Page 57

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

JULIAN

P aperwork for the past month are spread out on my office desk like a sea of failure.

I try to blink away my exhaustion, but everything remains blurry.

Mother sits across from me, a pen dancing between her fingers as she makes notes on a legal pad.

Her cursive is elegant while mine is chicken scratch.

“The DeMarco distribution network fell ten percent after Vincent died, and now it’s dropped five more since his idiot cousin Francis overdosed,” she says.

Yet her voice has none of the tension that’s crushing my own.

“But Gregory Whitman’s casinos are up. Those three new locations are performing well. ”

I rub at my temples, trying to focus on the numbers and text that determine the lives and deaths of people I’ll never meet. The Consortium is a machine that keeps running even when its operators change. The gears never stop grinding—they just consume different souls.

Even if someone wanted to bring it down, it’d be impossible .

“Who’s the new DeMarco in charge?”

Mother sighs, setting her pen down with a soft click against the mahogany. “Still to be determined. Some of them are too ambitious and impatient. We may need to look for another family entirely to take over those networks, one who understands the value of stability.”

“Yeah, well, maybe in a few months I’ll run everything into the ground and this nightmare will end.”

She doesn’t flinch, just studies me with those eyes that match mine. Eyes I inherited but never fully understood until recently.

“You’re doing better than you think,” she says after a moment, her voice softening. “Lucian struggled too, you know. In the beginning.”

The comparison to my father stings like alcohol in an open wound. I don’t want to be like him—I’ve spent my entire life fighting against becoming him. But lately, the resemblance feels inevitable, like gravity pulling me toward a fate I can’t escape.

I lean back in the leather chair that still feels too big for my body. “I doubt that. Lucian seemed born for this shit.”

“No one is born for this life, dear. Your father was thrust into it just as you were. The difference is that he never let anyone see him stumble.”

She stands, moving to the small bar cart in the corner to pour two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. Her movements are graceful despite the lingering stiffness from how I treated her the other day.

She’s cautious now and I hate that I caused that .

“Here,” she says, placing the glass in front of me. “You’ve earned this.”

I take a sip, the burn chasing away some of the fog in my head. “The difference is that he never included you in any of this. He never valued your opinion.” I tell her this because I’m grasping at straws, searching for ways I’m not like him.

“No, he didn’t.” Her fingers brush against the papers on the desk. “To him, I was just another possession. Something to be displayed and controlled.”

“But that’s not who we are.” The words feel important, like I’m making a vow to both of us. “That’s not who I am.”

She reaches across the desk to touch my hand, her fingers cool against my skin. “I know, sweetheart. You value my opinion and treat me as an equal, and I love that about you. Though I miss Adrian, honestly, I’m happy you’re the one in power.”

She’s happy, but for how much longer? The guilt from yesterday’s outburst still has me drowning. I yelled at her, grabbed her arm, made her cower like Lucian used to.

I’m off my chair, circling the desk and pulling her into an embrace that I know is necessary.

“I’m sorry,” I say into her hair. “For yesterday. For everything. I never want to make you afraid of me.”

Her body stiffens for a heartbeat before melting into the embrace, her arms coming up to circle my waist. “I know you didn’t mean it,” she whispers. “You’re under so much pressure. I understand. That’s why I’m here to help you. ”

I pull back just enough to look into her eyes, needing her to really understand my remorse.

“You’re the only one I can trust, the only one who’s always stood by me.

You’re not just important to this business—you’re everything to this family.

” The words pour out of me like blood from a wound.

“I need you. Your advice, your strength, your guidance. I can’t do this alone. ”

Her hand comes up to cup my cheek, a gesture so maternal it makes my chest ache. “You’re not alone, Julian. You’ll never be alone as long as I’m here. I promise.”

The moment stretches between us, fragile as spun glass, until a sharp knock shatters it. I let her go and frown at the door.

“What?” I bark, irritation burning through my momentary vulnerability.

The door opens to reveal Valentine, his expression carefully blank. He’s perfected that look over the years—the loyal soldier, face giving nothing away. But there’s a tension in his shoulders that puts me on edge.

“Someone is demanding to meet with you,” he says, standing at attention. “They’re quite insistent.”

“If they didn’t make an appointment, then no,” I snap. I move back behind the desk where I feel safer, more in control. “I have too much shit to handle.”

How did my father do this? How did he manage the weight of the Consortium while still finding time for his pleasures—his women, his parties, his cruelties?

I can barely keep my head above water, and I haven’t been to The Den in weeks.

I haven’t felt the release of a good fight or the willing presence of the only woman I’ve ever loved.

Everything that makes me who I am has been stripped away, leaving only this shell of a man drowning in paperwork and expectations. If I could have just one thing back, one thing to make me sane again, I’d choose Adrian.

Valentine shifts his weight, and I notice the slight furrow between his brows—the only sign that what he’s about to say is important. “They said it’s about Aurelia.”

Air is knocked from my lungs. Aurelia. The Golden One. My obsession. My downfall.

It’s been half a month since I handed her over to Lorenzo, and still no proof that she’s alive, no evidence that she’s being punished as I demanded.

The silence from Lorenzo grows more suspicious each day, and the fear that she might be dead—that I might have sent her to her death—gnaws at me like a rabid wolf.

I’d never forgive myself, so I’ll have to see what this is about.

“Fine,” I sigh, trying to sound indifferent as my pulse hammers against my ribs. “Show them in.”

Valentine nods once before retreating. The door closes with a soft click behind him.

“Do you know what this is about?” I ask Mom.

She settles back into her chair, crossing her legs and smoothing her dress. “No, but I have a feeling it will be interesting. Things in the Harrow house often are.”

I take another sip of whiskey. Aurelia. What could this possibly be about?

The minutes stretch into an eternity until Valentine returns, this time with a woman trailing behind him.

She’s petite with an olive complexion and dirty blonde waves that flow past her shoulders.

Her brown eyes scan the room nervously as she clutches a small white purse in front of her like it will protect her.

Despite her obvious anxiety, there’s a determined set to her jaw that catches my attention.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, cutting straight to the point. I have no patience for games, not when Aurelia’s name has been mentioned.

She startles at my tone, her knuckles whitening around her purse. “Um, Bianca,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. Then, as if gathering her courage, she straightens her spine and repeats, “My name is Bianca.”

“Why are you disturbing me?” The question comes out as a growl, frustration simmering just behind my teeth.

Her eyes dart to my mother, then back to me. “I know where Aurelia is.”

I laugh. “No shit. I know where she is too.”

Confusion flickers across her face before she clears her throat.

“Sorry. I meant, I know who she’s with.” She takes a small step forward, something hardening in her gaze.

“He’s been ignoring me, so he needs to learn that he can’t do that.

” Her voice grows firmer with each word.

“I need you to… to take your thing back and get her away from him.”

Heat floods my system, rage rising like a tide at her casual dismissal of Aurelia— my Aurelia—as a “thing.” I push away from the desk, advancing toward this stranger who dares to speak of what’s mine with such contempt.

After crossing the office, I grab her by the throat, feeling the frantic beat of her pulse beneath my fingers. Valentine and my mother don’t flinch, their years with Lucian have trained them well, but one of the guards by the door takes an involuntary step back.

He’s new and clearly terrified.

Bianca shrieks as I pin her against the wall.

“What the fuck is this? You come in making demands, insulting what’s mine.”

She struggles to breathe as her face reddens, but she manages a defiant glare. “You… you haven’t… asked who she’s… with.”

“I already know who. Lorenzo.” My grip tightens.

She shakes her head, and something in her eyes makes me release her. She gasps for air then meets my gaze with a raw intensity.

“She’s with your brother.”