Page 87 of Goldflame

My face feels so moisturized and fresh, that I wantmy entire body to feel that way. I strip down to my panties, grabbing a razor to shave my legs first.

I reach for some cream and lift my leg, propping my foot on the counter. It exposes the inside of my thighs and the underneath.

The areas where most of the marks are gathered.

The cigar burns.

There’s more than a dozen of them, scattered across my skin like perverse constellations. Each is a perfect circle branded into my flesh by Lady Harrow and her sadistic friends. Some have begun to heal, the raw red fading to angry pink, but others remain crusted and dark.

I’ve avoided looking at them directly as much as possible. But now, under the bright lights, there’s nowhere to hide from the truth.

My hand trembles as I trace the edge of one burn on my thigh, then another on my hip. The memory is a violent shudder in my body—the acrid smell of cigar smoke, the searing pain as they pressed burning tobacco to my flesh, the sound of laughter as I screamed.

I don’t know what it is about this moment of looking at the scars, but a dam breaks, releasing everything I’ve tried to keep in since I arrived here. My knees buckle, but I manage to fall on the closed toilet lid. My body folds in on itself as ragged sobs tear from my throat. Grief, rage and terror pour out of me in wave after unstoppable wave.

I don’t hear the door open or the footsteps rushing toward me. It’s only when hands touch my shoulders that I realize I’m no longer alone.

“Aurelia—”

I jerk away, grabbing wildly for a towel, but it’s too late. He’s seen them. Seen the marks. Seen me broken and sobbing in a heap in this bathroom.

Adrian kneels in front of me, his blue eyes wide with something that looks like horror. The distant businessman who’s been avoiding me for days is gone, replaced by the man who held me in his office.

“What’re you doing here?” I choke out, pulling the towel around me, though it can’t possibly hide the damage that’s already been exposed.

“Lorenzo said you looked upset. I came to check on you and heard crying.”

He reaches for me then hesitates, his hand suspended in the space between us. Even now, he’s careful with boundaries. Waiting for permission.

My heart cracks at his thoughtfulness.

“Tell me what happened,” he says, and his voice has changed, dropping an octave into something primal. “Who did this to you?”

I shrink back, clutching the towel tighter. Words feel like too much because the burns are pulsing with phantom pain, each one carrying its own memory of humiliation and agony.

“Aurelia.” He softens his voice and inches closer. “Please. Let me help you.”

The gentleness undoes me. I’ve spent so long fighting against weakness, against vulnerability, but I’m too raw to maintain the fortress of my defenses. My lips tremble, and I hear a foreign, broken voice that I barely recognize as my own.

“Your mother.”

His entire body goes rigid, muscles tensing like I slapped him. The room seems to darken around the edges and the air grows dense with a silent fury that vibrates from his every pore.

“She—” I clear my throat. “She and her friends. Julian wasn’t there, so they…” I pull in a ragged breath. “They held me down and… took turns.” My tears are hot trails on my cheeks. “They laughed. Just like they did with my mother. Lady Harrow told me while they burned me. She told me how she used to hold my mother down the same way. She said it was tradition.”

I’m sobbing now, the confession tearing out of me like it has claws. Adrian moves toward me slowly, deliberately, and when his arms encircle me, I collapse against him. My body remembers this—the safety of his embrace on the rare occasions he held me. Only this time, his body isn’t stiff. He melts into me as much as I do to him.

Here, in his arms, is the only place I’ve felt truly protected since this nightmare began, so I cling to him.

“My mother kept a diary. She wrote down everything. The torture, the humiliation, all of it. They treated her like she wasn’t human, like she was just a toy for their amusement. And then they did the same to me.” I’m shaking uncontrollably now. “I was going to tell you everything about the diary, about what she went through?—”

“I know,” he says gently, cutting me off with a softness that stops my spiral. His hand strokes my hair, his heartbeat steady against my ear. “I know.”

I pull back, confused. “You know?”

“Not everything. But enough. Lorenzo told me about the letter his mother received, and it detailed the abuse.” His jaw tightens. “After that, I started digging through my father’s private papers. I found evidence. I even suspected my mother was part of it. I wanted to talk with you about what I found, that’s why I asked you to meet me that one night. Somehow, my mother found out and she shot me before I could share my findings with you.”

The way he says “evidence” tells me everything I need to know. My stomach turns as I imagine what he discovered—photos, videos, the documentation of cruelty that men like Lucian Harrow collect like trophies.

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