Page 31 of Goldflame

I’d had it cut a tad shorter and no one else had noticed, not even Eleanora, who always seems to have a keen eye for beauty and fashion. “Does it matter?” I said, joining him on the couches.

His fingers had twitched around his whiskey, like he wanted to reach out but caught himself. “Looks nice,” he’d said simply, then immediately waved to a server so we could be seated at our table.

I’d dismissed it at the time. But now I wonder how many other moments like that I missed, or deliberately ignored, because they didn’t fit the narrative I’d built—that Adrian was just using me for eye candy and mild entertainment.

Then there was that night we sat together on his balcony. We’d argued earlier about something trivial. I was sulking, watching clouds gather in the distance as they glowed orange from the sunset, when he came out with a blanket and wrapped it around my shoulders. No words, no demands, just a gentle gesture followed by his quiet presence beside me. We sat in silence for hours, staring at the clouds and the Seattle skyline, and it was the most peace I’d felt in years.

Of course, there are darker memories too.

The time I found him in his car, knuckles bleeding ashe methodically wiped away evidence of whatever violence he’d committed for his father. His eyes had been empty when they met mine in the mirror. “This isn’t something you need to see,” he’d said, jamming the key in the ignition before driving away. Shutting me out. Just one of countless moments when he erected walls between us.

Or the night of a Martinelli art auction, when some man had let his hand linger too long on my waist while he tried to move around me in the crowd. Adrian had seen it from across the room and didn’t react. I still wonder if the man had groped me, or even did something obscene like try to fuck me in public, if Adrian would’ve even frowned. He was always about appearances and not making a scene and being possessive of me would’ve done that. Everyone knows: a Harrow doesn’t give a shit about their women.

Adrian maintained that image perfectly around others, treating me like an object that was expendable.

Still, I often felt I could trust him more than Julian.

While Julian has always been a volcano, with explosive heat and unpredictable eruptions, Adrian was a mountain—steady, immovable, constant. Julian’s love is consuming, overwhelming, leaving no air to breathe. Adrian’s attention was... different. A patient presence. He didn’t love me but I always knew… he was there. A hand extended in the dark.

Julian locked me in this room out of vindictive fury. Adrian would have never trapped me like this, no matter what he believed I’d done. He would’ve sought the truth first. Would have listened and tried to workthrough things rationally and objectively. Like a judge only seeking justice and to make the true criminals pay, he would’ve given me the chance to prove my innocence.

I curl onto my side on Adrian’s bed, clutching the diary to my chest as tears sting my eyes. The revelation crashes over me, threatening to drown me: I truly cared for Adrian. I cared for him deeply. Perhaps I even loved him in a way I never allowed myself to acknowledge—actuallyloved him, not the way I flung around the term when we were arguing.

Yet now he’s gone, and I’ll never get to tell him. Never get to ask if he felt it too. If beneath his perfect Harrow heir facade, he possibly had some genuine feelings for the broken orphan girl everyone called the Golden One.

The sound of voices in the hallway yanks me from my spiral of regret. I freeze, heart pounding as my ears strain to listen. The first voice is familiar—Emeric’s unmistakable British accent, rich and resonant.

I get off the bed and move to the door, pressing my ear against it. Even through the heavy wood, I catch snippets of what Emeric is saying.

“—complete bloody madness, letting yourself get beaten… actual medical attention… patch up at The Den.”

I press my body against the cold door even harder, my pulse quickening as I catch the second voice—Julian’s, but altered somehow. Rougher. Weaker.

“... fine. Just get me to…” His words slip away, too quiet to penetrate the barrier between us.

I strain harder, practically melding with the wood, hungry for any fragment of information from the outsideworld. Emeric’s voice rises again, frustration making it clearer and louder.

“Three broken ribs, mate. Split eyebrow. That’ll scar, you twat. And Christ knows what internal damage from?—”

Julian interrupts, his response lost to me. My fingernails dig into my palms as I piece together the fragments. The Den: Julian’s underground fighting ring. Something happened there—something violent enough to leave him seriously injured.

“—barely conscious,” Emeric continues. “If I hadn’t…”

The rest of his words are muffled, but the implication hangs in the air like a guillotine blade. A strange, unwelcome tightness coils in my chest as hatred and concern twist together in my gut, serpents eating each other’s tails. I shouldn’t care. I should actually relish the thought of Julian bleeding, suffering, considering what he’s done to me. After how easily he believed his mother’s lies, his pain should be my vindication.

Yet something in Emeric’s tone makes my skin cold and my heart thump an erratic rhythm. The way they’re talking… it wasn’t just another fight. It sounds like something worse.

Emeric’s voice is loud enough again that I can make out more of the conversation. “Don’t feel ashamed about letting it all out, mate. Just part of life. I cry over Eleanora all the time.” He laughs but I can tell there’s care behind the sound.

A small, involuntary smile tugs at my lips—Emeric’s devotion to my best friend is the most consistent thing inour twisted world. But the smile fades as quickly as it formed. Julian? Letting what out? Like… crying? The concept is so foreign it feels like trying to imagine a fish breathing air or the sun rising in the west.

Julian Harrow doesn’t cry. He rages. He destroys. He burns everything in his path with the inferno of his emotions. He doesn’t break down; he breaks others.

Yet Emeric’s words paint a different picture—one of a man shattered by grief and fighting at The Den as a way to try to deal with it.

I know Julian cared for his brother and they faced hell together, faced the devil known as Lucian. My anger at him has been overshadowing the fact that he’s still hurting. I know Julian, and I know losing Adrian while also becoming leader must be torture for him.

For a fractured moment, I almost pound on the door. Almost call out his name. Almost beg him to understand that we share the same loss so I can pull him into my arms and give him a safe place to relieve the weight on his shoulders. I want to carry the burden with him.

---