Isabella awoke to the scent of roses and the warmth of breath on her collarbone.
"Holy Mary…" Her eyes fluttered open, only to be met by a pair of glacial blue eyes.
The man looming over her possessed the sculpted beauty of an Apollo statue, his long, golden hair haloed in moonlight. But in those eyes—God help her—seethed a loathing so real it could be touched.
"My white rose is finally awake?" His voice rumbled like cathedral organ pipes, and his fingers traced her bare shoulder. "It seems the women of House Winston are just as… modest in bed."
Her thoughts reeled. The last thing she remembered was checking Tudor-era parchment in Cambridge's library. Now she was sprawled on a bed adorned with Burgundian tapestries, trapped under a half-naked man in silk robes—claiming to be her husband?
When his palm slid over her chest, Isabella found her voice. "Get off me, you perverted—"
She drove her knee into his stomach, sending him tumbling off the bed. He crashed against the carved bedpost with a grunt, his robe slipping to reveal a sculpted torso.
"Isabella Winston!" he snarled, pushing himself up, eyes blazing. "You dare strike the King of Normandy?"
"King?" Isabella clutched the torn remnants of her nightgown and scrambled to the bed's edge. "It's 2023, lunatic! Even cosplayers from mental wards do better than this!"
King Alfred II rose slowly. The moonlight cast crimson shadows through the Gothic stained glass, slicing across his chiseled face.
He picked up a dagger adorned with fleur-de-lis from the bedside and pressed its tip to Isabella's chin.
"My queen isn't just a whore… she's mad too." The cold steel danced down her throat. "Shall I remind you? Yesterday, at Saint Denis Cathedral, your father brought thirty thousand crusaders to force this ring onto my finger."
The sapphire on his left hand glinted in the dark—and then she saw it: her own hand bore an identical ring. Pale, slender, unfamiliar. This wasn't her hand. This wasn't her body.
"All of Europa knows the White Rose's…reputation," he said, his dagger drifting lower with each word. "Caught with the Grand Templar in the stables… the Spanish envoy in the confessional..."
The blade snapped her shoulder strap.
"Shall I keep listing your lovers, my queen?"
Before he could move further, Isabella seized a bronze candlestick and swung it at his wrist. Alfred dodged just in time, and the metal struck the stone wall with a screech.
"Interesting." He chuckled darkly, though his eyes remained cold. "Perhaps your madness is preferable to your former whoredom."
He sheathed the dagger with a metallic hiss. "If you're so virtuous now, consider the North Tower your new convent."
The heavy oak doors slammed shut.
Isabella stumbled toward the vanity, her fingers trembling as she reached for the silver mirror.
The reflection that stared back took her breath away—porcelain skin, rose-tinted lips, and eyes like cut emeralds. It wasn't her face.
"My lady!" A woman burst in, lantern swinging wildly, the cross on her chest swaying. "Saint Michael preserve us! You kicked His Majesty out of the wedding chamber?"
Isabella grabbed the sleeve of the woman's embroidered gown. "Tell me the truth, Nurse Margaret. What year is it? Who…am I?"
"1489, my dear child," the woman whispered, touching Isabella's brow with concern. "You are the only daughter of Duke Winston, crowned Queen of Normandy just yesterday..."