Once Upon a Broken Heart (Once Upon a Broken Heart, #1)

by Stephanie Garber

All stories are made of both truths and lies, she used to say. What matters is the way that we believe in them.

Always promise less than you can give, for Fates always take more. Do not make bargains with more than one Fate. And, above all, never fall in love with a Fate.

The Prince of Hearts’ card represented unrequited love, and it always depicted the Fate as tragically handsome, with vivid blue eyes crying tears that matched the blood forever staining the corner of his sulky mouth.

According to the myths, the Prince of Hearts was not capable of love because his heart had stopped beating long ago. Only one person could make it work again: his one true love. They said his kiss was fatal to all but her—his only weakness—and as he’d sought her, he’d left a trail of corpses.

He gave her a real smile, revealing a pair of dimples that briefly made him look more angel than devil. But she imagined even angels would need to beware of him. She could picture him flashing those deceptive dimples as he tricked an angel into losing its wings just so he could play with the feathers.

“I don’t know if I can fix your broken heart, but you can take mine because it’s already yours.”

The Fates weren’t dangerous because they were evil; the Fates were dangerous because they couldn’t tell the difference between evil and good.

Heroes don’t get happy endings. They give them to other people.

the Prince of Hearts wasn’t a savior. He was the one people needed saving from.

She still wanted Luc, but what she really wanted was the life and all the love that she’d lost.

“I believe there are far more possibilities than happily ever after or tragedy. Every story has the potential for infinite endings.”

She knew some people would think this made her foolish, but it was tremendously hard to fully fall out of love with someone when you had no one else to love instead.

The North made her think of her mother of course, but with a pang, she realized it was also somewhere she would have loved to have explored with her father.

Then her parents would both be sure to tell Evangeline that not all loves happened at first; some took time to grow like seeds, or they might be like bulbs, dormant until the right season approached.

But Evangeline’s doubt was like salt. There wasn’t much of it, yet it seemed to alter the taste of her thoughts.

“Do you stare at everyone like that, or just me?”

“If anyone actually spoke with you, they’d stop whispering about how mysterious you are and talk about how much they can’t stand you.”