THE sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but Queen was already wide awake, most unlike her, perched on the velvet stool before the ornate dressing table in her guest suite. A soft pool of golden light spilled from the lamp beside her, illuminating the open notepad, the sleek phone, and the pen she tapped absently against her lips.

Her reflection stared back at her, a composed heiress, hair pinned neatly back, a silk robe hugging her shoulders, but behind the neat surface, her mind was a hive of restless plots.

She exhaled slowly and leaned forward, scribbling words onto the paper in her elegant, sharp handwriting. Orlanda: prisoner, slave, secret. She...