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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

AURELIA

T he Harvest of Wealth festival is exactly what its name suggests—a celebration of excess, a monument to privilege.

The grand ballroom of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel has been transformed into a temple of grandeur, with gold and black décor dripping from every surface.

Two giant crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across the floor, and ice sculptures of cornucopias melt slowly on tables filled with food most people will never taste in their lifetime.

It’s actually quite beautiful, if over-the-top, but it’s not exactly what I expected.

Unlike other Inferno Consortium gatherings, there’s no undercurrent of depravity, no rooms designated for sex and orgies, or drug use.

I’m sure people are doing that here, somewhere, but it’s more hidden this time.

Tonight, old-world wealth is on display—dignified, prestigious, almost conservative in its presentation.

Men in tailored suits and women in designer gowns move through the space like actors on a stage, everyone playing the part of respectability.

I want to gag. These people are far from respectable. Having lots of money doesn’t mean you’re a good human being. The people who traffick women and molest children and sell drugs are suddenly pretending to be pillars of society. God, the hypocrisy.

Julian guides me through the crowd with a light touch at the small of my back.

Each point of contact between his fingers and the thin silk of my dress is like a shock.

We weave through Seattle’s elite—tech billionaires, shipping magnates, politicians—all mingling with members of the Consortium they probably don’t realize are criminals.

Or maybe they do know and simply don’t care where their campaign donations or business investors come from.

More and more, I’m disgusted by the world we live in.

Waiters dance around with trays of champagne in crystal flutes and tiny spoons of caviar. A woman nearby laughs too loudly at something her companion says, the sound like breaking glass against my eardrums.

I’ve been here two minutes and already I want to get away. But Julian’s hand at my back, though light, reminds me of my leash.

Julian steers me deeper into the ballroom, past a quartet playing classical music that no one is truly listening to, past tables with place cards calligraphed by hand. The farther we go, the more my chest tightens, as if there’s less oxygen here among the powerful than there was by the entrance .

Suddenly, his hand closes around my upper arm, squeezing so hard he’s cutting off circulation. Instead of yelping, I bite my bottom lip and grimace through it.

He leans closer, his breath warming the shell of my ear as he hisses, “Behave. My guards will catch you if you run. And everyone here knows you belong to me.”

The words splinter something fundamental inside me. Once, I would have given anything to hear Julian claim me as his. To have him announce to the world that I was the one he wanted, not just another conquest, not just his brother’s leftovers. I would’ve killed to belong to him.

But not like this. Never like this.

I am so tired of this shit.

Yanking out of his grip, I spin to face him.

My little spark of defiance makes his eyebrow twitch up, but I’m not done.

I grab his arm as hard as I can. Of course, his bicep is too big for me to get a good grip, but I dig my nails in as deep as they’ll go.

He flinches, trying to mask that I’m causing him pain.

Leaning closer to his ear, I spit out, “I fucking hate you.” And dammit, part of me really means it. That part of me is growing stronger, day by day, little by little, the more he treats me like trash. The more he becomes a man I don’t recognize.

Julian snatches my wrists, pulling my claws away from his body, then he yanks me into his chest. His grin is twisted and demonic in the honeyed lighting.

“I’ll remember that next time I decide to get my dick wet in your traitorous cunt.

” Pulling back, he kisses me, forcing our lips together painfully .

I swallow and turn my head so he won’t see that those words affect me. Some day, I fear my hate and resentment toward him will overpower the love.

I want to scream. I want to tear this beautiful dress from my body. I want to tell every person in this room exactly what the Harrow family really is, what they’ve done, what they’re capable of.

Even if I did, no one would believe me. No one would care.

I swallow the rage that threatens to choke me and drop my gaze to the floor.

He must notice the defeat written in my posture because he releases me and steps back. “You can walk around,” he says, the words clipped. “Mingle. Just don’t try anything stupid.”

The sudden gift of freedom, however limited, catches me off guard. I stare at him, trying to decipher what game he’s playing now. His expression gives nothing away.

I decide it doesn’t matter because, finally, I can get away from him, even if just for an evening.

Quickly, I try to disappear in the crowd.

But my freedom is short-lived. Even with space between us, I can sense exactly where he is in the room, like there’s an invisible tether connecting us.

My body has always been attuned to his, a sixth sense I’ve never been able to silence. And I can feel him watching me.

My eyes scan the crowd, searching for Valentine’s familiar figure. I really need his calming presence right now. More than that, I need to know if he has a plan to get me out of the fucking Harrow penthouse. But I don’t see him anywhere. What if Julian ordered him to stay away tonight?

As I’m trying again to find Valentine, I collide with a flash of royal purple—a color so distinctive in this monochrome world of gold and black that it can only belong to one person.

“Aurelia!”

Eleanora’s arms are around me before I can respond, her familiar sweet scent enveloping me in memories that now feel decades old. I cling to her, desperate for contact, for the warmth of someone who still cares about me.

When she pulls back, her amber eyes are glistening. “God, I’ve been out of my mind worrying about you.”

The genuine concern in her voice makes me want to cry. “I’m okay,” I lie, but what could I even tell her? It’s not like she can do anything. Her family isn’t even a member of the Inferno Consortium.

“I went to the penthouse three times,” she says, her perfectly manicured fingers still gripping my arms like I might dissolve if she lets go. “Julian wouldn’t let me see you. Just said, ‘Your friend is alive,’ like that was supposed to satisfy me.”

She steps back just enough to assess me, her eyes traveling from my face to my arms looking for injuries or signs of mistreatment. Finding none visible—the bruises from Julian’s grip are hidden beneath the gold silk, and the wounds inside me will never show on skin—she exhales a shaky breath.

“Emeric told me what happened. Or his version of it, anyway.”

Of course he did. I can picture it clearly—Emeric meeting with Eleanora after the funeral, recounting how Julian had me dragged away by guards, how I’d been imprisoned in Adrian’s room ever since.

I wonder how many desperate texts Eleanora sent that never reached me, how many calls that went straight to the void of a phone I no longer have.

“I’m sure Emeric told you there’s no getting through to Julian right now,” I say, attempting a smile that feels like a crack splitting across my face.

Eleanora shakes her head, making her long black hair sway. “I know about the rumors—what they’re saying about you and Adrian.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t believe any of it. Not for a second. You would never kill him.”

Relief floods me, but it’s quickly dismissed by the knowledge that her belief in me changes nothing. Julian still thinks I murdered his brother. Lady Harrow still walks free. And I’m still a prisoner, draped in designer silk that might as well be chains.

“Maybe just give Julian some time to come to his senses,” Eleanora continues, squeezing my hands. “Play his little game for now. So what if you have to stay at his place for a while? I’m sure it will all be fine.”

I nod, not trusting my voice. She means well, but she only exists near the darkness I’ve been drowning in; she doesn’t understand the depths of what’s happening. To her, this is a lovers’ quarrel that’s spun out of control—a temporary madness that will pass with enough time.

She has no concept of what it means to be owned, so staying at Julian’s penthouse must sound like an inconvenience, not the slow death sentence it actually is .

But I don’t blame her. I’ve kept her at arm’s length for months, shielding her from the ugliness that’s consumed me.

First, it was my revenge against DeMarco, Whitman, and Victoria.

Then, my twisted dance with Julian. Finally, Adrian’s murder.

With each step deeper into this abyss, I’ve pulled further away from the one friend who’s always been there.

I guess I’ve just always wanted her to maintain her innocence.

But despite my distance, despite my silence, she still cared enough to pound on Julian’s door demanding to see me. And she still loves me enough to risk being here tonight.

I hold out my hand and she takes it. I’m about to tell her how much I miss her and apologize for growing so distant lately, but before I can speak, her attention shifts. She glances over her shoulder—is she looking for someone?—then gives me a slight smile.

“That guy over there has been looking at me all night,” she says, pointing at someone in the crowd.