Page 33 of Goldrage
As if on cue, my stomach churns. But this isn’t part of the performance; it’s real nausea from stress and fear and the absolute wrongness of being in this place where mymother suffered. I sit up on the bed and take some deep breaths, but the sickness remains. Carefully, I stand. I lurch toward the bathroom, barely making it before I’m retching into the toilet. The sound echoes off the tiles, violent and undeniable.
I hate puking but it’ll work to my advantage. I hope Julian hears and thinks it’s morning sickness.
When my stomach finally settles, I strip and step into the shower. The hot water relaxes me for a few minutes, then I’m tense again as soon as the water is off. When I’m done and I’m toweling myself off, I notice a summer dress hanging on the back of the door. Soft yellow fabric, simple but elegant.
My mother’s?
My hand freezes halfway to the fabric. But no—there’s a tag. It’s brand new and in my exact size. Someone went shopping for me, I guess. More mind games, probably from Lady Harrow.
I pull on the dress, noting how it skims my body in a way that will show even the slightest change in my figure. Of course. That bitch wants to watch my body transform. She wants visual proof of the lie I’m selling.
Another reason I need to escape with Adrian within the next four weeks.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I move to the window, staring out at the garden my mother rightfully called demonic. Roses climb trellises in the dying light, their blooms the color of old blood. Somewhere in this house, Adrian is fighting his own battles. Somewhere beyond the gates, Lorenzo and Eleanora are trying to figure outa rescue plan.
And here I am, wearing a dead woman’s face in a dead woman’s room, carrying a ghost child that might be my only salvation.
Someone knocks on the door. It’s sharp, authoritative, announcing rather than requesting. When I open it, a guard stands waiting, his expression carved from the same emptiness as those trophy animals.
“It’s seven,” he says.
I blink at him.
As if I’m too stupid to understand the concept of time, he adds, “Dinner.”
My chest tightens with a familiar dread. There’s the sensation of being herded, monitored, controlled and threatened. But I breathe through it, focusing on the only truth that matters: Adrian needs me. Somewhere in this maze of wealth and cruelty, he’s fighting his own war. Lorenzo and Eleanora are working their angles from the outside. I just need to hold the line from within.
I lift my chin and follow the guard down the hallway.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AURELIA
The guard leads me through the winding corridors. We reach the dining room and it takes me a second to adjust. It’s less a room for eating than it is a shrine to slaughter. Dark wood panels climb toward the ceiling while mounted heads leer down from every wall. There’s even a bear frozen in perpetual rage. The message is clear: everything that enters a Harrow’s domain becomes a trophy eventually.
Julian commands the head of the table like a king holding court. He’s dressed in black—of course he is. He’s wearing suits now, just like his father. The fabric is so perfectly tailored it looks painted on. His hollow eyes dart to mine, holding an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Adrian sits in the wheelchair to Julian’s right and my heart beats faster as we gaze at each other. He’s wearing a gray button-down that emphasizes how much weight he’s lost. The fabric hangs loose where it once stretched across muscle. His face has too many sharp angles now. He lowers his gaze to stareat his plate.
I really wish I could know what he’s thinking. Has his love for me dimmed while he’s been locked away? He has the focus of someone trying very hard not to exist.
Beside him, Bianca perches like a tropical bird that’s wandered into a funeral. Her coral dress seems to glow against all the darkness, and the possessive way she angles her body toward Adrian makes me want to strangle her. When she notices me looking, her pretty features twist with an animosity so pure it’s almost refreshing. At least someone in this room isn’t hiding behind masks.
I take my seat across from them. The empty chairs on either side of me make me feel like an island in hostile waters.
“Yellow suits you,” Julian says, his voice carrying that particular flatness that makes my spine straighten.
Before I can respond, the click of heels announces another arrival. Lady Harrow sweeps in wearing black silk that makes her look like death’s favorite mistress. But it’s not her dress that stops my breath—it’s what glitters at her throat.
My necklace. Adrian’s gift. The emerald stones catch the light, mocking me from around that bitch’s neck.
Behind her, Valentine takes his position by the door. Our eyes meet for a heartbeat. There’s a tenderness there. But it vanishes as he assumes his stance as a guard, reduced to furniture. Part of me wishes he could join us at the table. Despite everything, he tried to save me from Lady Harrow. Maybe…
I sigh. I don’t know. Can I forgive what he did?
It was such a deep betrayal.
My attention snaps back to that necklace and rage floods my veins. Adrian gave that tome. It represents one of the few pure things in this cesspool of manipulation, and she’s wearing it like a fucking prize.
My mouth opens, the confrontation already forming on my tongue?—
