After the dinner portion of the evening, I slipped away and found myself several feet down the hall in front of the portrait of Evangeline Castle. Now I’m riveted to the spot, lingering in the shadows as I stare at the root of this madness.

As if the likeness of her uneasy eyes will explain why she cursed generations of women.

What an absurd thought.

A curse!

I mentally scoff, writing the idea off as an excuse used by men for their unjustifiable behavior. An excuse that spans centuries.

And yet the allure of Evangeline’s eyes draw me back in, and I take a step closer. There’s something magnetic about her, and it sends a chill down my back. Is there a curse hidden in the tilt of her lips? A spell cast long ago to wreak havoc on all future queens of Zodiac Island?

Was this her way of punishing the descendants of the men who wronged her? By making generation after generation fall in love with a queen, only to have to share her every month?

If the legend of Evangeline’s curse is true, it’s pure genius in cruelty. Insanity in design. Maybe she really did go mad, locked away in that tower with no way to escape.

And maybe I’ve been in this circular hell for too long that I’m going mad as well.

The clicking of heels against marble draws my attention, and I glance in the opposite direction of the ballroom. A woman materializes from the shadows, her raven hair as sleek as the silk red-wine gown hugging her voluptuous curves.

“Quite the eye-catcher, isn’t she?” the woman says, nodding at the portrait of Evangeline Castle.

Surprised by her casual, familiar tone, I blink. “Yes, she’s stunning.” I study the woman at my side, shuffling through the many faces I saw during dinner, but hers isn’t among them. “I don’t believe I saw you in there. Are you only now arriving?”

“I like to make an entrance.”

Her attire will certainly do the job.

“Your dress is gorgeous. Who designed it?”

“You wouldn’t know him. He designs for me exclusively.” The upward tilt of her chin prods at my irritation. There’s a haughty air about her I don’t like.

“And you are?” she asks, smoothing her long hair over one shoulder.

“Novalee Van Buren.”

“The queen?” Incredulity laces her question. She sends an assessing glance down my body, the purse of her red lips doing nothing to hide her snub.

“Yes, I’m the queen.” If she notices my frosty tone, she doesn’t show it. I hold her bold, green gaze. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

The music stops, and someone speaks into a microphone about the charity auction, which begins in an hour. The mystery woman in red stares past me to the movement of bodies entering the ballroom.