Now surgeon and crown prince Marc Falken is soon to become king—and he’s discovered he has a son! Claiming his heir means seeking out Ellie—the woman he’s never stopped loving. But can Marc convince Ellie that she can be a doctor and his queen, and that finally they can become the family they were always meant to be?

Marc paused, overwhelmed by what he had to tell her.

Ellie rose and opened the sideboard. She poured two whiskies. Large ones.

“I don’t drink this except in emergencies,” she told him. “I suspect I need it now. Maybe we both do. So tell me.”

He took the glass and drained it, and then he looked at Ellie. He could still see the girl he’d loved behind those tired eyes. He could still see the laughter, the fun... But he could also see the care and the responsibility.

He watched her shoulders brace yet again, and he hated it.

“Ellie, I’m now the crown prince of Falkenstein and Felix is my son. It takes a year to formalize a divorce in Australia so Felix was born while we were still legally married. This may mess with all our lives in ways I can’t imagine, but once I’m crowned, Felix will take my current title. Your son—our son—will be the new crown prince of Falkenstein.”

Dear Reader,

What is it with royalty? The combination of tradition, power and wealth is a heady mix that I suspect would be difficult to handle in real life, but as a writer I love playing with ‘what ifs?’. What if an entire royal family was wiped out in one hit? That’s a theme that’s been explored before—an unimaginable tragedy, but to a fiction writer the idea’s gold. What if the unexpected heir to the throne is a doctor, dedicated to his calling, who wants nothing to do with royalty? And what if, years ago, that doctor had a secret son, who’s suddenly the new crown prince?

The situation had me wiggling my toes in the sand in delight as I took my dog for her daily beach walk. I love a good ‘what if?’, and if it combines the pageantry of a royal coronation, a feel-good romance and a secret baby thrown in for good measure, hooray! The dog and I needed to walk our legs off in order for me to sort out all the complications, but we loved how it all turned out. At least I did. Sadly, Bonnie was too busy chasing seagulls to care.

Marion

Reunited With Her Surgeon Prince

Marion Lennox

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Books by Marion Lennox

Mills & Boon Medical Romance

Wildfire Island Docs

Saving Maddie’s Baby

A Child to Open Their Hearts

Meant-to-Be Family

From Christmas to Forever?

Falling for Her Wounded Hero

Mills & Boon Cherish

His Cinderella Heiress

Stepping into the Prince’s World

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

Praise for Marion Lennox

“This is a wonderful book, full of the trademark warmth, soul-searching and cheer Marion Lennox brings to all her books.”

—Goodreads on From Christmas to Forever?

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

Booklist

Praise

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Extract

CHAPTER ONE

THE BRAND-NEW Crown Prince of Falkenstein managed three hours of nightmare-filled sleep. He rose at dawn, desperate for coffee and a walk to clear his head. Instead, he found the Secretary of State waiting. The massive palace dining table was covered with newspapers, and their front pages all screamed versions of the same.

Entire Royal Family Killed in Plane Tragedy!

‘This is what you get for breaking rules,’ Josef said in greeting, and Marc wanted to thump him. At such a time, to be thinking of rules...

He headed for the huge silver coffee pot before deigning to answer. Being Crown Prince had to count for something. Half a cup of coffee in, his head was clear enough to respond. ‘How did breaking the rules cause this?’

‘Heirs in succession to the throne should never travel in the same plane,’ Josef told him. ‘Your uncle and his wife, your cousin, his sons and their assorted mistresses. All in the one small plane, on one indulgent holiday—and at vast expense when so much needs to be done at home. No consideration for rules. It’s all part of the same. Your grandfather was a warlord. Your uncle was a playboy. Your cousin was a wastrel, and his sons were already mixing with women of the worst kind.’ Josef heaved a sigh and laid the newspaper aside. ‘Now it’s up to you, boy, to fix the mess.’

‘I have messes of my own to fix.’

‘Not as big as this one. Your Highness—’

‘Don’t call me that.’

‘It’s who you are,’ Josef said simply. ‘You’re Marc Pierre Henri de Falken, Crown Prince of Falkenstein. After your coronation you’ll be His Majesty.’ He hesitated but then forged on. ‘And, might I say, this tragedy is appalling, but for the country it may well be a force for good.’

‘I’m no prince,’ Marc exploded. ‘I’m a surgeon and I need to stay a surgeon. If you look at the mess our country’s health system is in...’

‘That’s why you have no choice but to take the throne.’ There’d been hours now to take in the news, and the country’s chief administrator obviously saw the path ahead as being without obstacles. ‘You’ve been doing your best with rundown hospitals, fighting for funds from a royal family who doesn’t care. Now the reins are yours. Think of the bigger picture. The schools. The courts. Our welfare system. If you refuse the throne then it goes to Ranald de Bougier, and heaven help us if that happens. He’ll propel us back to war.’

‘But I don’t want it.’

Marc took his coffee and stood at the vast bay window of the King’s private dining room. Though it was the informal part of the palace, even this part was intimidating.

Marc’s father had been the ignored younger son of the King. He’d been a pacifist who had hated his father’s warlike tendencies. He’d studied medicine, he’d struggled to build the country’s health system and he’d been appalled when the King propelled the country into a meaningless border conflict.

Marc had only been in this palace once, as an awed seven-year-old, brought to be introduced to a family his parents had little to do with. There’d been continual fights about health funding and then an epic fight when war broke out. Marc had never been back. Until now.

Marc raked his long surgeon’s fingers through his dark hair and stared into the future with horror.

He glanced through to the family’s ‘informal’ sitting room. It was an opulent display of gilt, brocades and priceless furniture.

He wanted nothing to do with it.

The huge mirror above the dining room’s massive fireplace showed Marc as he was, a thirty-five-year-old surgeon, a man who was weary from operating until midnight and who’d been brought to the palace straight from Theatre. After four hours of horrified discussion, he’d fallen asleep in his clothes. He was wearing faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. He hadn’t had time to shave.

A king? Ha!

‘I can’t,’ he said simply. ‘I love my work.’

‘You have no choice,’ Josef told him, and Marc thought of the mess the country’s healthcare system was in, of the theatres without equipment, of the rundown hospitals, of the endless waiting lists.

If he turned his back on the throne, he could do more of what he was doing now. He could save lives, one patient at a time. If he accepted the throne...how many more could he save?

Josef was right. He had no choice, but he felt ill. He dug his hands into his pockets and kicked the heirloom rug at his feet.

‘We need to move on,’ Josef was saying, gently now, obviously knowing his argument had been won. ‘You need to face the press. We need to get you shaved, dressed in something...’ he eyed Marc’s clothes with distaste ‘...more fitting. And we need to have a statement ready. The country’s in uproar. We need reassurance of continuity. Even at this time we need the implication that this tragedy might make things better.’

‘Why? Surely there’s no need to talk of the future yet?’

‘There is a need,’ Josef told him. ‘The country’s desperate for a lifeline. You know there’s no one fit to form government. Marc, we need steadiness and the promise of a better future. Moving on, we need to find you a wife. Get you a son. I believe you’ll make a great king, and your sons after you.’

And that made Marc think of something else. Something that had played on his mind many times these past ten years. Something else that made him unfit to be royal.

He hesitated but it had to be said.

‘There may be another...issue.’

‘Yes?’ Josef looked as if nothing could surprise him, but Marc knew this would.

‘I have a son.’

He was right. To say Josef looked stunned would be an understatement.

Marc refilled his coffee mug and realised this was the first time ever that he’d said those words.

I have a son. The words seemed unreal in this situation that was already unreal. Having a son was part of another world. And yet, when it was said out loud it assumed a reality that shocked him as well as Josef.

He watched the colour drain from the old man’s face. His grandfather’s and then his uncle’s reign had been marred by scandal after scandal, Marc knew, and now he was asking Josef to cope with more. He was under no illusions as to the old man’s role in the royal household. Somehow Josef had kept the royal family intact, holding the country together. He’d served his country with honour. He didn’t deserve to have to cope with this.

‘A son...’ Josef whispered. ‘Where? When?’

‘You knew I was married, briefly?’

‘I...yes.’ The old man was struggling to regroup, sifting long-forgotten information about a Marc he barely knew, a doctor on the outer fringes of the royal family. ‘I had heard that,’ he said. ‘It was just after you qualified as a doctor, wasn’t it? In Australia. A momentary aberration. You came home when war broke out. The divorce was almost immediate?’

‘It was,’ Marc said heavily. ‘The marriage was...a mistake. I didn’t know Ellie was pregnant when we separated, and the child was born well after I returned. A son.’

‘It was never said.’

‘There was no need. Neither of us was in a position to keep a child. I was flying back into a war zone. Ellie was a second-year medical student and she wished to continue. The baby was adopted at birth.’

‘Formally adopted?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know the adoptive parents?’

‘No. I had nothing to do with the adoption.’

He watched Josef think through the ramifications while he considered a third coffee. Josef’s background was legal, Marc knew, and he’d spent a lifetime getting the royal family out of trouble. Scotching scandals was his principal skill. Marc could almost see the cogs whirring.

‘There should be no concern,’ he said at last. ‘This was a child conceived in an impulsive marriage when you were little more than a child yourself. If he’s been formally adopted, there can be no claim on inheritance. That can be explained to him if there’s ever contact. But then...’ he hesitated ‘...there may be more immediate repercussions. As the unexpected heir to the throne, you’ll face media scrutiny of the worst kind. The country hardly knows you, so the media frenzy will be extraordinary. They’ll dig out this old marriage. Where’s your ex-wife now?’

‘I presume she’s still in Australia. I haven’t spoken to her in years.’

‘Tell me about her.’

He was too tired for this. He was too tired for everything. To be dredging up memories of Ellie...

But, strangely, it was easy. She should have been a distant memory. Instead she was a vivid reality, a warm, vibrant woman, curvy, laughing...

Except when he’d last seen her, ten years ago, standing in the airport lounge. She’d been wan with what he’d learned later was morning sickness, but she’d been resolute in the direction they had to take.

‘We’ve been stupid, Marc, but you know what we need to do.’

He did. The senseless war was bringing his country to its knees. He was a qualified doctor—just—but his place was at home. Ellie was only two years into her medical course. Even after he’d learned of the pregnancy, they’d both known there was no room in their lives for a child.

‘Ellie’s a doctor too,’ he told Josef but he didn’t even know that for sure. Their separation had been absolute. She’d reluctantly allowed him to provide funds to keep studying—because of the pregnancy—but the amount she’d decided was ‘over the top’ had been returned and he hadn’t heard from her since.

‘Our marriage was a mistake by both of us,’ she’d told him. ‘I have no intention of profiting by it.’

And he’d had no choice but to agree. He’d been desperate to be with her for the birth but the conflict at home had escalated. The need for doctors had been dire, and by the time her—their?—baby was born, getting out of the country had been impossible.

Her email telling him of the birth had been businesslike, informing him only of the bare fact that she’d given birth to a boy. The feeling he’d had then was indescribable. Pain. Helplessness. Anger at a situation which made it impossible for him to claim his son.

And when he’d finally found a way to phone, her response had been curt.

‘Leave it, Marc. He’ll have a good home, I promise. You’re needed where you are and so am I. Our marriage was a fantasy, and we need to put it behind us. Good luck, Marc, and goodbye.’

Their son was no longer their son, yet the anger and helplessness had stayed. And guilt. Disconnecting from that phone call had seemed the hardest thing he’d ever done, and there’d been many times since when mother and child had been in his dreams.

‘She’s intelligent enough to be discreet?’ Josef asked, dragging him back to the present.

‘Of course.’ It was a snap, inappropriately terse.

‘Has she married again? Has she told her new husband?’

‘I have no idea. She made it clear she wanted no further contact.’

‘And the divorce? It was amicable?’

He thought of Ellie’s face that last time. They’d both known the impossibility of their situation. There’d been no argument, just bleak acceptance. ‘Yes.’

‘That’s a help.’ Josef wasn’t seeing Marc’s emotion. He was thinking ahead, anticipating trouble. ‘But you don’t know where the boy is?’

‘Ellie never shared adoption details.’ He hadn’t asked. In the midst of the chaos of war, he hadn’t had the energy to ask questions, and it had seemed unfair—even cruel—to question Ellie’s judgement.

‘Then that’s how it must remain,’ Josef decreed. ‘For the child’s sake, it’s imperative his adoption records remain confidential. There’s no problem with inheritance but the media would love it.’

‘I can’t guarantee—’

‘We need to guarantee,’ Josef said flatly. ‘If the media finds him, can you imagine the headlines? We need to contact this woman before the media does. Press the need for silence. Pay her if necessary.’

‘She won’t accept payment.’

He remembered that last conversation almost word for word.

‘You have a disaster to deal with. How many people dead, Marc? What’s the adoption of one child compared to that? Marc, you’ve helped enough. I don’t want to continue contact. It’s over.’

‘We’ll do what’s necessary and do it fast,’ Josef was saying. ‘If she’s remarried and hasn’t told her husband, then it could become messy. I’ll brief one of our best lawyers. We’ll research her background while he’s on the way to Australia. He’ll meet her face to face, tell her exactly what’s involved, tell her she has to keep her mouth shut. Most countries allow contact between adoptive parents and birth mothers. If she has that contact then she needs to be silent about where he is. Did she name you as the father?’

‘No.’ That was down to him too. She’d asked him in that first curt email:

‘Do you want your name on his birth certificate?’

The choice he’d made was wrong.

In his defence, he’d been stressed to the point of breaking. The war had been going badly. He’d been overworked past exhaustion, doing work far beyond his range of expertise, but there’d been no choice. For every patient he’d treated there’d been three more waiting. He’d also been gutted by the thought of Ellie having the baby alone. He couldn’t bear the thought of what he’d lost. He’d made an instant decision then that he still regretted.

‘Leave it blank,’ he’d told her. ‘I can’t be there for him. I have no right to be his father. The adoptive father should have all the rights.’

It still hurt but Josef’s face cleared. ‘There you are, then,’ he said. ‘Even if the media finds out, it can be implied he wasn’t yours. What better reason to end the marriage?’

‘That’s not fair to Ellie.’

‘We’ll pay her enough to compensate.’

As if that would work.

He turned and faced out of the window again, across the manicured palace gardens to the mountains in the distance. Somewhere, on the other side of the world, Ellie was making a life for herself, without him and without their son. It was a decision they’d made together.

Ellie was tough. She’d had to be, with her background. She called life as she saw it.

And now? A legal expert would come blustering in from her past, offering her bribes. Even asking her to swear a child wasn’t his.

He thought of the Ellie he’d known. She was feisty, opinionated...moral. She also had a temper.

‘No,’ he told Josef. ‘It could turn the situation into a disaster.’

‘There’s no other way,’ Josef told him.

‘There is,’ he said heavily and he saw his path clear. This part, at least. ‘If this is as important as you say, then let me do it. I must be able to fly under the radar for a few days. I’ll face the media this morning and then I have a week’s grace until the funeral. Say I’m stricken with grief, incommunicado. If I board a plane this morning no one will notice—the media surely won’t expect me to be leaving the country. I’ll go to Australia and talk to Ellie myself. I’ll make sure the child’s privacy is protected and there are no cracks the media can chisel open. And then...’

He put down his coffee cup. It was fine china with the royal coat of arms emblazoned on the front, and he found himself thinking almost longingly of the paper cups he grabbed after all-night Theatre shifts. That part of his life was over and he had to accept it. ‘Then I’ll come home,’ he said heavily. ‘I’ll bury my family and I’ll accept the throne.’

CHAPTER TWO

LIFE AS BORRAWONG’S only doctor was sometimes boring, but just as often it was chaotic. If one person went down with the flu, the whole town usually followed. Kids never seemed to fall out of trees on their own. Ellie had a great team at the hospital, though. Usually she could cope.

But not with this.

Two carloads of kids had been drag racing on a minor road with a rail crossing without boom gates. Maybe the drifting fog had hidden the crossing’s flashing lights and the sight of the oncoming train until it was too late. Or maybe alcohol had made them decide to race the train. Whatever the reason, the results had been disastrous.

The train had just left the station so it had been travelling slowly, but not slowly enough. It had ploughed into one car, pushing it into the car beside it.

If the train had been up to speed, every occupant of the cars would have been killed. Instead, Ellie had seven kids in various stages of injury, distress and hysteria. Parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins—practically the whole town—were crammed into the waiting room or spilling into the car park outside.

Air ambulances were on their way from Sydney but the fog was widespread and there were delays. The doctor from the neighbouring town was caught up with an unexpected traumatic birth.

She was the only doctor.

Right now, she was focusing on intubating seventeen-year-old May-Belle Harris. May-Belle was the town’s champion netballer, blonde, beautiful, confident. At least she had been. Her facial injuries would take months of reconstruction—if Ellie could get her to live past the next few minutes.

Ellie’s team was fighting behind her, nurses and paramedics coping with trauma far beyond their training. But while she fought for May-Belle’s life, she had to block them out.

‘You can make it,’ she told May-Belle as she finally got the tube secure. At least she now had a safe air supply. The girl was deeply anaesthetised. She should have an anaesthetist to watch over her before she could be transferred to Sydney for specialist reconstructive surgery. Instead of which, she had Joe.

‘Can you take over?’ Ellie asked the seventy-year-old hospital orderly. ‘Watch that tube like a hawk and watch those monitors. Any change at all, yell. Loud.’

‘Louder than these?’ Joe said with a wry grimace. There were six others kids waiting for attention, plus the injuries and bruises of the train crew who’d been thrown about on impact. Some of these kids—the least injured—were...well, loud would be an understatement. One of the girls was having noisy hysterics and the very junior nurse allocated to her couldn’t quieten her.

With years of experience, Ellie knew she could quieten her in a minute but she didn’t have a minute.

‘Grab me by the hair and pull me over here if you need me,’ Ellie told Joe. Block everything out and focus on that breathing.

Moving on...

A boy with bubbling breathing also needed urgent attention. There had to be a punctured lung.

A girl with a shattered elbow needed her too. She risked losing her hand if Ellie didn’t re-establish a secure blood supply soon. The lung had to be a priority but that elbow was at an appalling angle. If the blood supply cut...

And what if there were internal injuries?

Focus, she told herself. Do what comes next.

* * *

He was heading for Borrawong’s Bush Nursing Hospital.

Marc hadn’t been surprised when Josef’s discreet investigators had told him Ellie was back working here. This was where her mother had lived, the town Ellie was raised in.

The last time he’d seen her she’d been heading home to care for her mum.

Borrawong was a tiny town miles from anywhere. A wheat train ran through at need, hauling the grain from the giant silos that seemed to make up the bulk of the town. The train felt like the town’s only link with civilisation.

He’d never been there. ‘As long as Mum stays well, I’m never going back,’ Ellie had told him. She was jubilant at having escaped her small-town upbringing, her childhood spent as her mother’s carer. Until those last days when their combined worlds had seemed to implode, she’d put Borrawong far behind her.

But now Josef’s investigator had given Marc the low-down on Borrawong as well. ‘Population six hundred. Bush nursing hospital, currently staffed with one doctor and four nurses, servicing an extended farming district.’

To be the only doctor in such a remote community, to have returned to Borrawong... What was Ellie doing?

Had her mother died? Why had he never asked?

Because he had no right to know?

He landed in Sydney, then drove for five hours, heading across vast fog-shrouded fields obviously used for cropping. It was mid-afternoon when he arrived, and midwinter. The time difference made him feel weird. The main street of Borrawong—such as it was—seemed deserted. The general store had a sign: ‘Closed’ pinned to the door. The town seemed deserted.

Then he turned off the main street towards the hospital—and this was where everybody was.

The tiny brick hospital was surrounded by a sea of cars. There were people milling by the entrance. People were hugging each other, sobbing. Two groups were involved in a yelling match, screaming abuse.

What the...?

He pulled up in the far reaches of the car park and made his way through the mass of people. By the time he reached the hospital entrance, he had the gist. A train had crashed into two carloads of kids.

How many casualties?

The reception area was packed. Here, though, people were quieter. This would be mum and dad territory, the place where the closest relatives waited for news.

He made his way towards the desk and a burly farming type guy blocked his path.

‘Can’t go any further, mate,’ the man told him. ‘Doc Ellie says no one goes past this point.’

Ellie. So she was here. Coping with this alone?

‘I’m a doctor,’ he told him.

The man’s shoulders sagged. ‘You’re kidding me, right? Mate, you’re welcome.’ He turned back to his huddled wife. ‘See, Claire, I told you help’d come.’

He was the help?

There was no one at the reception desk, but double doors led to the room beyond.

A child was sitting across the doors. He was small, maybe nine or ten years old.

He was in a wheelchair but he didn’t look like a patient. He was seated as if he was a guard. He had his back to the doors and he held a pair of crutches across his chest. Anyone wanting to get past clearly had to negotiate the crutches, and the kid was holding them as if he knew how to use them.

Right now he seemed the only person with any official role.

‘I’m here to see Dr Carson,’ Marc told him. The kid’s expression was mulish, belligerent. The crutches were raised to chest height, held widthways across the doors. ‘I understand there’s been an accident,’ Marc said hurriedly. ‘I might be able to help.’

‘No one goes in,’ the kid told him. ‘Unless you’re Doc Brandon from Cowrang, or from the air ambulance. But you’re not.’

‘I’m a doctor.’

‘You’re not a relative? They all want to go in.’

‘I’m not family. I’m a doctor,’ he repeated. ‘And I might be able to help.’

‘A real doctor?’

‘Yes. I’m a surgeon.’

‘You have a funny accent.’

‘I’m a surgeon with a funny accent, yes, but I do know how to treat people after car accidents. I knew Dr Carson back when we were both training. When she was at university. Believe me, if she needs help then she’ll be pleased to see me.’

Pleased? That was stretching it, he thought grimly, but right now didn’t seem the time for niceties.

The crutches were still raised. The kid was taking a couple of moments to think about it. He eyed him up and down, assessing, and for a moment Marc took the time to assess back.

And then...

Then he almost forgot to breathe.

The kid was small and skinny, freckled, with dark hair that spiked into an odd little cowlick. He was dressed in jogging pants and an oversized red and black football jumper. One foot was encased in a worn and filthy trainer. The other foot was hidden by a cast, starting at the thigh.

He could be anyone’s kid.

His hair was jet-black, his brows were thick and black as well, and his eyes...they were almost black too.

And those freckles! He’d seen those freckles before, and the boy’s chin jutted upward in a way Marc remembered.

He looked like Ellie. But Ellie had glossy auburn hair that curled into a riot. Ellie had green eyes.

The kid had Marc’s hair and Marc’s eyes.

Surely not.

And then, from the other side of the door, someone screamed. It was a scream Marc recognised from years of working as a trauma surgeon. It spoke of unbearable pain. It spoke of a medical team without the resources to prevent such pain.

Shock or not, now wasn’t the time to be looking at a kid with dark eyes and asking questions.

‘You need to let me in,’ he told the boy, urgently now, as he pulled himself together. ‘Ask Dr Carson if she needs help.’

‘You really are a proper doctor?’ The boy’s voice was incredulous.

‘I am.’

‘Then go on in.’ There was suddenly no hesitation. He peeped a grin at Marc and there was that jolt again. He knew that grin! ‘But you’re either in or out,’ he warned. ‘If another doctor ever walks into this town Mum says we’ll set up roadblocks to stop them leaving. That’s me. I’m the roadblock. No one gets past these crutches.’

* * *

‘Ellie!’

Chris was Ellie’s best trained nurse. While Ellie was treating the kid with a suspected pneumothorax she’d put Chris in charge of the girl with the smashed elbow. Lisa Harley had smashed a few other things as well, but it was her elbow that was Ellie’s greatest concern. The fracture was compound. She’d found a pulse on the other side of the break but it was faint. The blood supply was compromised.

But the kid with the pneumothorax had taken priority.

‘I’ve lost the pulse,’ Chris called urgently. ‘And I’m worrying about her blood pressure. Ellie...’

She couldn’t go. She had to release pressure in the chest of the kid under her hands. One lung had collapsed—she was sure of it. Any more pressure and she’d lose him.

A life or a hand...

‘Five minutes,’ she called back to Chris. Could she close this in time? No matter. She had to focus on what she was doing.

The door swung open.

It was too soon to expect the air ambulance from Sydney. It was too soon to expect the doctor from the neighbouring town, but Felix wouldn’t have let anyone in unless they could help. Unless they were a doctor.

So she looked up with hope—and then felt herself freeze.

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