Page 42 of Goldrage
“Gregory has always been such a supportive member of our community.” Lady Harrow’s grip tightens on my arm, a warning. She must notice how tense with rage I’ve become. “He’s particularly interested in the family’s… future endeavors.”
He steps closer, invading my space. Expensive cologne and stale cigars assault my nostrils, but underneath lurks something worse: desperation, the scent of a man who takes what he wants because money says he can.
“I was just telling Lady Harrow how much I’m looking forward to the baby’s arrival,” he says. “I do hope you’ll be more… available for social gatherings afterward.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He leans even closer, dropping his voice so only I can hear. “I’ve always wondered what a woman feels like right after birth. All soft and stretched and leaking. Must be quite the experience.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides and I swallow down puke.
He turns to Lady Harrow, continuing as if I’m not even there. “Will she still be available while she’s nursing? You made quite a lot of promises, and I’ve been waiting so patiently. Nothing quite like breaking in a new mother, I imagine. All those hormones must make them wonderfully… responsive.” His eyes lower to my breasts. “And I wonder how her milk will taste.”
Lady Harrow’s laugh is sharp and delighted. “Oh, Gregory! You’re absolutely terrible.” But her eyes shine with the kind of malicious approval that makes my skin prickle with fresh horror. “Though I’m sure Aurelia appreciates your enthusiasm.”
They both laugh, the sound wrapping around me like barbed wire. My stomach rebels violently, and I’m not sure if it’s pure disgust or if my body has decided to add its own dramatic flair to this performance. Either way, the nausea works in my favor. I press a hand to my stomach, letting my face drain of color.
“Excuse me,” I manage, making my voice weak.
Before either parasite can protest, I dart into the crowd and walk toward the refreshment table. My gaze finds Lorenzo across the room. He’s engaged in what looks like casual conversation with some Consortium members, but his eyes find mine. Thesubtle nod he gives me might as well be a shrug.Just play nice and tolerate the bullshit a little longer.
But does he really understand what bullshit I’m tolerating? He doesn’t know how Lady Harrow humiliated me with that cigar. No one except Adrian knows. And Lorenzo isn’t the one being discussed like a cut of meat at the butcher’s, evaluated for how well he’ll satisfy their sick appetites after being properly tenderized.
I leave my water glass on the table, using the moment to steady myself before slipping through the French doors to the patio. I escape into the cool evening air. My lungs expand gratefully, pulling in the scent of roses.
The patio overlooks the massive rose garden, and my eyes automatically search for Adrian’s window. Somewhere up there, he’s locked away, probably staring at these same roses. The distance between us might as well be an ocean. Guards posted outside his room, Bianca trailing after him like a lovesick shadow whenever Julian allows visits…
How can I get to him?
God, just a few days ago I was in that living room, watching tears streak down his face when he realized I was alive. The way his whole body had trembled with relief, how he’d looked at me like I was his salvation walking through the door. My chest constricts at the memory.
I miss him so much.
“Terribly suffocating inside, isn’t it?”
The soft voice behind me doesn’t startle me because I’d heard the whisper of expensive fabric coming throughthe doors. I turn to find Olivia approaching. Out here in the moonlight, away from the harsh chandeliers, her features seem almost human. Softer, maybe.
“The whole spectacle is suffocating,” she clarifies, one elegant hand gesturing toward the ballroom where laughter and conversation spill through the open doors.
I’m so drained that, if she’s playing some game, I’m too tired to participate. I sag against the patio railing. “I hate this life.”
Olivia joins me, her gaze drifting over the moonlit roses like she’s searching for answers among the thorns. “The Consortium has a special talent for dehumanizing women. I’ve watched it happen to countless others over the years. My sister used to say the trick was to remember who you really are underneath all their expectations.”
Victoria.
My knees threaten to buckle as Olivia speaks, her hands moving through the air with that same elegance Victoria once had. The way she tilts her head when a thought strikes her, that slight smile that hovers at the edge of her lips without ever fully blooming—God, it’s like watching her sister’s ghost.
The resemblance isn’t just physical. It’s in the rhythm of her speech, and the careful way she chooses each word.
Guilt crashes over me in waves so violent I have to grip the railing to stay upright. Victoria hadn’t even been born when my mother was at this estate suffering in silence. And she didn’t choose this life. She was born in this wasteland through no fault of her own.
And I killed her for that. I killed her for—what? A sick satisfaction?
It wasn’t for revenge, I simply thought she deserved it.
But did she? What gives me the right to decide if someone lives or dies?
I’d made myself a judge and executioner over a woman whose greatest crime was her last name.
“Are you feeling alright?” Olivia’s voice floats through the haze in my mind. “You look pale. Do you need to sit down?”
“Just tired.” The words scrape past the lump in my throat. “It’s been a long evening.”
