Page 38 of Goldflame

“The guy who I said to look at.”

“No…”

She shrugs, apparently done with that topic of interest.

“Why do you have—” I start to ask about her strange phone, but a woman suddenly materializes beside us.

“Eleanora!” The woman’s voice is soft, almost musical in its gentle cadence. She embraces my friend with genuine warmth, and Eleanora’s face lights up in response.

“Bianca! Perfect timing.” Eleanora turns to me, her hand gesturing excitedly between us. “Aurelia, this is my friend Bianca. We met at Peet’s because I noticed she was wearing the exact same Zimmerman top, can you believe that?”

“Wow, crazy,” I try to say with enthusiasm but it comes out bland. I’m too occupied trying to study Bianca with the practiced eye of someone raised in a world where appearances are always deceiving.

She’s petite, with olive skin and dirty blonde hair that falls in soft waves past her shoulders. Her dress is modest compared to the other women here—a simple champagne-colored sheath that complements rather than announces. Pretty, but understated. The kind of beauty that doesn’t demand attention.

Interesting. If she’s here, her family either has moneyor she has powerful connections. But either way, why dress so plain compared to everyone else?

I meet her gaze. Her eyes are warm brown and gentle but shadowed with a nervousness that makes her seem perpetually on the verge of apologizing for something. She carries herself with a certain cautious grace, like someone who’s been taught to take up as little space as possible.

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Bianca says, her voice barely carrying over the ambient noise of the ballroom. She extends her hand and there’s a delicate white dove pendant hanging from a chain around her wrist.

I shake her hand and she averts her gaze after only a moment of eye contact. Shy, or hiding something? In this world, the distinction matters.

“Is your family part of the Consortium?” I ask.

She shifts her weight, one hand moving to touch the pendant at her wrist in what appears to be an unconscious gesture. “Oh, no. I mean, not yet. But my husband is. I mean…” Her voice drops slightly, a blush coloring her cheeks. “His family belongs.”

I nod, wondering which of these powerful men has claimed her. Does she understand what she’s walking into? Has anyone told her how this world consumes soft things, grinding them down until they’re either broken or hardened beyond recognition?

Not my business, I remind myself. And if I end up killing one of her new family members, also not my business. New members join the Consortium all the time, pulled into its gravity by love or ambition or necessity.She’ll learn soon enough, just like I did. Some lessons can only be taught through experience.

Eleanora turns to Bianca. “Oh my god, do you remember that woman we saw at the pier last week? Well…”

I watch as Eleanora and Bianca slip into their own little world, talking about stuff they experienced together.

I feel a miserable ache inside me as I watch how quickly and easily they’ve become friends. While I’ve been submerged in blood and tragedy, Eleanora has been building connections and meeting new people to fill the void I’ve created with my absence. I should be happy for her—grateful, even, that she’s found someone who appears genuinely kind and supportive.

Instead, I feel a childish pang of jealousy. The distance between Eleanora and me suddenly seems like a canyon, measured in all the small moments I’ve missed.

It feels like everyone in my life is slipping away, some physically and others emotionally.

My eyes drift automatically to Julian across the room. He’s engaged in conversation with a silver-haired man whose expensive watch catches the light, but his attention isn’t truly there. It’s fixed on me, that piercing blue gaze cutting through the crowd. Even with the bruising on his face, even with the swelling distorting his features, the message in his eyes is clear:Mine.

God, I feel sick. I tear my gaze away, trying to focus on Bianca and Eleanora again even though they really aren’t talking to me.

They start chatting about an upcoming exhibit at theSeattle Art Museum, along with Eleanora’s latest fashion obsession—scarves. I contribute just enough to appear engaged while my eyes continue scanning the room, searching for Valentine.

Please be here.

Finally, I spot him near one of the ice sculptures, his tall frame unmistakable even from this distance. Relief floods through me, a momentary break from the dread that’s been creeping in.

“Sorry,” I interrupt whatever Eleanora is saying about next season’s color palette. “I have to go talk with someone.”

Eleanora gives me a hug. “Okay, but come back? I miss you.”

I squeeze her hand, grateful. “I miss you too.” I give Bianca a polite smile and then weave through the crowd.

Valentine spots me and waits near the sculpture, his dark suit and rigid posture marking him as different from the socialites around him.

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