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CHAPTER SIX

AURELIA

T he joint coronation and funeral is a study in contradictions—holy light and darkness.

Black suits and dresses fill the Cathedral, the morning light filtering through towering stained glass windows to paint mourners in crimson and gold.

Marble saints stare down from their perches with blank eyes, witnessing our hypocrisy, and the gothic arches soar overhead, their shadows stretching across the mosaic floor like fingers.

There’s an edge to the mourning that has nothing to do with Adrian’s death.

These vultures aren’t just grieving the loss of a Harrow—they’re mourning the death of their comfortable way of life.

Adrian was predictable and familiar like his father.

Julian is a wildcard, and his ascension marks the end of an era.

No one knows what kind of leader he’ll be, especially since he never planned to take charge.

Will he burn it all down like he always threatened? I can only hope, but I also know Lady Harrow is going to be involved, and I have no idea what that bitch wants to do with the Inferno Consortium. She could be worse than Lucian.

As I stand at the back of the massive sanctuary behind the carved wooden pews, a shiver runs through me at the thought. I’d never imagined anyone could be worse than Lucian, but the way Lady Harrow has been manipulating all of us for years … it’s possible.

She really needs to be dealt with. But if I’m the one to kill her, Julian will truly never come back to me.

My mouth is dry, so I swallow, wishing I still had a buzz from the alcohol I had for breakfast. I know Julian’s here somewhere, and I’ve been avoiding locating him with my eyes—my heart aches too much to see him.

God, I just want to leave.

As if my dread summoned a demon, Lady Harrow materializes beside me in black lace, her short dark hair perfectly styled despite the “grief” making her shoulders curve like crescent moons. My stomach lurches at her closeness and the sting of her perfume.

“I still can’t believe my first born is gone,” she says, her words dripping with fake sorrow.

She spoke loud enough for people nearby to hear, so a few turn their heads and give her sympathetic glances.

When she leans close, though, presumably to air-kiss my cheek as part of her performance, her whispered words slice like a blade.

“You’ve lost, dear. Accept it with grace and you might keep living. ”

My blood turns to ice, then boils. I want to wrap my hands around her throat and strangle her publicly so everyone in the Consortium knows never to fuck with me again.

I want to make her pay for every drop of Adrian’s blood she spilled, but that would be a death sentence right now, so I force my lips into a brittle smile.

“We’ll see,” I whisper back.

Valentine is suddenly behind me, and his hand on my elbow steers me away before I do something stupid like stab Lady Harrow with my stiletto. We approach the front of the room where Adrian’s casket waits, but I stop abruptly, like I just hit wet concrete and my feet are sinking in.

“You should pay your respects,” Valentine encourages me softly.

I should. I know. I should be focused on my own performance today in front of these wolves, so they’ll stop spreading lies about me.

But the clear glass walls of the casket make my skin crawl.

I’ve seen these things before at other Consortium funerals—they’re meant to show off the mortician’s skill without allowing anyone to weep on the corpse and “ruin” it.

It’s also a way to prove no one tried to fake their death by showing more of the body.

But there’s something deeply unsettling about seeing Adrian preserved in a glass case like some macabre museum display.

“Come now! Come see the once powerful Harrow heir, who was gunned down by his own mother! Then we’ll visit the gift shop where you can purchase a vial of his spilled blood.”

My lips pinch together as I try not to sob. This entire thing is a fucking circus. Does anyone besides me and Julian really care that Adrian is dead ?

Valentine tries to guide me closer a few inches but I refuse to budge.

There’s a red velvet rope that keeps mourners at a safe distance so they don’t break the glass, but I can still see Adrian clearly enough from here.

Too clearly. His skin is waxy, drained of all color; he looks like a taxidermy creature, minus the fur.

Those hands that once brought me flowers even after nights he was likely off fucking some whore…

they’re stiff now. Lifeless. One rests near the glass wall, and I can’t stop staring, remembering how gentle those fingers could be.

I stand there like a statue until a chime sounds, signaling the Catholic mass.

Valentine guides me to a pew near the back, and we take our seats.

Finally, I look around at all the faces I’ve spent so many nights investigating, uncovering all their dirty secrets so I could figure out who wronged my mother.

Power radiates from every row—the DeMarco’s remaining family members who control South Seattle’s drug distribution network, the Whitman’s with their underground gambling empire, the Martinelli’s who enjoy laundering money through overpriced art auctions.

I also spot Victoria Marlowe’s surviving family members, their faces pinched with calculation as they scan the room; they’re the second most powerful family here, running their corruption ring that keeps law enforcement firmly in their pocket.

And the Harrows, though small in numbers now, run import/export companies that provide the perfect front for smuggling anything into the country, hiding the true darkness of what the Inferno Consortium does behind legitimate business.

All of them are here to “mourn” Adrian while actually networking and positioning themselves for whatever comes next .

Movement catches my eye. Across the vast space, Julian’s stare pins me like a knife to the wall.

My breath catches. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since that night, since his hands were around my throat and grief turned him into someone I didn’t recognize.

The intensity of his gaze singes my skin, almost like he’s undressing me in his thoughts.

But I know it’s more violent than that—he’s probably thinking about peeling the flesh from my bones in satisfaction.

I can’t look away. The familiar angles of his face twist something deep in my chest until I can barely breathe.

He knows every part of me, every desire, every curve of my naked body.

He’s done things to me I can’t even speak about, and all I want is to go back to the past and erase this torment.

If I could just go back and stop Lady Harrow, I’d be in Julian’s bed right now, letting him fuck me however he pleases.

He has to see through his mother’s lies eventually. He has to remember everything we shared and realize I could never, ever kill Adrian.

But that darkness shrouding his face speaks of vengeance, not understanding. I finally pull my eyes away and stare down at my feet.

Time . Julian needs more time. And I need to find a way to expose Lady Harrow.

Should I set some kind of trap? Maybe she left evidence behind.

Valentine knows someone who can alter video feeds and other things, the person who helped hide my presence while I took care of people on my list. Maybe that person can help.

I just don’t know. My thoughts are so scattered they’re like ashes in the wind .

I start to space out because I desperately need to leave. I need to get back to my room and try to figure out my next steps. I’ve spent too many days already just sobbing into my pillow and drinking.

The priest’s voice drones on about eternal rest, and every now and then, Lady Harrow’s theatrical sobs punctuate the sermon. I fight the urge to scream as she dabs at her eyes with a black lace handkerchief. She’s portraying such a perfect image of a devoted mother, crying over her fallen son.

Yeah, the one she murdered.

After an eternity, the mass finally ends and transitions seamlessly into Julian’s coronation.

He stands before the assembled crowd, shoulders rigid under his tailored suit.

It’s strange to see him in such formal clothes, but power seems to settle over him like a crown of thorns—unwanted and impossible to remove.

My chest aches as I watch him recite the ancient oaths. He never wanted this. He spent years running from his father’s legacy, and now here he is, trapped by it. The words fall from his lips like stones: duty, honor, blood. Each one another link in the chain that now binds him.

If only he’d believe me, I could help him escape this twisted world, the same way I’ve always planned to.

When the coronation is done, when Julian is officially the leader of the Inferno Consortium and I feel vomit inching up my throat, Valentine touches my shoulder. “Time to go,” he murmurs. “The reception is next.”

Oh, joy.

I sink deeper into the leather seat of Valentine’s car as he parks outside the reception venue.

We’re at Grimward Manor Vineyards, which is one of many vineyards owned by Emeric’s family.

It sprawls out across the Olalla hillside.

There are weathered stones and twisted vines that cling to trellises like arthritic fingers, and the afternoon sun bleeds through the gathering clouds, casting rows of grapevines in shadows.

It’s actually a breathtaking place, but the thought of going inside makes my limbs feel like they’re filled with lead. More fake sympathy, more predatory smiles, more of Lady Harrow’s theatrical grief—I don’t have the strength for any of it.

“You should make an appearance,” Valentine says, his dark eyes watching me in the rearview mirror. “Given the rumors circulating.”

My head snaps up. “You still believe me, right? I didn’t?—”