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 Caerwyn came swiftly.