Page 51 of Goldflame

I’m simply numb. Empty. Dried out like something left too long in the sun.

Valentine’s words echo in my thoughts:Be patient. I’m working on it. Trust me.

Trust. God, what a fucking joke. I trusted Julian and look where that got me—locked in his dead brother’s bedroom while his psychotic mother walks around just beyond these walls. The irony of being imprisoned in the very penthouse where I spent so many years trying to fit into Adrian’s life isn’t lost on me.

I close my eyes as I think of one of my mother’s diary entries:

Day forty-six in Lucian’s room. I’ve stopped crying. The tears accomplish nothing except to dehydrate me, and I need my strength. Sometimes I press my forehead against thewindow and imagine I could simply melt through the glass, become vapor, disappear into the clouds...

This is what it felt like for her. This slow suffocation of the spirit. This gradual erosion of hope until all that remains is going through the motions of merely existing.

I miss my room—my teal walls, my artwork, my books. Myphone.I’m so goddamn bored I’ve even started reading one of Adrian’s books on macroeconomics.

I don’t understand anything on those pages.

I miss Sunday brunches with Eleanora at that little spot in Pike Place Market where the owner always saved us the corner table. I miss Valentine’s gruff voice calling me to dinner, the scent of something burnt because he’s a terrible cook but refuses to admit it.

I miss my life—something precious I took for granted. And while I’d still kill all of those bastards all over again, I realize I spent too much time focused on revenge.

I still crave revenge, but I’m also craving something else now.

A normal life. Toliveand enjoy myself and be happy.

If Julian suddenly unlocked the door and told me to leave Seattle and never look back, to forget about the Consortium and even about killing his mother… I might take that opportunity.

Because, even if I’m able to finish off my hit list, what happens next? I’ve spent so many years focused solely on my revenge plans that I’ve never thought about the life I want afterwards. This moment in time is such a smallblip. So what do I want to do with the rest of the days Ihopefullyhave?

Travel the world? Go to school? Get married and have children?

Who am I beyond this thirst for revenge?

A desperate, frantic energy suddenly rattles me. I can’t lay here another second and stare at these walls and count these dots and breathe this air that still smells faintly of Adrian. I need something—anything—to anchor me to reality before I shatter completely.

I roll off the bed, bare feet hitting the plush carpet. I’ve avoided touching Adrian’s things as much as possible. It feels like it somehow violates his memory. But now I need the distraction, and I just want to feel closer again to the man who once lived in this space.

His large walk-in closet is against the far wall, perfectly organized in a way that was so completely Adrian. I hesitate, then pull the door open to the room.

Suits. Dozens of them, arranged precisely by color—blacks, then charcoals, then navys, then browns. Each one tailored to his exact measurements. I run my fingers over the expensive fabrics, remembering how he looked in them—powerful, untouchable, like he’d been born wearing Armani.

But then, tucked at the far end of the rack, are two pairs of jeans. Simple, worn Levi’s. I almost pass out from the shock. Jeans! I’ve never seen him wear those—not once in our ten years together. And it makes me smile. Something so ordinary, so human, hidden away like a secret.

I pull one pair out to study them. The knees areslightly worn, a small hole forming at the bottom of one pocket. I press them to my chest and something between a laugh and a sob escapes. I really can’t picture Adrian in jeans. The image just doesn’t compute in my brain—like trying to imagine a shark wearing sneakers.

“Who were you?” I whisper to the empty room. “When no one was watching?”

Carefully, I replace the jeans exactly as I found them and leave the closet. Moving to his desk, I run my fingers over the polished surface. His leather planner sits in the center, everything else arranged around it.

I shouldn’t look. It feels like trespassing.

I open it anyway.

Dates, appointments, meetings—all recorded in Adrian’s handwriting. But it’s the margins that grab my attention. They’re filled with a code—numbers, letters, symbols that make no sense. This was how he tracked his business dealings I guess, how he kept record of Lucian’s demands without leaving evidence.

3.D47 | 8PM | C.P.G. || 1.3M – 450K = 850K

Was that a shipment? A transaction? A meeting with someone dangerous? I’ll never know now.

My chest tightens. Another piece of him I’ll never understand—another door forever closed.

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