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CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AURELIA

T he ceiling of Adrian’s room has exactly seventy-three dots in the pattern above the bed—I’ve counted them twice today. It’s become a ritual, a pointless task to mark time while I lay on the bed.

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 the window 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. My phone. 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. To live and 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 small blip. So what do I want to do with the rest of the days I hopefully have?

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 are slightly 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.

I abandon the planner and drift to the nightstand beside his bed. It’s cluttered with empty protein bar wrappers and beverage containers, because the maids rarely come in here to clean. But I haven’t looked inside yet.

I yank open the drawer. Inside is a prescription bottle of pain pills (for migraines he never mentioned having), a phone charger, a small notepad with more coded entries, and?—

Wait.

Pushed to the very back of the drawer, something red catches my eye. I reach in and pull out a small velvet box.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I hold it in my palm. It’s heavier than it looks, the velvet soft against my skin. I shouldn’t open it. I know I shouldn’t. But does it really matter now?

With trembling fingers, I lift the lid.

“Oh my God,” I gasp.

Nestled in black satin is a necklace that makes my breath catch.

It’s an emerald eternity necklace, the deep green stones set in a delicate gold chain that sparkles even in the dim light of the bedroom.

Diamonds are scattered between the emeralds like stars, creating a constellation that would circle the wearer’s throat.

I recognize the design immediately—KATKIM, one of the designers I’d randomly mentioned liking when we passed a jewelry store in downtown Seattle last year. I’d stopped to look at the window display, but Adrian had pulled me along saying we were late for dinner.

Yet… he’d been listening. He’d remembered.

My fingers shake as I lift the necklace from its velvet pillow. It’s exquisite—the kind of piece that’s meant to be an heirloom, passed down through generations. And it’s worth the cost of a car .

Before I can talk myself out of it, I rush to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I fasten the necklace around my throat with clumsy fingers.

“It’s stunning,” I whisper to myself.

Is that what he would’ve said to me once I put it on?

“You’re stunning, Aurelia.”

I swallow hard. What am I doing? Just living in fantasies. He never once called me “stunning.” And maybe this necklace wasn’t even for me. He did have mistresses I tried to ignore…

I start to put the necklace back in its box and forget I ever found it. But as I’m adjusting it, something crinkles against my fingers. There’s a folded piece of paper tucked into the side of the box. I pull it out and unfold it.

Neat, precise handwriting. Adrian’s handwriting. It reads: You said this necklace was beautiful. Not as beautiful as you, Aurelia.

Six words. Just six simple words that crack my heart wide open.

I move to the bed so I can sit down and read the note again. I’m not hallucinating, am I? Adrian really bought this for me. Wanted to tell me such sweet words, and…

I press the note to my chest as tears flood my eyes and spill down my cheeks in hot, messy tracks. A sob rips from my throat.

Who were you, Adrian?

He never gave me jewelry. Never called me beautiful. Not once in ten years. Not for birthdays, not for anniversaries, not for Valentine’s Day. It was one of the many ways he kept me at arm’s length, one of the countless methods he used to maintain that careful distance between us.

So why this? He must’ve bought it sometime this past year. When was he planning to give it to me? Before I broke up with him? After? Was it a gift he’d purchased months ago and forgotten about? Or was it something he bought more recently—a way to get me back?

I press my palm against my mouth, trying to stifle the sobs that wrack my body.

“Why?” I choke out to the empty room. “Why didn’t you ever show me this side of you?”

Questions continue to assault my thoughts, each one sharper than the last. Did he love me—even a little? Was there something real beneath all those years of coldness and control? What secrets died with him that night?

My heart aches to know, such a needy ache. How am I going to live with so many unanswered questions the rest of my life?

And I know, with certainty now, I’ll miss him forever. Not just the Adrian I knew—the distant, controlled man who treated me like an accessory—but the Adrian I never got to meet. The one who bought this necklace, who wrote this note, who might have actually cared for me in his own strange way.

“I wish you were here,” I whisper to his ghost, running my fingers over the emeralds.

“I’d tell you everything. How I really felt.

How confused you made me. How I wanted so badly to understand you.

” I pause, tears still flowing. “That I have feelings for you. And maybe you’d finally tell me your truth too. ”

But even in my grief, I realize I need to hide this. I can’t wear it because they’ll only take it away. I can’t lose this; it’s all I have left of Adrian.