12. Willow
12
WILLOW
I wrap my arms tightly around Dad’s neck, pulling him in for the fifth hug this morning, like letting go might somehow make him disappear faster. “Text every day.”
Dad chuckles softly, the sound warm and familiar, a soothing balm against the ache building in my chest. “I’ll call you every time we have service and text when I can. I promise.”
I bury my face against his shoulder, inhaling the comforting scent of tobacco and sugar cookies that always clings to him. It’s the smell of safety, of home, of everything stable in a life that’s about to feel anything but. “I guess I can live with that insanity,” I mutter, my voice muffled and trembling slightly, “if I must.”
“Atta girl,” he says, patting my back gently. His tone is steady, but I can feel the subtle tension in his body, the kind he gets when he’s trying to keep his own emotions in check.
Jasmine steps forward, offering Dad a small but warm smile. “Take care of yourself, Tommy. And don’t forget to send me pictures of those bears you keep talking about.”
Dad laughs, shaking his head. “I’ll do my best, Jaz, but no guarantees on the bears.”
They share a quick hug, and I notice the way Jasmine’s expression softens just a little. She’s trying to be strong for me, but I can see the worry in her eyes. She knows how much this goodbye hurts.
Dad turns back to me, cupping my face in his calloused hands. “You’ll be fine, Willow. You’re stronger than you give yourself credit for. And you’ve got good people looking out for you.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. His words feel like a weight I don’t know how to carry, but I nod anyway, because it’s what he needs to hear. He kisses my forehead one last time before stepping back toward the waiting car, leaving a hollow ache in his absence.
As the car disappears down the driveway, I feel Jasmine’s hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”
I shrug, my eyes fixed on the empty street. “Define okay.”
She doesn’t press, just gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “Come on. Let’s get you to school. We’ll blast some Avril and pretend the world isn’t falling apart.”
I nod, picking up the Vincent clothing box from the front stoop. My dad gave it a wary look earlier, and Jasmine mentioned that her mother would be dropping off some supplies she needed before work. I doubt he believed us, but he has a plane to catch and no time to argue.
“I’m going to order bagels and iced coffee for pick up,” Jasmine says, her thumbs flying over her phone. “Be ready in ten?”
“Sure,” I nod, turning and heading toward my bedroom.
Once inside, I open up the box with the outfit Vincent sent neatly packed inside. The baby pink cropped cardigan is soft and delicate, the kind of thing that hugs your body just right without being too clingy. The high-waisted jeans look like they’d be flattering in an effortless way, not to mention the ankle boots—sleek, black, with just enough of a heel to feel polished but still practical, and a Coach tank top, because even when comfortable it has to be a name brand. It’s annoyingly spot-on for my style and his.
For a brief second, I run my fingers over the cardigan, the texture buttery under my touch. I imagine how Vincent must have picked it out, probably with that maddeningly confident smirk on his face. I can practically hear him saying, She’ll look good in this. I’m tempted to put it on—tempted to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got it right.
But then the weight of everything crashes over me again, and I shove the outfit aside, pulling on a pair of worn sweatpants, my oversized Betty Boop shirt and my Dad’s gray zip up hoodie instead. The shirt’s faded print and soft fabric feel like armor, and I need an entire army for today. I have to not only deal with the Chessmen, but I have to see Jasper for the first time since he assaulted me. Yeah, it's a sweatpants, messy bun day.
Vincent’s perfect ensemble can wait for a day when I don’t feel like a walking storm cloud.
I knot my hair into a bun with a couple of curly strands popping out, and slide my white Nike workout sneakers on, before grabbing my bag and meeting Jasmine at the bottom of the stairs.
She looks up at me with concern bubbling in her eyes. “Oh honey… let me make your coffee a double.”
I pout, but nod. “Or a triple.”
-----------------
By the time we pull into the school parking lot, “Complicated” is blasting from Jasmine’s speakers, and I’ve sung along half-heartedly to at least three songs. It helps, but not enough. My heart still feels heavy, dragging me down with every step.
Jasmine notices but doesn’t comment. She just walks beside me, humming along to the remnants of the last song we’d played as we head into school.
The school hallway is its usual chaos—students laughing, lockers slamming, teachers trying to corral stragglers to class—but it feels muted to me, like I’m underwater. My first class is supposed to be English, but my feet carry me in a different direction. Before I even realize it, I’m standing in front of the art studio.
Jasmine pauses beside me, her hand on my arm. “Willow, isn’t your first class…?”
“I’ll catch up later,” I mutter, not meeting her gaze. I push the door open before she can say anything else.
The room is already alive with activity. A class is in session, students hunched over their workstations as the teacher drones on about perspective and composition. I slip inside quietly, keeping my head down as I make my way to the back corner. My corner.
I grab a blank canvas and some charcoal from the supply closet, my movements automatic, like muscle memory. Sliding onto my usual stool, I let out a long breath and stare at the empty canvas in front of me. The blankness feels daunting for a moment, but then the emotions swirling inside me start to push forward, demanding release.
My hands move almost on their own, the charcoal scratching against the canvas in jagged, frantic lines. Worry takes shape first, harsh and chaotic, like storm clouds gathering on the horizon. Then, softer curves emerge—love, fragile and steady, threading its way through the chaos. I don’t think about what I’m drawing; I just let the emotions pour out, each stroke a piece of the ache in my chest.
The class around me fades into the background. I don’t notice the teacher glancing my way or the curious looks from a few students. It’s just me and the art, a private conversation with my heart that I can’t put into words.
And then, almost instinctively, the form starts to take shape—a face. A boy’s face, his features partially obscured, but there’s no mistaking the intensity of his blue eyes, the only thing left unscathed by the smudged charcoal. His expression is a mix of defiance and pain, a perfect match to the emotional mess on the canvas. His face is streaked with black, like the aftermath of an emotional battle, large black slashes cutting across his cheeks as if they’re the scars of some unseen war.
By the time I step back, my fingers smudged with charcoal and my hoodie sleeves streaked with gray, the piece is still unfinished but already says everything I can’t. Worry and love, tangled and inseparable, spilling out onto the canvas like a confession.
I stand back, surveying the piece. The boy’s eyes seem to stare right through me, like they know everything I’m feeling. The image is raw, disturbing in its honesty. I’m not sure where the boy’s face came from, but at this moment, it feels like he’s the embodiment of all the chaos I’ve been carrying.
“Wow,” a voice whispers behind me, breaking my focus. Miss Robinson stands there, her eyes wide, her gaze flicking between the piece and me. “I am utterly impressed, but you don’t have my class today, Miss Cater.”
I wipe my charcoal-covered hands on the damp towel she extends toward me, glancing back at the image on the canvas. “Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rough. “I had a rough morning, and I…”
She doesn’t say anything at first, just stares at the piece. “Don’t worry,” she shakes her head gently. “I understand the plight of an artist. Sometimes, the canvas speaks louder than the world around us.” She pauses, glancing over at the clock, then smiles knowingly. “But you need to get to class before you get suspended, and I get fired for hoarding one of Thronhaven’s brightest.”
I can’t help but give a small, tight smile. “Thanks, Miss Robinson. I’ll head out now.”
She chuckles softly, crossing her arms. “You know, Willow, it is students like you that give me the will to teach.” Her voice softens. “It’s good to let the emotions out, but it’s also important to move on when the time comes. That’s the hard part of art, right? Moving on.”
I leave the art room reluctantly, one last glance at the unfinished canvas hanging in the corner. The boy’s eyes follow me, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re still watching me, pulling something from deep within. I close the door behind me, my heart still heavy, my mind muddled, but I push forward. The hallway feels colder now, the bright fluorescent lights buzzing above, making everything feel a little more unreal, like I’m moving through a dream.
My locker is just ahead, the clutter of books and papers a small comfort. I reach for the combination, the dull click of the lock loud in the empty hallway. But before I can pull it open, a voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and full of venom.
“Bitch.”
I freeze, my hand still gripping the cool metal of my locker door. I know that voice.
Jasper.
I turn slowly, my pulse quickening, but I can’t stop the chill that races up my spine as I meet his eyes. The usual swagger is gone, replaced by a bruised and battered version of the boy I once knew. His lip is split, tape over a crooked nose as if it was broken and a dark bruise colors his jaw, but the fury in his eyes is unmistakable. The injuries must have been horrible because Vincent beat him up almost two weeks ago, and he still looks like the fight was yesterday.
“Jasper,” I whisper, my breath caught in my throat.
“You think you can just walk away from me? Like I’m nothing?” His words are a hiss, each one punctuated with raw anger. He steps closer, his presence suffocating as he gets in my face, too close for comfort, his breath hot against my skin. “You think you can just ignore everything I did for you and go off with your perfect little life?”
My heart races. My hands start to tremble, and I step back, hoping he’ll get the hint, but he doesn’t move, his eyes darkening, narrowing.
“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he sneers, grabbing my arm roughly.
I try to pull away, but he holds me in place, his grip tightening, the pain shooting up my arm. My mind flashes to everything else—the boy in the art room, the slashes across his face—and the weight in my chest grows heavier. But before I can react, a voice rings out, low and commanding.
“Let her go.”
I don’t have to look to know it’s Damien. The way he says it—low, like a growl—sends a ripple of tension through the hallway. Jasper falters, but doesn’t back down, his glare shifting to Damien as he steps closer, almost challenging him.
“Stay out of this, asshole,” Jasper spits, his hand still clenching my arm like a vice.
I can feel the panic starting to rise in my chest, the pressure building, but it’s not just in my head. It’s physical. My vision starts to blur, the edges going soft as if I’m looking through a fog. My breath comes out in shallow bursts, each one harder to catch than the last.
Damien takes another step forward, his presence towering and unyielding. His voice drops low, cold as ice, and every word feels like a threat wrapped in steel. "Tell me, Jasper... how many times do we have to beat your ass to make you stop?"
Jasper stiffens, his eyes flicking to Damien, calculating the risk. But the fire in Damien’s gaze doesn't waver, his tone turning more dangerous with every passing second.
Jasper opens his mouth, but no words come out. He’s sizing Damien up, clearly realizing that his usual bravado isn’t enough to mask the fear creeping into his expression.
“I don’t want to waste my time with you, but don’t think for one second I won’t,” Damien adds, his tone sharp enough to cut through stone.
Jasper’s jaw clenches, but his bravado is quickly evaporating. He steps back, hands slightly raised as if in surrender, but his eyes still burn with resentment.
There’s a moment of silence, and then Jasper shoves me back. My knees buckle, my vision going black around the edges as I stagger, trying to keep my balance. My chest tightens painfully, my breath shallow and erratic, and I clutch the edge of my locker for support.
“Willow?” Damien’s voice is sharp with concern, but it feels distant. Like it’s coming from somewhere far away.
I try to take a breath, but it feels like my lungs won’t expand, like there’s a weight pressing down on me. My heart is thudding in my ears, too fast, too hard, and every beat seems to send a pulse of pain through my chest. I gasp for air, my mouth dry, but nothing feels right. I feel dizzy, like I might fall at any moment, and the room spins wildly around me.
“Damien…” My voice cracks, a weak whisper, but he’s already there, his hands steadying me as the world tilts dangerously.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. “You’re okay, Willow. I’ve got you.”
I can feel the blood draining from my face, the cold sweat beading along my forehead, the panic rising like a tidal wave. My heart’s pounding in my ears now, too fast, too erratic. I try to steady myself, to calm my breathing, but it’s like I can’t. The air feels thick, almost suffocating.
Jasper’s voice is distant now, but I hear the accusation in his tone. “What the hell is wrong with her?”
“Nothing you need to worry about,” Damien snaps, his hand tightening around my wrist, pulling me back toward him. “You better watch yourself, Jasper.”
I can’t focus on anything but the suffocating tightness in my chest, the dizziness consuming me. I feel like I’m sinking, drowning, and I can’t catch my breath. My vision is starting to fade, the edges turning black and fuzzy.
“Willow,” Damien says urgently, his voice sharp, but it feels like I’m underwater, everything muffled. “You need to breathe. Focus on me. Just breathe.”
I try, but the air is thick, almost solid, making every breath a struggle. My chest tightens further, and the ache in my heart spreads like a fire. It feels like I’m drowning.
Then, a strange, terrifying sensation hits me. My heart skips, then slows. I gasp, but it’s not enough. My pulse is weak, slow—too slow. I can feel it sputtering, struggling to keep me conscious.
“Damien…” I whisper, the words barely audible. “Check my heart rate.”
Damien’s face hardens in an instant, but there’s panic in his eyes, something I’ve never seen from him before. “What the hell is happening?” he mutters, bending down to check my pulse.
His hand is warm, but the pressure against my wrist feels too weak, too erratic, and I can see his lips move as he counts, his eyes flickering to my face in concern.
After what feels like an eternity, Damien curses under his breath, frustration and worry clouding his features. “You’re bradycardic," he says, his voice thick with concern. "Your heart rate’s only 47 bpm. What the hell, Willow?"
I try to focus, my chest tightening, the world feeling like it’s spinning too fast. “Oh fuck. I need-”
Damien’s grip on me tightens as he pulls me closer, his expression darkening. “Doctors now.”
I try to steady my breathing, but the pain in my chest doesn’t lessen. The dizziness still swarms, and everything feels like it’s closing in on me. My body trembles in his arms, my head spinning, but his grip remains steady, supporting me like I’m the only thing that matters.
“Damien…” I whisper again, my voice barely above a breath. His hands slide to my back, pressing me close to his chest.
Damien’s grip is firm, but gentle as he picks me up, his arms steady around my waist. My vision is swimming, the world tilting in and out of focus, and his presence feels like my anchor to reality. The overwhelming dizziness is almost unbearable, and I can’t keep my breath steady enough to catch a proper inhale.
“Stay with me, Willow,” Damien’s voice is low, urgent. He’s trying to keep me calm, but his own concern is palpable. “I’ve got you.”
I want to respond, but the words feel too heavy, too far out of reach. Instead, I let him carry me, my head lolling against his chest. His heartbeat thunders against my ear, rhythmic and steady, but mine feels chaotic, like it’s trying to escape its own prison.
The hallway is a blur, and by the time we reach the nurse’s office, my chest tightens further. I can barely hold onto the threads of consciousness, and the last thing I remember is Damien settling me onto the cot before everything fades to black.
-------------
As I slowly regain consciousness, the lights in the nurse's office flicker on, casting a dim glow across the room. A sharp scent of antiseptic tickles my nose and makes me want to cough. My head throbs with a dull ache, but at least the dizziness has subsided. In the background, I can hear the soft murmur of hushed voices, drawing me out of my foggy state. Struggling to focus, I force my eyes open and they immediately lock onto the figure beside me, their face etched with concern and worry.
Vincent. He’s sitting at the edge of the bed, his sharp features twisted with concern. He’s watching me like I’m something fragile, his usual hard gaze softened with something unfamiliar—worry.
“Vincent?” I croak, my voice hoarse from the shallow breaths I’d been trying to take earlier.
He shifts, standing up slowly. “You’re awake. How are you feeling?”
I blink a few times, trying to get my bearings. The confusion lingers, and something is off. “How did you get in here?” I ask, my words still slow and heavy. “The nurse doesn’t just let anyone in.”
Vincent gives me a small, almost too casual smile. “Telling people I’m your boyfriend and flashing a thousand dollars gets you into most places.”
My stomach drops, the weight of his words catching up with me. “You—what?” I begin, but the confusion only deepens. “Why would you do that? How do you even...”
“Doesn’t matter,” he cuts me off, his voice firm. “The point is you’re okay now. That’s all that matters.”
I stare up at him, a swirl of emotions running through me. Part of me wants to be mad at him, or at least question him, but another part just wants to collapse against him and let the overwhelming feelings of confusion and exhaustion wash over me.
Vincent stays at my side, his eyes never leaving mine, silently waiting for me to settle. I feel a strange sense of security in his presence, even if I’m still reeling from everything. The panic that had gripped me earlier is starting to fade, but something else lingers—something I can’t quite put into words.
"How long was I out?" I ask, swallowing hard.
"Not long," he says, his voice steady but still full of that concern. "Just a few minutes. Damien had to leave—he had... things to handle." There's something unspoken in his tone, but I don't press him for more.
I nod slowly, glancing around the room. It's hard to process all of it—the worry, the near-blackout, and now Vincent's uncharacteristic kindness. Part of me wants to be annoyed, but a much bigger part is grateful he’s here. That thought only complicates everything more.
“I’ll make sure you get home okay,” Vincent adds, his eyes not leaving me. “We’re not letting you out of our sights today. Not after that.”
I shift uncomfortably, trying to find a more comfortable position on the cot, but my mind keeps racing. Vincent’s presence is almost too much, and the weight of the conversation I still need to have with him feels heavy in the air. My mind keeps circling back to what Damien had said earlier—about Vincent being in love with me.
I swallow again, clearing the tightness in my throat. "Vincent," I start, my voice quiet, unsure. "Damien... he said something earlier. About you. About how you're... in love with me." I can’t quite meet his eyes, afraid of what I might see there. Afraid of how it might change everything.
For a long moment, Vincent doesn’t answer. He stands there, looking at me, his gaze intense but unreadable. When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, controlled, like he’s carefully considering his words.
The word vomit bubbles up my throat, and I try to take back what I said. “You know, I told him that’s crazy because you’re Vincent Beaumont, and I’m—you know… so I know he’s just punking me. And, it’s not?—”
“He’s not punking you,” Vincent interrupts, his eyes flickering briefly, his jaw tightening before he answers. “I’m in love with you, Willow.”
I freeze. My chest tightens, a lump forming in my throat. “What? You—what?”
His gaze doesn’t falter, and his voice is calm, almost distant. “I’ve been in love with you for a while now. You might not have noticed, but it’s been there.” He pauses for a second, like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m speechless, my heart pounding against my ribs. “It’s not a joke, Willow. And it’s not something that just goes away, even if you want it to.”
Before I can think twice about it, I say. “I don’t want it to, but I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Vincent teases, and my cheeks flush to a baby pink.
“I... I don’t know what to say,” I finally manage, my voice small, fragile. “Why? Why me? I don’t—this is just... too much.”
Vincent looks down briefly, his eyes flicking away like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. “Since freshman year, Willow, I haven’t ever been able to get you out of my head. We would be together if it wasn’t for Rosemary’s heart, and trust me when I thought I would never get a chance with you I tried to fight my feelings, but... there’s no ignoring it anymore. I’m not going to pretend I don’t feel it.”
My chest tightens, and I bite my lip, trying to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. “This doesn’t make sense. You’ve always been so... cold, distant. How am I supposed to believe that?”
He steps closer, his presence overwhelming. “That’s just me, Willow. That’s how I’ve been. But I’m not pretending anymore. I’m in love with you, and I need you to understand that.”
I shake my head, still reeling. “But I don’t know how to feel about this. I’m so confused. You can’t just drop this on me.”
Vincent’s eyes soften slightly, but his resolve doesn’t waver. “I’m not asking you to feel the same right away. But I need you to know. You don’t have to rush into anything. I’m not going anywhere. But I’m here, and I’m serious about you.”
“What about the contract?” I cough out.
“Fuck the contract.”
“Vincent!”
Vincent steps closer, his presence almost suffocating as he hovers near me. His eyes lock on mine, and for once, there’s no hesitation. “I’m in love with you. And I need you to understand that. It’s not just about the contract. It never was. I don’t care about that. I just did it to be closer to you. I wanted to be with you.”
I blink, stunned. “The contract… that was just a way for you to be closer to me?”
Vincent nods, his expression unflinching. “I always want to be near you, Princess.”
I struggle to absorb his words, my mind spinning. “But... but what about all the control? The rules, the expectations, the clothes... You wanted to keep me in a box.”
“I didn’t want to control you, Willow,” he says softly, his voice steady but filled with an edge of frustration. “I wanted to protect you, and see you in cute outfits. I thought—” He pauses, shaking his head slightly. “I thought you should get a taste of how being with me would feel. You would never want for anything, never be vulnerable to anything. You want it? I got. You need it? I got it. Everything I have is yours, including me.”
The realization sinks in like a stone, and for a moment, I don’t know how to react. “You can’t just give me everything, Vincent,” I say, my voice shaking. “I need more than that. I need space. I need choices. I need to be me—not just some... accessory to your life….or”
“You’re not. You are so much more, ” Vincent interrupts gently. “You don’t have to love me back, but I need you to know the truth. I’m serious about you, Willow. And I’m not going anywhere. I want you to be with me, however long it takes.”
A thick silence hangs between us, broken only when the nurse returns, clipboard in hand. She glances at the two of us, then focuses on me with a gentle, professional smile. “How are we feeling now, Miss Cater?”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words seem to falter. I don’t know what to say. I’m still trying to process everything Vincent has just told me.
“She’s talking, and seems to be breathing easy, despite her elevated heart rate,” Vincent answers, winking at me when he said the last part.
“Good,” the nurse nods. “Very good.”
“What happened? I felt like I couldn’t breathe and my heart…”
I try to sit up, feeling the heaviness in my chest. My throat is dry, my mouth slightly numb. "What happened? I felt like I couldn’t breathe, and my heart…" My voice falters as I swallow, trying to make sense of the pounding, the tightness, the way my body seemed to just shut down.
The nurse looks at me sympathetically, her expression softening. "You experienced something called bradycardia," she explains, moving to the side of my bed and adjusting the IV slightly. "It’s a condition where your heart rate drops too low, which can cause dizziness, shortness of breath, and chest pain. It’s not uncommon, but it’s something we need to monitor."
I furrow my brow, trying to process it all. "Bradycardia? But... my heart was racing, wasn’t it? How is that the same thing?"
She gives me a reassuring smile, her voice calm but firm. "Sometimes, when the heart rate slows too much, it can cause the heart to pump less efficiently. Your body tries to compensate, but that’s when you feel the dizziness and the difficulty breathing. It’s your body’s way of saying it’s struggling to get enough oxygen."
I frown, still trying to grasp the situation. "So… what does this mean for me? Am I okay? Will it happen again?"
The nurse hesitates for a moment, her fingers tapping against the edge of the clipboard as she looks at me. "You are okay, for the most part, but you need to come in for regular check-ups. The most important thing right now is rest. Bradycardia can be triggered by many things—stress, physical exertion, even emotional distress. Given what happened earlier, it’s likely that stress was a factor."
"Emotional distress?" I repeat, feeling the weight of her words sink in. "You mean, like... my panic attack?"
She nods. "Exactly. Your heart had to work harder than it should have, and when it couldn’t keep up, it slowed down to compensate. It’s your body’s way of protecting itself, but it can be dangerous if it happens too frequently."
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to gather my thoughts. It all feels like too much, too fast. "What can I do? How do I stop it from happening again?"
The nurse leans forward slightly, her eyes meeting mine with a quiet intensity. "For now, you need to take it easy. No stress, no rushing. Just focus on your recovery. We’ll check your heart rate regularly to make sure it’s stable. And if you feel any of those symptoms again, don’t hesitate to let someone know."
I nod, still processing, but a sense of dread settles in my stomach. "And... long-term? Will this be a problem?"
She offers a soft, reassuring smile. "It might not be, but we’ll need to monitor you closely. If this happens again, we’ll take further steps, but for now, I need you to rest and take care of yourself. No stress, okay?"
“What are the next steps?” I ask, aware that I should inform my dad, even though he's currently en route to Alaska. But at eighteen, I feel capable of handling the situation without causing him unnecessary worry.
“You need to rest, Willow,” the nurse says, her tone warm but firm. “You’ve had a rough day, and your body is telling you to slow down. I need you to go home and take it easy. Do you have someone to keep an eye on you?”
Vincent steps in before I can respond. “She’s has people” he states firmly, not even looking at the nurse as he does.
The nurse raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Alright, but just make sure she gets proper rest. No pushing her today.” The nurse looks at me. “No pushing yourself, either. Take it easy. I’ll get the paperwork for you to sign.”
As the nurse walks out, Vincent looks down at me, his gaze softening slightly, though there’s still a determination there. “You’re coming with me, Willow. You need to rest. No arguments.”
I want to resist. I want to tell him that I’m fine, that I don’t need anyone hovering over me, but the truth is, I feel exhausted, both physically and mentally. And for the first time in a while, I don’t have the strength to fight it.
“I don’t want to go to your house,” I murmur, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t care what you want,” he says quietly, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You’re going, and you’re going to rest. Per Doctor's orders, Princess.”