Love had never been part of the agreement.
From the very beginning, she had known that her marriage to Darcy Belonger was nothing more than a contract. There were signatures instead of vows, conditions instead of promises, and silence where affection should have been.
She needed money to survive.
He needed a wife for public appearances.
That was all.
Darcy was a man who had lost everything—his parents, his relatives, his entire family line wiped away by circumstances no one spoke of openly. Alone and exposed, he had been helped by one family during his darkest time, and from that debt came the woman everyone called his mistress.
He did not love her.
But obligation was heavier than emotion.
And so, despite having a wife, Darcy kept the mistress by his side, promising her a future he never intended to give freely.
When the divorce papers were placed on the table, the room felt colder than usual.
She stared at the documents for a long moment, her fingers curling slowly around the edge. There was no shock—only a dull, aching acceptance.
"I'll sign them," she said quietly. "But give me a few days. I'll find somewhere else to live and leave the house."
Darcy nodded, already distant, already finished. "My lawyers will handle the rest.
There was no apology.
No hesitation.
She packed her belongings that very night and left the house that had never truly been her home.
Rain began to fall as she drove, the city lights blurring through the windshield. Her thoughts were heavy, tangled between betrayal and exhaustion, between a life ending and nothing waiting ahead.
She never saw the headlights coming.
The impact was sudden.
Metal screamed. Glass shattered. Pain ripped through her body—
And then everything went dark.
When consciousness returned, it did not come with beeping machines or sterile white walls.
It came with the smell of candle smoke and dried herbs.
Her eyes fluttered open to darkness broken only by soft light filtering through heavy curtains. Silk brushed against her skin. The bed beneath her was too large, too soft, too unfamiliar.
"This isn't… a hospital," she whispered.
Her voice sounded wrong.
Softer. Younger.
Panic surged as she pushed herself upright and caught sight of her reflection in a polished bronze mirror.
The girl staring back at her was not her.
She was delicate, pale, with long golden hair and wide, frightened eyes. Her hands were slender, unscarred, unfamiliar.
Memories—foreign and overwhelming—flooded her mind.
A name surfaced first.
Princess Elowen of Caerwyn.
A royal daughter raised to obey. A political piece offered for peace. A girl whose marriage had been decided without her consent.
Elowen had been promised to the Crown Prince of Valerith.
The Monster Prince.
The rumors had terrified her. Tales of battlefields soaked in blood, of a man who showed no mercy, who crushed rebellions and enemies alike. A prince feared not for magic or superstition, but for the wars he had fought and the lives he had taken.
Elowen had refused.
She had cried, begged her father, pleaded for another solution.
There was none.
When the final decision had been spoken aloud, her heart had given out. Her body collapsed into unconsciousness
And in that fragile moment between life and death, another soul had taken her place.
Her soul.
The year was 1512.
And she was now a princess fated to marry a man the kingdom called a monster.
Her arrival at Valerith came swiftly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The palace was darker —its stone walls heavy with age and authority, its corridors echoing with footsteps that seemed to carry centuries of bloodshed. She was led into her chamber , and there, she was transformed.
Maidservants washed her, perfumed her skin, brushed her hair until it shone like spun gold. Layers of silk and velvet were placed upon her—ivory, silver, and ash-grey embroidered with the crown's sigil.
A circlet was settled upon her head.
"You must be flawless," an older matron murmured. "The court will be watching."
No one asked if she was afraid.
No one cared.
When the doors finally opened, sound met her first.
Voices. Hundreds of them.
The great ceremonial hall blazed with candlelight. Dukes, duchesses, aristocrats, generals, and nobles filled the space, their eyes sharp with curiosity and judgment.
She walked forward alone.
Her groom was nowhere in sight.
The murmurs began.
He makes her wait.
As expected.
The Monster Prince has never bowed to ceremony.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Heavy. Unyielding.
They silenced the hall instantly.
She turned.
The man who entered was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed not in festive robes but dark ceremonial armor scarred by battle. His presence alone bent the atmosphere of the room.
The herald announced him.
"His Highness, Crown Prince Darcien Valemont, Heir to the Throne of Valerith."
She knew she was supposed to bow.
Curtsy.
Lower her head.
Acknowledge him.
But she didn't know how.
The manners of this era were not hers, and fear froze her limbs in place.
So she stood.
She did not bow.
She did not acknowledge him at all.
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Whispers erupted instantly.
"How disrespectful—"
"Has she no manners?"
"She dares insult the Monster Prince?"
Elowen stood motionless beneath their judgment, her heart pounding wildly, unaware
That the man she had just failed to greet
wore the same face, voice, and presence
as the husband who had divorced her in another life.
The hall fell silent, the murmurs stilled only for a heartbeat.
Elowen's chest heaved. Her legs felt weak beneath her, but instinct overrode fear. She took a small, trembling step forward—and the words tumbled out before she could stop them.
"Darcy…" she whispered.
The name echoed in the vaulted hall like a forbidden spell. Her lips curved instinctively into the faintest of smiles, and an ache rose in her chest so sharp she felt she might collapse again.
Every eye in the room turned to her in disbelief.
The nobles froze. The dukes and duchesses whispered urgently to each other, shocked that the princess had spoken directly to the Crown Prince—without a bow, without a title, without propriety.
And yet… the man himself stiffened. He had paused mid-step, his dark eyes narrowing slightly, yet there was something in the way his chest rose and fell that made Elowen's heart falter.
It was him. The same face. The same presence she had known intimately in another life. And now, in this past that was not hers, it pulled at her with a force she could not resist.
She had loved him before. Loved him the moment she first laid eyes on him, in the modern world, before any contract, before any betrayal, before any of it. Loved him quietly, painfully, through every day of their marriage. And now… now he stood here, unreachable and untouchable, the "monster" of this realm, and she wished she could run into his arms. She wished she could hug him, cling to him, and never let go.
But she could not. Not here. Not now.
⸻
Her gaze swept across the room, taking in the rest of the Crown Prince's family.
The king, stern and immovable, observed her with a calculating expression. His second queen—stood near him, a graceful but cold woman whose eyes measured everything. Behind her were two young princes and one princess, the prince's step-siblings, who all stared at Elowen with a mixture of curiosity, suspicion, and barely concealed disdain.
The room itself seemed alive with tension. The humans of her kingdom would never have understood this world: the Crown Prince's people were all werewolves, strong and swift, capable of feats no ordinary human could imagine. But in the eyes of outsiders, in whispers that crossed borders and reached neighboring realms, he was only ever called a monster. A ruthless, terrifying warrior whose conquests were spoken of in fear.
Even the nobles who lived under the same roof did not know the truth: the Crown Prince was also a vampire, a secret inherited from the mother who had hidden her nature from the king to survive. She had married him thinking it was safer to conceal her vampiric blood, and in turn, their son inherited both the strength of the wolf and the power of the vampire. He was the apex of his world—far more powerful than any could guess.
And yet, in the eyes of everyone here—aristocrats, nobles, and her step-family alike—he was nothing more than a rumor incarnate.
A monster.
⸻
Elowen's lips parted again, but this time, the words were swallowed by the heat of fear and desire. She knew she had only one choice: to maintain her composure. To stand still, to breathe, to not reveal that in this room, in this era, she was drowning in recognition, longing, and the memory of love that no one else could understand.
The Crown Prince moved closer, each step deliberate and commanding. His dark eyes swept the hall, noting the whispers, the judgment, and finally… her.
For a moment, no one spoke. The courtiers froze, the stepmother's gaze sharpened, the step-siblings stiffened. And in that pause, Elowen realized the truth of what she had stepped into:
Here, in this palace, nothing could protect her.
Her soul had entered a princess's body, destined to marry the most feared, most powerful being she had ever known. A man whose identity was layered in secrets: warrior, werewolf, vampire, and—though she did not yet know it—her once-husband from another life.
And yet, to everyone else in the hall, she remained just another bride.
A bride standing too still, too proud, too silent.
A bride daring to face the Monster Prince without bowing, without acknowledging him, without fear—yet completely unprepared for the storm of whispers, scandal, and intrigue that her first word had already begun to summon.
The hall held its breath.
Elowen's whisper of "Darcy" had traveled farther than she imagined. The nobles' murmurs flared into a quiet frenzy. A few gasped audibly; others leaned closer to their neighbors, exchanging sharp, disbelieving glances.
But the man himself—Darcien Valemont—remained silent.
He stopped a few steps from her, the soles of his boots echoing against the polished stone floor like a drum of war. His dark eyes scanned her, slow and deliberate, measuring every tilt of her head, the way her hands trembled ever so slightly, the faintest curve of her lips.
There was no anger in his expression. Not yet.
Only recognition.
Only that sharp, unspoken tension that demanded attention.
The whispers of the court grew louder.
"She dares call him by name?" one noblewoman hissed.
"Does she know who she stands before?" another muttered.
"The Monster Prince himself…" someone added, voice trembling. "…and she dares speak without bowing?"
Elowen's heart hammered against her ribs. She wanted to move, to sink to the floor, to throw herself at him and confess everything. The longing rose up unbidden, memories of a love that had been forbidden and impossible in another world. She had loved him from the first moment she saw him, in the modern world, and even through the cold contract marriage that ended in betrayal, that love had never faded.
She wanted to hug him. To hold him. To whisper that only she knew how deeply she had cared for him.
But she couldn't. Not here. Not in front of the entire court.
Darcien's gaze did not waver. Step by step, he closed the distance between them, silent as a shadow moving through the hall. The nobles flinched under his presence. Even the king, seated upon the high dais, regarded him with a mixture of authority and caution.
The second queen—the stepmother now—watched from the side with a cold, calculating stare. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her hands rested lightly on the arm of her throne. Every slight movement of her body suggested she was measuring Elowen, considering every angle, every weakness. She had already begun weaving her own silent schemes, noting that this bride—unafraid, unbowed—might disrupt the balance of her carefully maintained court.
The two princes and the princess, Darcien's step-siblings, shifted uncomfortably. Whispers passed among them, some born of curiosity, some of envy, all edged with disdain. They had long resented the Crown Prince, had learned to fear him and call him a monster. And now, this human girl—this newly arrived princess—stood before him without fear, without respect, daring to speak his modern-world name.
The courtiers watched as the distance between the bride and groom closed to mere feet. Elowen's palms were slick with sweat, but her feet refused to move. She did not know the proper etiquette. She did not know how to behave in this era. The memory of bows, curtsies, and gestures of submission that should have guided her were gone, replaced only by a strange modern instinct: honesty, love, and an overwhelming desire to reach him.
Darcien stopped.
He inclined his head slightly—not in respect, not in anger, but in the measured pause of someone assessing a situation carefully. His dark eyes fixed on hers, and for a moment, the whispers of the entire hall faded into nothing.
She could see him clearly. His face. His voice. His very presence—the same as the man she had called husband in another life. Yet here, in this world, he was the Monster Prince: feared, misunderstood, unstoppable.
For a heartbeat, time itself seemed suspended.
Then the courtiers began to murmur again, but even their gossip sounded muted to Elowen's ears. All she could feel was the pull of familiarity, the memory of love that had been buried beneath betrayal, and the staggering realization that she was now trapped in a destiny she could never have imagined.
Darcien's voice finally broke the silence, deep and even, carrying the weight of authority and danger alike.
"Princess Elowen," he said, and the hall froze. "You have spoken before knowing the rules of this court."
The words were calm. Controlled. Yet they struck her chest with a force that made her pulse quicken.
She swallowed, realizing that the moment had come. The moment when she would be forced to navigate this world, this era, and the man she had once loved in another life—the monster that everyone feared, but whom only she truly knew.
And as the whispers and gasps of the court filled the hall once more, one thought burned bright in her mind:
She would survive.
She would survive him.
And somehow… she would reach him, even if no one else understood.
The hall buzzed like a disturbed hive. Every whisper, every gasp, every sharp intake of breath seemed to press against Elowen's skin like ice.
And then the Crown Prince finally spoke.
"Princess Elowen," Darcien Valemont said, his voice low, smooth, and measured. Each syllable rolled over the hall like distant thunder. "You have spoken my name… without knowing the rules of this court."
Elowen's lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart pounded. I can't—what do I do? she thought. I can't bow. I don't even know how to bow properly.
Darcien's dark eyes never left her. The nobles shivered under that gaze, yet for her, it was something else entirely. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous. The same as Darcy… Her chest ached. The memory of her modern-life husband—his calm, distant charm, the love she had quietly carried through their marriage—rose unbidden. She had loved him before, loved him despite everything. And now… here he was, in another life, the Monster Prince, towering and deadly, yet somehow achingly familiar.
Her hands twitched at her sides. She wished—more than she could admit—that she could throw herself into his arms. That she could confess, whisper that only she knew how much she had loved him. But she could not. Not here. Not with the court, with the king, the second queen, his step-siblings, watching every twitch of her expression.
The king's eyes were cold and calculating. He observed silently from his throne, weighing her, the marriage, and the future of his heir. Beside him, the second queen's gaze was sharp as a blade. She smiled faintly, a dangerous, measured curve of her lips. Already, she had begun marking weaknesses, planning the ways this foreign princess might be used—or destroyed.
The two princes and the princess, Darcien's step-siblings, whispered among themselves. They had long despised him, feared him, and now their curiosity mingled with envy at this audacious, untrained girl who dared speak directly to him.
Elowen swallowed. She could feel the eyes of the entire kingdom drilling into her. The pressure was suffocating, but her pulse refused to slow. She was standing in a kingdom of werewolves, surrounded by nobles who thought her unworthy and dangerous, facing the man who was both monster and the love she could never forget.
Darcien took another step closer. The sound of his boots against the stone floor resonated like a warning. Even the nobles who had spoken in whispers went still. His presence alone commanded attention, bending the atmosphere around him. He was strong, faster than anyone suspected, precise in every movement—and beneath that, there was a current of something untamed, something they could not name.
Elowen could sense it. Though no one else in the room knew the truth, she felt the undercurrent of his power—wolf and vampire intertwined in a single body. She did not yet know the depth of it. She did not yet know that his abilities made him nearly untouchable. But she could feel it pressing against her awareness, a quiet warning wrapped in the pull of familiarity.
The whispers began again, growing louder.
"She dares to speak his name!" a duchess whispered, her hands pressed together nervously.
"Does she even understand who he is?" another asked.
"Monster Prince," someone muttered, shivering. "They say he leaves no enemy alive."
Darcien's gaze swept the hall, assessing, controlling, unyielding. Then, finally, he fixed his eyes on her again.
"Speak," he said, voice calm but edged with danger. "Why do you address me in such a manner?"
Elowen swallowed hard, her throat dry. She had no answer that would make sense. Because I love you. Because I know you. Because I've always known you… The words burned inside her, unspoken. Instead, she stayed still, standing as motionless as the statues lining the hall.
The second queen's lips curved ever so slightly. She leaned toward the king and whispered, "It seems this human girl will be… interesting." Her eyes gleamed, already calculating, already plotting.
The Monster Prince tilted his head slightly, and for a heartbeat, the room felt suspended. His silence spoke louder than any words could. Nobles dared not interrupt. Step-siblings shifted uncomfortably. Only Elowen's heart roared against her ribs, remembering everything she had ever felt for him, every memory of love that no one else could understand.
Then, the court settled into a tense hush, awaiting the next move from the Monster Prince—or from the defiant, trembling bride who had dared to call him by a name no one else knew.
And in that suspended moment, Elowen realized something terrifying and thrilling: her fate was no longer in her hands.
It belonged entirely to the Monster Prince.
The hall fell silent as the ceremonial drums began, low and steady, echoing through the vaulted ceilings. Torches flared along the walls, casting long shadows over the marble floors, gilded banners, and the nobles who now waited with bated breath.
Elowen's pulse raced. Every step she had taken to this moment felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers. She knew nothing of these rituals—nothing of what gestures were expected, what words were proper. She was a modern girl in a princess's body, thrust into centuries-old customs she barely understood.
The high priest of Valerith stepped forward, robes flowing like a dark river. His voice rang clear, ceremonial:
"By the will of the king, and by the laws of Valerith, we unite Crown Prince Darcien Valemont and Princess Elowen of Caerwyn in the bond of marriage. Let all bear witness."
The nobles shifted, murmuring softly. Even those who had been shocked by Elowen's boldness now waited, poised for scandal.
Elowen's hands trembled slightly. She lowered her gaze, unsure if she should kneel, bow, or curtsy. Her instincts from the modern world warred with the lessons her new body had supposedly been trained to follow. She did nothing.
Darcien's eyes swept over her again. The tension radiating from him was almost tangible. The Monster Prince—feared by armies, whispered about in every kingdom—stood silently, yet even his calm presence made the court shiver.
And then she saw the second queen—her stepmother.
Seated elegantly to the side, her posture perfect, her eyes sharp and calculating, she watched every movement with a predator's patience. Her lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile. She had anticipated the bride's ignorance; she had expected defiance. But the audacity of this girl calling the Crown Prince by name, unmoved by fear, had already set the queen's mind alight with schemes.
Interesting… she thought. A wild card. A tool. Perhaps even a weapon… or a threat.
The queen's fingers drummed lightly on the arm of her throne. She would test this girl. See how far her ignorance and boldness could go before it became weakness to exploit. Already, she planned whispers behind closed doors, small rumors to spread among the nobles, hints of disrespect and disobedience, all calculated to unsettle the princess—and possibly, the Monster Prince.
Meanwhile, the rituals continued. Candles were lit along the aisles. The high priest intoned words older than the kingdom itself. A silver chalice was brought forward, filled with wine for the ceremonial toast.
Elowen's eyes tracked every movement of Darcien. He did not speak, did not flinch. Yet she could feel the subtle tension of his body—the controlled, coiled strength that had earned him the nickname "Monster Prince." She remembered, from another life, the calm authority of her husband, Darcy. And the resemblance was terrifying. Her lips parted slightly as a shiver ran down her spine.
The nobles whispered again. Some noted the tension between them, others the girl's frozen stance. The stepmother leaned forward slightly, her gaze fixed on Elowen, already crafting plots.
If only she knew, Elowen thought bitterly. If only she knew who he truly is.
But the truth could not be spoken here. Not yet. Not in a hall full of humans and werewolves who only knew him as a "monster" because of war, not because of the vampire blood he secretly carried.
Elowen took a shaky breath as the high priest raised the chalice. The ritual required her to step forward—to face the Crown Prince, to perform the motions that would signal obedience and acceptance.
She did so, cautiously, letting her eyes meet his. And for the first time, just for a fraction of a heartbeat, she thought she saw a flicker of something in his expression—recognition, or perhaps curiosity.
Her pulse quickened.
The second queen's lips pressed into a thin line. A challenge. A warning. She would see if this girl could be molded… or broken.
The first step of the ceremony was complete. But both bride and groom knew—the real game had only just begun.
In the quiet of the hall, beneath the flickering candlelight, the Monster Prince and the girl who had once loved him in another life faced each other, bound by fate, whispers, and secrets no one else could imagine.
And the second queen, watching like a spider at the edge of a web, smiled ever so faintly.
This was going to be far more entertaining than she had expected.
The ceremony had ended. The court slowly dispersed, leaving only a few attendants and the high-ranking servants who oversaw the transition of the bride to the prince's private chambers.
Elowen followed quietly, her hands folded before her. Every step felt heavy, yet her mind was focused—focused on the man who had haunted her from another life.
Darcien walked ahead, silent as ever. The servants hesitated, not daring to speak unless spoken to. Even the air seemed to bend around him, quieting the world.
At last, they reached a smaller chamber, a room with tall windows overlooking the courtyard. Darcien stopped and finally turned to face her.
"Princess," he said, his tone clipped, almost cold. "Stand where you are. Do you know why you are here?"
Elowen swallowed, her throat dry. She did not bow, though instinct told her she should. She kept her gaze on him, careful not to flinch.
"I know why," she said softly. "I am your bride."
His lips twitched slightly, as if amused—but his eyes remained sharp, scanning her as though trying to read every thought. "You are not what I expected. Not that I expected anything in particular. But you… you speak too freely. And yet, you tremble."
Elowen's chest tightened. Of course I tremble. "I am new to this world," she admitted quietly. "I do not know the proper ways… but I will obey you. I..I will support you no matter what.
Darcien's gaze narrowed. He leaned back against the edge of the window, one hand resting on the sill. "Support me?" he asked, voice low and almost skeptical. "You think you know me, and yet, you barely know anything. Do you even understand what you are saying?"
"I understand enough," she replied, steadying herself. "I know you are feared… that people call you a monster. I do not care. I… I will stand by you."
He studied her for a long moment. The corner of his mouth lifted just slightly—not a smile, but something… measured. "You are bold, I'll give you that. Perhaps foolishly so."
Elowen dipped her head ever so slightly. "Then allow me to be useful. Even in small ways."
A servant peeked in hesitantly. "Your Highness, the second queen wishes to speak with you briefly about the evening arrangements."
Darcien did not move at first. His eyes lingered on Elowen, assessing, weighing, as though deciding whether her words were truth or empty bravado.
Finally, he said, "Leave us."
The servant nodded and bowed, retreating quickly. The door clicked closed behind them.
Elowen shifted slightly. "I… I do not intend to cause trouble. I only want to… help where I can."
Darcien's gaze softened fractionally—barely perceptible—but the air between them remained taut. "Help," he repeated. "You will need to learn what that truly means here. Not everyone in the palace will tolerate kindness or loyalty."
"I am not here for approval," she said. "I am here for you. I… I will protect you, even if you dislike me."
For a heartbeat, his sharp gaze faltered, as though considering whether to laugh or scowl. Then he stepped closer, close enough that she could see the faint scar on his cheek and the intensity in his eyes.
"You speak as if you know me," he said softly. "Do you? Or do you only know the image of the man others call a monster?"
Elowen met his gaze evenly. "I know more than they do. More than anyone else. And I will stay by your side. Always."
He regarded her in silence, the only sound the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Then, slowly, he nodded. Not a gesture of warmth, not yet, but an acknowledgment.
"Very well," he said. "We shall see if your actions match your words."
Elowen allowed herself the slightest exhale, knowing this was only the beginning. The palace was full of eyes, full of schemes, and her stepmother already plotted quietly. But here, in this moment, she had spoken to him—and he had listened.
And that, she thought, was enough for now.
The carriage doors closed behind them with a soft thud. Hooves clattered along the cobblestone, echoing through the quiet courtyard as they rolled out of the palace gates.
Elowen settled herself into the velvet seat, smoothing her skirts and adjusting her circlet. For the first time since arriving at Valerith, she allowed herself to relax slightly, the tension of the court melting into the soft sway of the carriage.
Darcien climbed in beside her, silent as a shadow. Even here, confined to the carriage, his presence was imposing—every movement precise, every posture commanding. Most people would have been frozen with fear, yet she met his dark gaze evenly.
"It's a long road ahead," she said lightly, glancing out the window. "Four days, if all goes well."
He said nothing, eyes fixed on the horizon.
Elowen smiled faintly, undeterred. "I suppose it's quiet this way… fewer eyes, fewer whispers. At least the journey will be peaceful in that sense."
A pause. Darcien finally tilted his head slightly toward her. "And yet you speak freely."
"I see no reason to remain silent," she replied softly. "The world will judge me regardless. I might as well speak with a clear mind, even if only to pass the time."
He regarded her in silence, his expression unreadable. Then, almost imperceptibly, he exhaled. "Most would not do so. Most would cower and mutter in their corners."
"Perhaps I am not most people," she said, with a small, teasing smile. "And anyway, I enjoy talking. It makes the hours pass faster."
He didn't reply, but she felt the faintest shift in his posture, a relaxation that suggested he was… tolerating her company.
The carriage rocked gently as it rolled over a stone bridge. Elowen leaned back slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. "Do you enjoy traveling?" she asked casually. "I imagine you see many places, yet few people dare to approach you freely."
Darcien's voice was quiet, low, and steady. "It is tolerable."
Elowen laughed softly, a sound almost too light for the still carriage. "Tolerable," she repeated, as though savoring the word. "I suppose we have four days of tolerable company together, then. That's… comforting."
A faint crease appeared between his brows, though his eyes never left the road. She could feel the weight of his gaze, sharp as always, yet there was something in the silence—a small acknowledgment—that most others would never earn.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The carriage swayed and the hooves clattered along the stones. And yet, Elowen felt a strange ease. She was talking to the Monster Prince, and though his silence remained, the air between them felt less oppressive than in the palace halls.
Four days of journey. Four days to observe, to learn, and perhaps to understand the man everyone else feared—without hinting at anything about herself that could raise suspicion.
And she would not waste a single moment.