Page 45 of Goldflame

Or kill him.

“Get out,” I add, and the fucker leaves me alone.

As the door closes behind him, I sink lower in my chair, so low my head is level with the top of the backrest.

I hate this. I hate leadership. I hate these fucking privileged families around me. Hate that my father builtthis life for himself and then forced me and Adrian into it. Neither of us chose this shit, we were only forced to take the mantle of our father’s dreams. A father neither of us truly loved.

If I could’ve been doing something else tonight… I’d be with Aurelia. I said it to her as a threat at the festival, but I really do need to be buried deep inside her. Even if she hates me, she wants me to fuck her raw.

I can see that truth in her eyes.

Sighing, I pull out my phone, checking the security feed from Aurelia’s room.

She’s curled on her side, hair spilling across Adrian’s pillow like liquid fire, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep. She’s been like that all day—not moving, just drifting in and out of consciousness like she’s trying to escape her reality. Something about the stillness unsettles me. Aurelia’s prone to explosive outbursts, to fits of rage that burn everything in their path. This quiet feels… wrong. Like the calm before a storm that will level everything in its wake.

Is she plotting? Or have I finally broken her?

She could at least show some gratitude that I let her out of that room. I expected some kind of ‘thanks’ for the freedom, even if it was temporary. After all, I didn’t need to let her out. My mother certainly didn’t want me to—had practically hissed with rage when I suggested it. But I’m the leader now, and I make the decisions. Not her. Not Valentine. Not the ghosts of my past.

But all Aurelia did was hate me more.

After speaking to her friend, she ran straight to Valentine. My mother warned me not to let them speak,but even if Aurelia and her stepfather are plotting something, Valentine can’t do shit. Not when everyone is finally listening to me, finally respecting the name I carry. He’s too smart to make a move yet.

But I didn’t expect that man. Skinny, anxious-looking fucker, pale as a ghost and fidgeting like he was about to crawl out of his own skin. I barely caught the exchange—Aurelia speaking with him near the food tables, his trembling hands offering her something.

She tried to hide it, but I caught a glimpse.

A feather. A fucking black feather.

I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with Valentine about a month ago, just before Aurelia killed Victoria. Valentine had told me Lucian suspected that the same person who killed DeMarco also killed Whitman. Though Aurelia really killed those two idiots, my father saw footage of the restaurant where Whitman ate his last meal. There was a strange figure in a hoodie. After Aurelia killed Whitman in the bathroom—Valentine scrubbed all evidence of her from the video footage—the strange figure went into the bathroom to leave a black feather on Whitman’s chest.

There was a black feather on Theodore’s chest too. The detail had been nagging at the edges of my consciousness for weeks, but I’d buried it beneath the demands of the Consortium and dealing with Aurelia.

But now—Christ—it all came back to me at the festival and has been churning in my head ever since. I know I need to do something about this.

Who was that man? Was he working with Aurelia?

Or—and I hate that this thought even forms—what if he acted alone?

I’ve tried finding information on him. Nothing. He’s not part of the Consortium, not connected to any of our operations. Which means he’s working through someone. Aurelia? Some third party I haven’t even considered?

I’ve been chewing on these thoughts, letting them rot my insides. When I imprisoned Aurelia, I acted on pure instinct—raw emotion—exactly what Lucian would have done. I see that, and the thought turns my stomach. Becoming him is the one thing I promised myself I’d never do, and yet here I am, locking up a woman because my rage needed somewhere to go.

I locked her up without proof, and it’spossiblethat she didn’t kill Theodore. That she was telling the truth about that at least.

Adrian would’ve been methodical. Patient. He would’ve gathered concrete evidence before making accusations—I know because I watched him do it a hundred times while Lucian raged and demanded immediate action.

“You’ll get us both killed with your impulsiveness,” Adrian once told me, his voice low as he stitched a gash over my eye after one of Lucian’s fits. “Always investigate before you act. Always.”

Now he’s gone, and the only compass I have left is the memory of his methodical mind.

If Aurelia didn’t kill Theodore—if—I need to find that evidence. And if she did, I need to know that too. But I can’t act rashly again—not like Lucian. Not like themonster who beat my mother until she bled, then blamed her for making him angry.

I don’t want to be like him. I’d much rather be more like Adrian.

My eyes drift to the empty chair where Lucas Carter should’ve been. I don’t care if he had an “emergency.” He should’ve been here. I’m sure everyone in the Consortium has pressing shit to deal with, but family leaders still came tonight. They showed respect. Lucas didn’t.

I dial Valentine, preferring not to see his face again. He answers and then waits.

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