August 10th, 2025
Inside a mansion located in a rich neighbourhood in Moscow, Russia - 2:01 AM
The midnight in Moscow was cold and vast, the sky washed silver by the full moon that hung high, unblinking and eternal. The mansion terrace was silent, save for the faint rustle of trees swaying in the bitter Russian breeze.
Astrid sat alone, her slender hands resting on the marble railing, her platinum hair glowing faintly under the moonlight. Her green eyes, once radiant with youth, now carried a heavy, weary light. She stared at the moon as though it might answer the ache in her chest.
A single whisper escaped her lips, trembling with longing.
"My first son..."
She closed her eyes, and memories - those she tried to bury for decades - came flooding back like an old wound reopening.
Twenty-three years ago...
Astrid was only eighteen when she stepped off the smuggler's boat into the buzzing, chaotic docks of New York City. She clutched her swollen belly with both arms, her breath uneven, her youth and beauty nearly hidden beneath the exhaustion of travel.
Behind her, the ship roared as more illegal immigrants hurried into the shadows of America, faces desperate, voices low.
The smuggler, a bald, scar-faced man with a heavy accent, shoved a hand at her.
"Money first. Then you're gone. New York, no one will ask questions."
Astrid, once a princess of Sweden's royal line, handed him a bundle of crumpled bills - stolen and smuggled out in secret from her family's estates.
It was not gold, nor treasure, but it was freedom. The man counted quickly, nodded, and waved her off. She didn't look back.
Her French lover and a commoner, Étienne Moreau, was waiting on the other side of the docks.
He was twenty-one, dark-haired, with stormy blue eyes and the kind of handsome defiance that had made Astrid fall for him in Sweden. He rushed forward the moment he saw her, catching her frail figure before she stumbled.
"You made it," he whispered in French, kissing her forehead. "Mon amour, you made it."
Astrid smiled weakly, her hand clutching his sleeve. "For us. For him." She looked down at her belly, where their child shifted faintly beneath her skin.
In that moment, for the first time in months, Astrid felt safe.
The birth of Ian..
Months later, in the heart of New York, inside a quiet private clinic, Astrid gave birth to their son. The hours of labor were long and brutal, but Étienne never left her side.
He wiped her tears, kissed her trembling hand, whispered encouragements in French.
And then, at last - cries filled the sterile white room. Their baby boy. Healthy. Beautiful. His tiny fists balled, his lungs already strong as he screamed to announce his place in the world.
Astrid wept as they placed him in her arms. His eyes - blue as Étienne's - blinked up at her with innocent wonder.
She kissed his forehead feverishly.
"My little prince," she whispered in Swedish.
Étienne's arms wrapped around them both, his laughter breaking with tears.
"We did it, Astrid. We have a son. We'll raise him together. We'll give him everything."
For the first time, Astrid felt her broken world might heal.
But fate was merciless.
The doctor who had assisted in the delivery moved closer. Too close. Astrid noticed the gleam of cold steel slipping from beneath his coat. A scalpel - but not for medicine.
Étienne's instincts flared. His eyes narrowed.
"What are you doing?"
The nurse lunged first, a syringe aimed at Astrid's neck. Étienne roared, grabbing a tray and smashing it into her face.
The syringe clattered to the floor. The doctor hissed something in Swedish, and Astrid's blood ran cold.
Her family. They had found her.
"Run, Astrid!" Étienne shouted, shoving her toward the door, baby clutched tight against her chest.
She froze, paralyzed with terror.
"Étienne-"
"Go!" His voice cracked like thunder. He grabbed a scalpel from the doctor's hand and drove it into his chest. Blood sprayed.
Étienne was cut across the side, but he didn't falter. He fought like a lion, desperate, savage, driven by something greater than life itself.
Astrid ran, tears blinding her as she clutched their son close. She could hear the chaos behind her - the shouts, the crashes, the sound of her lover's body hitting the ground - but she didn't dare turn back.
At the stairwell door, she looked once more, her vision blurry. Étienne's eyes met hers for the last time. His lips moved.
"Go. Make him safe."
And then, the door slammed.
A day later, Astrid was on the road again, sitting in the back of another smuggler's truck.
Her body shook with exhaustion, grief clawing at her chest so violently she could barely breathe. The baby slept in her arms, his little face serene, unaware that his father was gone and his mother was unraveling.
The smuggler, a wiry man with nicotine-stained fingers, spat out his window.
"You got lucky, girl. Running into me. But you need to decide quick where you're going. No staying with me long."
Astrid's lips trembled. "South. Far south." Her voice broke. "Somewhere no one will look."
Hours later, their vehicle passed a quiet countryside road in South Carolina. A wooden sign stood crooked in the dirt:
St. Evelyn's Home for Children.
Astrid stared at it, her chest tightening painfully. She begged the smuggler to stop.
"Five minutes," he grunted, lighting another cigarette.
She stepped out with her baby. The orphanage was old, but warm lights glowed in its windows. The air smelled of pine and earth. Children's laughter faintly echoed from inside.
Astrid pressed her baby to her heart. Tears streamed down her face.
"I'm so sorry," she whispered in Swedish, kissing his forehead again and again. "Min älskade…my beloved. I will come back for you. I swear it. When it's safe. When I've made it safe."
Her baby stirred, tiny lips parting as if to answer her. She sobbed harder, her body shaking.
The rain came down in sheets, slapping against the old brick walls of St. Evelyn's Home for Children. Night had swallowed the street; the only light came from the orphanage windows, dim and yellow, spilling onto the soaked stone steps.
Astrid stood there, hood pulled low over her pale face, soaked through to the skin. Water dripped from her hair, trailing down her cheeks so it was impossible to tell where the rain ended and her tears began.
She clutched her baby boy close against her chest, shielding him with her trembling arms and the thin, tattered cloak that barely kept the cold away.
The heavy oak door creaked open. Ms. Marlene, a woman in her late thirties with soft auburn hair tied back and weary kindness etched into her features, stepped out onto the porch. She had come to check the sound of footsteps she thought she'd heard over the storm.
Her eyes landed on Astrid immediately. The girl looked impossibly young, fragile, like she was carrying the whole world in her arms.
Marlene's voice was gentle, steady, almost maternal:
"Can I help you, sweetheart?"
Astrid flinched, eyes darting left and right as if assassins might step out from the shadows at any second. Her breath came in shallow gasps, her lips trembling. She clutched the baby tighter, as though letting him go meant death.
Her voice cracked, broken, almost swallowed by the storm:
"Please…" she whispered.
Marlene took a small step forward, careful not to spook her. "What is it, dear?"
Astrid's entire body shook. Her arms trembled from exhaustion, from fear, from grief she couldn't voice. She pressed her face against her baby's head, inhaling his newborn scent as if memorizing it. Finally, she raised her chin, water dripping from her lashes.
"Take him." Her voice quivered, then hardened with desperate resolve.
"Take care of him. For me. I… I can't keep him safe. Not where I'm going."
Marlene froze, her heart sinking. She looked at the young mother, at the haunted eyes staring back at her. This wasn't abandonment out of selfishness - it was sacrifice.
Instinctively, Marlene reached out her hands.
The baby was swaddled in a soft blue blanket, his tiny face peaceful despite the storm around him.
Astrid's chest rose and fell rapidly. She sucked in a ragged breath.
"Please,"she repeated, firmer now, more insistent. "He doesn't deserve the life that's waiting for me. I don't want to drag him into it. You'll protect him. Right? Tell me you'll protect him."
Marlene looked into her eyes - eyes full of grief, of love, of a soul breaking in real time. She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded, her voice steady but soft.
"I promise," she said. "He will be safe here. He will be loved."
Astrid's lips quivered. She leaned forward, pressing her lips to the baby's forehead, lingering there, whispering into his skin as if carving her love into his very soul.
"I will love you more than anything in this world. I promise. Just wait for me."
Her words were barely audible over the rain, but Marlene heard them. She saw them etched across the girl's face.
With trembling hands, Astrid gently transferred the baby to Ms. Marlene's arms. For the first time, her chest felt empty, hollow, as if her heart had been ripped out. Marlene cradled the child protectively, wrapping her shawl tighter around him, shielding him from the rain.
Astrid took one last step back, her hood shadowing her face. She looked at her baby boy one last time, drinking in the sight of him nestled safely in another woman's arms. Her breath hitched, and before Marlene could say another word, Astrid turned and slipped into the storm.
"Wait! What's your name?" Marlene called after her.
But Astrid was already gone - vanished into the night, leaving only the sound of rain and the faint echo of a promise that may never be fulfilled.
Marlene stood on the porch, heart heavy, holding the child against her chest. She looked down at his sleeping face, brushing a finger gently over his tiny hand.
"Don't worry, little one," she whispered. "You're safe now. You'll never be alone here."
The storm raged on, but inside the orphanage, a fragile new life had just begun.
Present day...
Now, twenty-three years later, Astrid's tears glistened beneath the moonlight. The memory was carved into her soul like an unhealed scar. She leaned against the railing, staring at the vast glowing moon.
Her voice cracked.
"Where are you, my son? What name do you carry? Are you happy? Do you hate me?"
Her hands shook as she pressed them over her mouth. Her husband, Mikhail, had once asked why she sometimes wandered the halls at night, sleepless. He didn't know. No one knew. Not even her children in Moscow. This secret was hers alone.
"Do you still laugh?" she whispered to the wind. "Do you still smile like your father did? Or…have I cursed you by leaving you?"
The night gave her no answers. Only silence.
The moon stared back - timeless, cold, and eternal.
Astrid closed her eyes and prayed. Not to her royal blood, not to her broken lineage, but to something greater.
That her son - wherever he was - was alive. That he was loved. That maybe, just maybe, fate would be merciful enough to bring them together again.
Thirty minutes later...
Astrid still stood at the railing in her loose, pale silk nightgown, the fabric clinging faintly to her shape in the damp night air. Her blond hair, though tied loosely, was already undone by the breeze, strands whipping across her cheeks.
Her eyes - bright green, haunted, and swollen from nights of restless tears - were still fixed on the orb above. She breathed softly, rhythmically, yet every exhale carried weight. She looked fragile, almost ghostlike, as though she herself might dissolve into the night sky.
She did not hear the footsteps behind her - measured, quiet, but firm. Mikhail had a way of moving silently for such a large man.
His frame filled the doorway for a moment, his broad shoulders outlined in the dim glow of the terrace lamps, before he stepped out into the chill.
He stood for a moment watching her, his face unreadable, though his eyes - dark, intelligent, perceptive - gleamed with quiet worry.
He walked closer, and before Astrid could react, she felt warmth envelop her. Mikhail's arms wrapped firmly but tenderly around her waist from behind, his chest pressed against her back.
His chin dipped slightly, nestling into the crook of her neck as he inhaled the faint perfume of her hair. His warmth was steady, grounding, the opposite of her storm.
"You'll catch a cold out here," he murmured, his voice smooth, low, and affectionate. "Especially in that… rather thin nightgown." His lips curled into a smirk against her skin. "Not that I'm complaining. But the moon isn't going to warm you the way I can."
Astrid didn't answer. She only sighed, long and slow, as though even words were too heavy. Her eyes never left the moon.
Mikhail tilted his head slightly, noticing her silence. His embrace didn't loosen. If anything, it grew more protective, as if by holding her tighter he could anchor her spirit back into the present. "You've been doing this for a while now," he said softly. "Always out here. Always staring at the moon. Is there something bothering you, love?"
Still, Astrid said nothing. Her fingers traced the cold railing absently, her nails faintly tapping against the stone. Her lips parted once, but no sound came.
"Astrid," Mikhail whispered against her ear, his voice warm but firm.
At last, Astrid gently lowered his hands from her waist, slipping free from his embrace. She turned to face him. For a moment, the moonlight caught her face - and Mikhail's breath hitched. Her beauty was timeless, regal, the kind that could silence a room.
But her beauty was marred tonight by the sadness etched into every line of her face. Her smile, faint and broken, was not joy but apology. Her eyes glistened.
"It's… nothing, dear," she whispered, her voice uneven. "It's just my insomnia again. Nothing more."
Mikhail didn't buy it. Not this time. He reached up, his large, calloused thumb brushing the corner of her eye where a tear had just fallen. His touch lingered on her cheek.
"You were crying again," he said quietly. His tone was not accusatory, only heavy with concern. "There's something definitely bothering you. Mind sharing it with your husband?"
Astrid's throat constricted. Her lips trembled. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her breath catching like a bird trapped in a cage.
"I…" she began, then faltered. She looked down, away from his piercing gaze. Her voice grew small. "…I don't think it's time yet."
Mikhail's brows furrowed. His jaw tightened slightly. He studied her face, his instincts screaming at him that something lay hidden. Something weighty. Something dangerous.
"Time for what exactly?" he pressed, his voice firmer now.
Astrid's breath grew uneven.
Mikhail tried to lighten the mood, narrowing his eyes with a half-smile, his voice feigning playfulness. "What are you hiding from us, love? A secret midnight romance? Perhaps another admirer who sends you moonlight poems?"
Astrid's eyes widened slightly at the tease, her composure cracking. For a flicker of a second, he saw panic. Real panic. She quickly forced a small laugh, shaking her head. "Nothing like that. As I said, I just don't think I'm ready to tell it. Not yet."
The heaviness of her words hung between them.
Mikhail searched her face again, his silence weighing heavily. He wanted to demand answers. He wanted to shake the truth out of her. But then he saw her lips tremble again, the sorrow in her eyes, the fragility. And he stopped.
Instead, he smiled faintly. He leaned forward and kissed her - slowly, passionately, his lips moving against hers with deliberate care. It was a kiss of trust, of reassurance, of a vow unspoken.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers. "Okay," he murmured. "I'll trust you on that."
Astrid closed her eyes, her tears slipping silently down. Her heart ached, knowing she did not deserve his unwavering trust - not when she kept the truth of Ian buried. But she forced herself to smile faintly and nodded.
Together, they turned back to the railing. Mikhail stood behind her once again, his arms wrapping around her, holding her against his chest. For a long while, neither spoke. They simply stood, gazing at the glowing moon.
The silence was almost peaceful - until Mikhail broke it.
"You know," he said lightly, "if you keep staring at that moon every night, it might fall out of the sky. Even the moon will get embarrassed under your gaze."
Astrid chuckled softly, though her laugh was short-lived. "Is that so?"
"Oh, absolutely. I've seen men turn clumsy after you look at them too long. Poor moon doesn't stand a chance."
Astrid shook her head, amused despite herself. She leaned back into him, feeling his warmth. "You're ridiculous sometimes, Mikhail."
"And yet you married me." He kissed her temple. "So who's the real fool here?"
She smiled faintly, but her mind wandered again. Back to a baby wrapped in a blue blanket. Back to a rainy night in South Carolina. Back to promises whispered against a tiny forehead.
She clutched Mikhail's arms around her more tightly, as though afraid they might slip away too - like everything else she had once loved.
And still, she said nothing.
The moon bore silent witness.