Page 70 of Goldflame

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AURELIA

Light slices through my eyelids, forcing me to consciousness. My head throbs with a dull, persistent ache, like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around my skull and is slowly tightening it. When I try to lift my head, the room spins, and I fall back against pillows that feel unfamiliar.

This isn’t Adrian’s room.

Fear electrifies every nerve ending as memories flood back. Julian’s arms around me in bed. Us in the kitchen. The whiskey burning down my throat. His voice shifting from tender to cruel in the space of a heartbeat.

“You’re still mine. But why should I have all the fun?”

For those brief moments in the kitchen, I let myself believe we could find our way back. That somehow, against all odds, Julian had finally seen the truth. That we could stand together against his mother.

I was so fucking desperate that I fell for the oldest trick in the book.

“Hope the first guy doesn’t ruin youtoo much.”

Tears prick my eyes as something shatters inside me—the last fragile piece that still believed in Julian, in us, in any possibility of redemption. It’s as if a thread holding my heart together has finally been severed.

The worst part isn’t even the betrayal. It’s that I still care. I still don’t want Julian to become the monster his father was. But I can finally admit the truth: there’s no salvaging what we had. We’re done. Forever.

Even if he somehow woke up tomorrow truly repentant, I could never trust him again. You can’t rebuild from this level of betrayal. You can only walk away from the ruins.

My stomach churns as I force myself to assess my surroundings. The room is nothing like the cold environment of the Harrow penthouse. Here, sunlight streams through enormous windows that frame a dense forest landscape outside.

The room itself is warm and inviting—terracotta walls, rich wooden furniture with intricate carvings, and fabrics in burnt oranges and deep reds. It feels Mediterranean, like stepping into a villa somewhere in Italy rather than the outskirts of Seattle.

No chains. No bars on the windows. Nothing indicating this is my new prison.

But I know better. It’s never the rooms that cage you; it’s the people.

My pulse quickens as I wonder who Julian has handed me off to like some used plaything. Which member of the Consortium now claims ownership of the Golden One? And what fresh hell awaits?

The thought paralyzes me. I can’t even bring myself to swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I’m about to bury myself under the covers so I can pretend I’m somewhere else, but my eye catches something on the nightstand. My diary! I snatch it up, frantically flipping to the section where I hid Adrian’s gift. The emerald necklace remains untouched, nestled safely in its makeshift safe.

Thank God.

I hug the diary. This is the only pure thing left in my life. As long as I have it, I have proof that someone, at some point, truly cared about me, even if briefly.

A soft knock at the door sends my heart racing. I freeze, muscles tensing as I instinctively curl around the diary in my arms. What if it’s my new owner ready to play with his toy?

I don’t answer but the door opens anyway.

An elderly woman hobbles in and I blink at her. Not what I was expecting, but it’s better than what I feared. She’s carrying a silver tray with a plate of food. Her hair is pulled back in a tight gray bun, and her face is a roadmap of wrinkles that deepen as she frowns at me. She looks every bit like someone’s stern but loving grandma.

“Ah, you’re awake,” she says, her accent thick and distinctly Italian. “Good. You must eat.” She sets the tray on a small table near the window. “Bread, fruit, eggs. All fresh from our kitchen.”

The scent of warm food makes my stomach clench, but I’m too suspicious to eat, especially after being drugged recently. “I’m not hungry,” I lie.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “No? After sleeping for so long? No, no. This won’t do.” She begins arranging the plates. “You need strength.”

“I’m not hungry,” I repeat more firmly. The idea of accepting anything in this place—food, clothes, kindness—feels like surrendering.

The woman clucks her tongue. “Stubborn girl. Perhaps you’d prefer to bathe first?” She gestures toward a door I assume leads to a bathroom, then to a garment bag hanging near a closet.

Images flash through my mind—the Harrow maids scrubbing my skin raw, treating me like a doll to be prepared for display. Julian watching. My stomach turns. “I’ll manage on my own.”

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