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CHAPTER NINETEEN

AURELIA

I lie on the bed like a discarded rag doll, limbs splayed uselessly across Adrian’s sheets. The cigar burns on my skin have formed crusts overnight. My body aches, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness that’s replaced my heart.

Two maids hover over me. One is older, gray streaking her dark hair. The other is younger, maybe my age, with delicate features that remind me of a sparrow—small, nervous, ready to take flight at the first sign of danger.

“Miss, please,” the older one says, her fingers plucking at my shirt. “We need to get you ready for tonight’s dinner.”

I stare past her at the ceiling and don’t respond.

They try to undress me while I remain completely limp. I won’t resist, but I won’t help either. If Julian wants to parade me around tonight like his broken toy, fine, but I’m not lifting a finger to aid in my own humiliation .

“Please, miss. We need to bathe you.” The younger maid’s voice cracks. I catch the desperation underneath her words.

I turn my head slightly, seeing her face clearly for the first time.

Fear swims in her brown eyes, and my gaze drifts to her forearm where a bruise spreads like spilled ink.

The shape resembles fingers—someone grabbed her.

Hard. Lady Harrow probably. Or maybe Julian. I don’t put anything past him now.

The sight cracks through my apathy. I remember my mother writing about the staff in her diary—how they were just as trapped as she was, punished for other people’s failures.

None of this is their fault. They’re just trying to survive, same as me.

God, I’m becoming part of the problem. These women could suffer if I don’t cooperate.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll get up.”

Relief washes over both their faces as I pull myself upright, wincing as each burn screams in protest. The younger maid’s eyes widen at the sight of my injuries, but she quickly fixes her expression back to neutral. She’s been trained well.

I trudge to the bathroom, letting them follow. The bathtub is already filled, steam rising from scented water.

The water stings my raw wounds, but I don’t flinch. Physical pain is almost welcome now—a distraction from the deeper agony of Valentine’s betrayal. I close my eyes as they wash my hair, scrub my skin, preparing the Golden One for her appearance .

Valentine. Thinking of him makes my pulse beat heavier.

I remember a night years ago, when I was maybe fifteen.

I’d been out with Valentine at a restaurant.

He went to the bathroom and some businessman had cornered me, his breath reeking of whiskey as he placed his sweaty hand on my lower back.

Valentine appeared out of nowhere, removing the man’s hand with such force I heard something crack.

Later, as we drove home, he’d promised me, “I’ll never let anyone hurt you. ”

And I’d believed him.

How many other lies did he tell me? Was anything real? Was anyone in my life ever genuine?

I’ve been naive to think this world could offer me anything but pain.

Hours pass as the maids work their magic, transforming me from hollow shell to presentable doll. They slide me into a blush pink dress with delicate beading across the bodice. The skirt falls just below my knees, the fabric light enough that it doesn’t aggravate my burns too badly.

“You look beautiful, miss,” the older maid says as they finish, but her eyes don’t meet mine.

I stare at my reflection. I look like a Barbie doll—perfect, pristine, and completely empty inside. My green eyes gaze back at me, vacant as glass marbles.

The maids gather their things and leave. They don’t close the door.

It’s a twisted test, this open door. Another one of Julian’s mind games. I know I’m not free—there are guards and Consortium members just down the hallway, preparing for tonight’s dinner party. I could sit here and wait for Julian to come drag me out, kicking and screaming, in front of everyone.

Or I could walk out with what remains of my dignity.

I stare at the open doorway, feeling something stir. A spark. Not quite hope—something darker, more primal.

These people have taken everything from me—my mother, Adrian, my freedom, my vengeance. Lady Harrow twisted my life to serve her purposes. Valentine, the man who raised me, betrayed me from the start. Julian imprisoned me and reduced me to this hollow creature in a pretty dress.

But they haven’t taken my choice. Not completely. Not yet.

Fuck it. They want to see the Golden One? I’ll appear. But it doesn’t mean I’ll participate. I’ll be there, physically present but mentally absent, not giving them a single reaction to feed on.

Standing, I lift my chin. I smooth the pink fabric of my dress.

I walk out of the bedroom.

The pre-dinner party is in full swing when I enter the living room.

Crystal glasses catch the light, diamonds glitter on throats and wrists, designer labels whisper their presence on every silhouette.

The male and female servers, of course, are naked except for straps of black silk ropes tied in sensual knots around their bodies.

In one corner, a man is lost in his own world, his trousers crumpled at his feet as he takes a naked server against the wall. A few guests around him are casually watching without batting an eyelid, as if it’s just another Tuesday night.

“Oh, look at that helpless woman getting violated in the corner.”

“Yes, yes, but tell me about your trip to Paris last weekend.”

On the opposite end of the living room, an older woman lounges on a plush velvet sofa, sipping champagne from a fluted glass while her fingers trail idly down a male server’s bare chest. His face is impassive as he balances his tray, but there’s an edge to his gaze that shows he’d rather be anywhere else.

The woman cups his balls, looking ready to devour the poor guy.

The icing on the cake: drugs are passed around like party favors—white lines on silver platters, pills popped like candy—all part of the twisted banquet laid out for tonight’s festivities.

My eyes find Julian, as if there’s a magnetic pull between us even now.

He stands near the center of the room, Gregory Whitman hovering at his elbow like a vulture.

Gregory notices me first, his gaze slithering over my body with such blatant lust that I can almost feel it leaving a trail of slime on my skin.

He leans toward Julian, murmuring something that makes Julian glance in my direction.

Julian’s eyes meet mine for the briefest moment before sliding away, dismissing me with boredom as he returns to his conversation. The casual disregard stings more than it should.

He’s transforming—not slowly anymore, but with alarming speed.

The way he stands, shoulders squared and chin tilted slightly upward, mirrors Lucian so exactly it sends a chill down my spine.

He’s even dressed like his father—the subtle pattern of his tie, the precise fold of his pocket square, the gold cufflinks.

But there’s something else, something that wasn’t there even at the Harvest of Wealth festival.

A hardening, as if whatever remained of the Julian I knew has been carved away.

The shadows beneath his eyes have deepened, his cheekbones jutting beneath taut skin.

He’s being consumed by this world he always tried to escape, swallowed whole by the legacy he once despised.

I feel sick; this is the boy I once loved, vanishing as I watch helplessly.

A server materializes beside me, offering a tray of champagne. I take a glass and down it in one desperate gulp. Then I scan the room, looking for a corner to disappear into.

A warm voice slides over my shoulder.

“Ciao, bellissima.” Lorenzo appears at my side, his green eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. “How are you this evening?”

I don’t return his smile. So far, Lorenzo hasn’t done anything explicitly harmful that I’ve witnessed, but his passivity in the face of Julian’s cruelty makes him complicit.

And his persistent interest in me is concerning.

I’ve seen enough men in this world to know that when they become obsessive, when that hunger takes over, their true nature emerges—and it’s never pretty.

I’m about to tell him exactly where he can shove his false concern when Julian is suddenly on my other side. I actually inch away from him and closer to Lorenzo .

“Fuck off,” Julian tells Lorenzo.

Something flickers in Lorenzo’s eyes—not fear, but calculation, as if he’s filing this interaction away for future reference. He inclines his head slightly, a gesture that manages to seem both respectful and mocking.

“Of course.” Lorenzo steps back, his gaze lingering on me for a moment too long before he retreats.

Up close, Julian’s deterioration is even more apparent. The skin beneath his eyes is paper-thin, mapped with tiny red vessels from lack of sleep or too much alcohol—probably both. I can smell whiskey on his breath, suggesting this isn’t his first drink of the evening.

A traitorous piece of my heart worries about him. For a fleeting moment, I want to reach out, to ask what’s wrong, to remind him that this isn’t who he is.

But then the burns beneath my dress throb and that impulse to comfort him withers and dies. This is who he is now. This is who he chose to become.

I look away, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me the hell alone.

“Like the dress?” he asks instead, his fingers tracing the beaded neckline where it curves along my collarbone.

The touch is too intimate. I angle away, careful to keep distance between his hand and the cigar burn only millimeters below the neckline. There’s no point showing him what his mother did—he probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. He’d say I inflicted it on myself for attention.

I really wish I could wake from this nightmare—this man who once knew every secret corner of my soul, who held me through heartache and laughed with me until we couldn’t breathe, is now someone I fear.