Page 37 of Goldflame

Even if I did, no one would believe me. No one would care.

I swallow the rage that threatens to choke me and drop my gaze to the floor.

He must notice the defeat written in my posture because he releases me and steps back. “You can walk around,” he says, the words clipped. “Mingle. Just don’t try anything stupid.”

The sudden gift of freedom, however limited, catches me off guard. I stare at him, trying to decipher what game he’s playing now. His expression gives nothing away.

I decide it doesn’t matter because, finally, I can get away from him, even if just for an evening. Quickly, I try to disappear in the crowd. But my freedom is short-lived. Even with space between us, I can sense exactly where he is in the room, like there’s an invisible tether connecting us. My body has always been attuned to his, a sixth sense I’ve never been able to silence. And I can feel him watching me.

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for Valentine’s familiar figure. I really need his calming presence right now. More than that, I need to know if he has a plan to get me out of the fucking Harrow penthouse. But I don’tsee him anywhere. What if Julian ordered him to stay away tonight?

As I’m trying again to find Valentine, I collide with a flash of royal purple—a color so distinctive in this monochrome world of gold and black that it can only belong to one person.

“Aurelia!”

Eleanora’s arms are around me before I can respond, her familiar sweet scent enveloping me in memories that now feel decades old. I cling to her, desperate for contact, for the warmth of someone who still cares about me.

When she pulls back, her amber eyes are glistening. “God, I’ve been out of my mind worrying about you.”

The genuine concern in her voice makes me want to cry. “I’m okay,” I lie, but what could I even tell her? It’s not like she can do anything. Her family isn’t even a member of the Inferno Consortium.

“I went to the penthouse three times,” she says, her perfectly manicured fingers still gripping my arms like I might dissolve if she lets go. “Julian wouldn’t let me see you. Just said, ‘Your friend is alive,’ like that was supposed to satisfy me.”

She steps back just enough to assess me, her eyes traveling from my face to my arms looking for injuries or signs of mistreatment. Finding none visible—the bruises from Julian’s grip are hidden beneath the gold silk, and the wounds inside me will never show on skin—she exhales a shaky breath.

“Emeric told me what happened. Or his version of it, anyway.”

Of course he did. I can picture it clearly—Emericmeeting with Eleanora after the funeral, recounting how Julian had me dragged away by guards, how I’d been imprisoned in Adrian’s room ever since. I wonder how many desperate texts Eleanora sent that never reached me, how many calls that went straight to the void of a phone I no longer have.

“I’m sure Emeric told you there’s no getting through to Julian right now,” I say, attempting a smile that feels like a crack splitting across my face.

Eleanora shakes her head, making her long black hair sway. “I know about the rumors—what they’re saying about you and Adrian.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t believe any of it. Not for a second. You would never kill him.”

Relief floods me, but it’s quickly dismissed by the knowledge that her belief in me changes nothing. Julian still thinks I murdered his brother. Lady Harrow still walks free. And I’m still a prisoner, draped in designer silk that might as well be chains.

“Maybe just give Julian some time to come to his senses,” Eleanora continues, squeezing my hands. “Play his little game for now. So what if you have to stay at his place for a while? I’m sure it will all be fine.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. She means well, but she only exists near the darkness I’ve been drowning in; she doesn’t understand the depths of what’s happening. To her, this is a lovers’ quarrel that’s spun out of control—a temporary madness that will pass with enough time.

She has no concept of what it means to be owned, so staying at Julian’s penthouse must sound like an inconvenience, not the slow death sentence it actually is.

But I don’t blame her. I’ve kept her at arm’s length for months, shielding her from the ugliness that’s consumed me. First, it was my revenge against DeMarco, Whitman, and Victoria. Then, my twisted dance with Julian. Finally, Adrian’s murder. With each step deeper into this abyss, I’ve pulled further away from the one friend who’s always been there.

I guess I’ve just always wanted her to maintain her innocence.

But despite my distance, despite my silence, she still cared enough to pound on Julian’s door demanding to see me. And she still loves me enough to risk being here tonight.

I hold out my hand and she takes it. I’m about to tell her how much I miss her and apologize for growing so distant lately, but before I can speak, her attention shifts. She glances over her shoulder—is she looking for someone?—then gives me a slight smile.

“That guy over there has been looking at me all night,” she says, pointing at someone in the crowd.

I turn to scan the faces, but I’m not sure who she’s talking about. When I quickly turn back, Eleanora’s gaze is lowered and she’s glancing down at something hidden behind the tulle of her dress. It looks like… a phone. But not her usual sleek iPhone adorned with rhinestones. This is an ancient purple flip phone, the kind that became obsolete because all it does is send black and white texts and make calls.

I frown. Eleanora, fashion-forward and constantly documenting her life on social media, using something that can’t even run Instagram? It’s odd.

She checks it quickly, thumbs flying over the number pad before tucking it away again. When she looks up, she finds me watching and gives a small smile. “Did you see him?”

“Who?”

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