Page 32 of Goldflame

Damn it, I still love the man.

But the moment passes. The voices fade as they move down the hallway. I’m left alone again, pressing my forehead against the wood, trapped with nothing but these dangerous, softening thoughts.

Part of me wants to comfort him, to remind him of who we were before all this darkness. But that would require him to stop being so damn blind. To listen and see the truth that’s been in front of him all along.

“You gotta release her, mate,” Emeric’s voice carries back. “That’s not the way to resolve a lover’s quarrel.”

My breath catches, suspended in my lungs like a trapped bird. Release me? The words ignite a flicker of hope—dangerous, fragile—in my chest. I press harder against the door, fingertips white with pressure, straining to hear Julian’s response. But there’s nothing. Only the fading footsteps and the hollow silence that follows.

I wait. One minute bleeds into five, into fifteen, into an hour. The light shifts across Adrian’s pristine carpet as afternoon surrenders to evening. No key turns in the lock. No guards come to let me out. No Julian appears with either apology or further accusation.

The hope withers, curling in on itself like burnt paper. Of course. Just another cruel reminder of my powerlessness right now. I retreat to the bed, sinking into the sheets.

God, when will this be over? I’m so exhausted, heart and soul.

For now, I can’t escape, but I can rest. Closing my eyes, I clutch the diary to my chest like a protective talisman and let the darkness pull me under.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AURELIA

Light filters through my eyelids, consciousness seeping back reluctantly. Something feels different. The air moves differently across my skin—fresher, less stagnant. I blink, disoriented by the quality of light as dawn creeps through the windows, painting the walls in watercolor hues.

Then I see it—the door. Open. Not cracked by a few inches, but unmistakably, impossibly open.

I sit up and can’t stop a yawn, certain I’m still dreaming. Once I’m more awake, my eyes dart to the security camera in the corner, its red light blinking back at me. Is Julian watching this? Observing my reaction like I’m an animal in a laboratory? What kind of game is this?

I slide from the bed, the plush carpet catching between my toes. Is this freedom, or just a trick? Are guards positioned outside, waiting to catch me in an escape attempt? To add another crime to the list in Julian’s head?

I walk across the room then press myself against thewall beside the door, lungs barely drawing air. Lady Harrow has taught me how lethal hope can be; how easily it transforms into a weapon against the desperate.

I hate to admit it, but I am desperate.

My fingers edge toward the door, nudging it open another inch. The hallway beyond appears empty. I strain to hear footsteps, breathing, anything that might indicate an ambush, but there’s only silence.

Well… Fuck it.

If this is Julian’s sick game, so be it. Better to face whatever trap is waiting for me than waste away in Adrian’s room another second.

Quickly, I snatch the diary from the rumpled sheets, shoving it into the waistband of my pajama bottoms. With one final glance at the camera—a silent challenge to whoever might be watching—I slip into the hallway. Freedom or trap, truth or lie, I’ll face it head-on.

With luck, I’ll be able to escape this hell hole.

The Harrow penthouse stretches before me like an homage to marble. Every surface gleams with the cold perfection that defines this family—polished black-and-white marble floors and abstract expressionist artwork on light gray walls, furniture arranged like booby traps and always in the way of walking paths. No warmth. No color. Nothing but pristine emptiness masquerading as luxury.

I know every inch of this godforsaken penthouse. The front entrance and elevator—my only salvation—are just beyond the large living room, past the formal dining area. My bare feet make no sound against the cold floor as I move like a shadow through familiar territory.

The penthouse breathes silence. No voices, no footsteps, no signs of life.Can it really be this easy?Confidence grows with each step away from Adrian’s room. Perhaps Emeric talked some sense into Julian and he’s finally letting me go. Perhaps this is truly the universe granting me mercy after days of torture.

I round the corner into the dining room, calculations already spinning through my mind. From here, fifteen steps to the living room, another twenty to the elevator.

And then time stops.

Julian and Lady Harrow sit at the massive marble dining table, forks suspended midway since they’re in the middle of eating breakfast. Steam rises from plates of waffles drenched in fruit and syrup, the water vapor curling in the air like question marks.

Lady Harrow barely flickers an eyelash, her composure as immaculate as the pearls at her throat. But Julian—his reaction fractures everything into a thousand sharp edges.

He rises so suddenly his chair topples backward, the crash reverberating through the space. His face is a battlefield of purple and yellow bruises, his left eye swollen nearly shut, a fresh row of stitches carving a jagged line through his eyebrow. Blood vessels have burst in his right eye, turning the white into a crimson sea around his blue iris.

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