom everyone had been gossiping about.

Mum jumped in her seat with excitement. That’s wonderful, Myra. Please wear that peach-pink dress. It suits you so much.

Mum! I glared at her.

Okay…okay…I was just suggesting. She raised her hands in surrender.

"All that we see or seem is

but a dream within a dream."

—Edgar Allan Poe

♔

CHAPTER 2

EDWARD

APRIL 1415

She is standing in the courtyard. Everything in nature surrounds her, hugs her, and is dazzled by her…including me.

Beautiful flowers of every hue and aroma are grown in this majestic garden. My eyes are burning. I am overwhelmed and awed by the colourful oasis. Never have I been so close to nature, to growing things. Her alchemy drives me mad.

She has gifted me with all the colours, but I painted her with darkness.

As much as I crave feeling the sunlight and the flowers against my skin, I want her touch too. I am cursed and doomed to never experience the beauty of the natural world. I am bound for eternal darkness.

She watches me with extreme hatred in her eyes—her gaze throwing fireballs at me. She knows not that I am already burning, but since she despises me so much, I cannot even dare to come close to her. I want to end this torturous distance between us, but I was the one who created this venom in her.

She was a beautiful tender rose. I stole her fragrance, crushed her petals, and burned her in hell. If I knew the fire with which I was conflagrating her would come to engulf me, I swear I would not have done it. Her spell is too strong for me not to fall. Her curse is too mighty for me to run away.

Her deadly yet magical existence haunts me, excites