Page 16 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER TWELVE

AURELIA

T he hallway stretches out in front of me like a throat waiting to swallow.

Persian runners muffle my footsteps as I explore.

I’ve spent the entire afternoon wandering.

This place is a maze and it feels endless.

Crystal chandeliers drip from coffered ceilings.

Frames have portraits of dead Harrows who watch me with disapproval.

And what I hate most is that this place doesn’t scream “old money.” It’s more like a desperate monument from people who need you to know they could buy your soul.

I move deeper into the mansion, a few of Julian’s guards following me. I touch some paneling and the wood feels alive, pulsing with secrets it’s absorbed over decades. How many screams have these walls swallowed? How many pleas have died in these corridors?

I stop at the end of a hallway where there’s an archway. I peer inside and glimpse something that makes my stomach turn—dozens of glass eyes.

The trophy room .

I walk inside despite my mind telling me to turn back.

The smell hits first—leather and formaldehyde.

A stale fear. Dozens of mounted heads line the walls in neat rows.

Deer with magnificent antlers. A mountain lion frozen mid-snarl.

Bears, wolves, even what looks like a fucking zebra.

There are species from all over the world here, and all of them are staring down at me with those terrible beady, empty eyes.

I swallow, just to keep my throat open. These aren’t trophies; they’re victims. These poor creatures had been living their lives, breathing and running and caring for their young, until some Harrow decided their death would make a nice decoration.

And the arrangement makes my skin crawl. They’re not displayed randomly. There’s a pattern that feels less like a hunter’s pride and more like a serial killer’s collection. Each head is positioned to make you feel surrounded, watched, and judged by the dead.

It feels like I’ve been here before, but I know I haven’t.

Why?

A line from my mother’s diary hits me: The animal heads were silent witnesses during the day and shadow demons at night.

Oh my God…

I stumble backward, my hip catching the edge of a leather armchair. This room. These specific animals. The way they’re mounted, the order, even the fucking zebra—it’s all exactly as she described.

This is where she lived.

But she was never supposed to be here. I’d always pictured her trapped in the penthouse, that sleek prison above Seattle’s skyline. I had looked for traces of her there, but this entire time I’ve been wrong.

This is where Lucian kept her.

My mother didn’t even live in his primary residence where his wife and sons were.

He locked her away in this hidden estate where her screams wouldn’t disturb the neighbors.

Here, he could indulge in his darkest appetites without the inconvenience of witnesses.

Even as his captive, my mother wasn’t deemed worthy of the main house.

She was moved to this place, visited only when he craved entertainment.

I wish he’d come back from the dead so I could make him suffer death all over again.

I have to get out of this awful room, so I turn and run. The guards struggle to keep up with me, but I run all the way back to my bedroom. I dart in and lock the door, breathless.

More lines from my mother’s diaries assault me. That’s when I realize this was her room. I stare at the furniture in disbelief. God, did Julian know? Did he specifically choose this room because of that?

No. He couldn’t have known. Julian never read the diaries. He wouldn’t know the significance. I’m not sure he even knows my mother was kept here.

But Lady Harrow does.

I make fists and swallow back a scream. That bitch could’ve whispered instructions to the guards and told them to arrange this room for me. She put me in the same cage where my mother withered away.

Is this the room she died in, too ?

Now that I know what I’m looking for, the details smack me in the face. The window placement—northwest corner, overlooking what my mother called “the devil’s garden.” The carved wooden headboard with its pattern of thorny roses. The way light spills across the floor in a perfect rectangle.

Every detail matches. Every fucking detail.

My knees give out. I sink onto the bed—this bed where my mother once lay—and the weight of history feels heavy enough to kill me.

How many nights did she stare at this same ceiling while I was growing inside her?

How many times did she trace these same bedposts, counting the hours until Lucian’s next visit?

Tears burn hot trails down my cheeks. I can almost feel her beside me, a ghost made of memory and shared pain.

Young Serafina, barely older than I am now, carrying me while carrying the weight of all Lucian’s cruelty.

Did she know she was creating her own avenger?

Did she hope I’d survive to do what she couldn’t?

“I’m here, Mama,” I whisper to the empty room. “I found you.”

But I can’t lose myself in grief. I have my own child to protect, even if it’s only a phantom. There’s only one month until the doctor returns for another test. I have four weeks to maintain this deception and find a way to free Adrian.

I turn over onto my side and bury my head under a pillow.

I see Adrian’s face again, his expression twisting as I announce the pregnancy.

There was a flash of hurt before his expression went carefully blank.

He must be tormenting himself, knowing I was with Julian just weeks ago.

Knowing there’s a possibility—however false—that I carry his brother’s child.

I’m sorry, my love. I’m so fucking sorry.

I hope he can someday forgive this awful lie. But this was the only way. The only currency the Harrows understand is blood and legacy. So I gave them both.

Fear coils in my belly as I consider everything that could go wrong. Julian seems suspicious. I can feel him scrutinizing me every time he’s near. One slip, one inconsistency, and this whole thing crumbles. And if they discover the truth before we can escape…

I can’t think about that.

Instead, I focus on the performance. If they’re watching—and they’re always watching in places like this—then I need to give them a show.

I’m sure there’s a camera in this room, but I’m not going to search for it.

I don’t want Julian to see the moment I spot the camera because then he’ll be suspicious of my behavior.

No. I’ll act “normal” and like I’m assuming no camera exists.

My hands move to my stomach, cradling it. I let out a few more sobs.

“We’ll know who your daddy is soon, little one,” I say, hopefully loud enough for the cameras to pick it up.

The words feel hollow, but I convince myself it’s real, that I’m really pregnant so my voice fills with tenderness.

“Whoever your daddy is, I promise I’ll keep you safe, no matter what.

You’re a Harrow, and that means something. Even if I hate what it means.”

As if on cue, my stomach churns. But this isn’t part of the performance; it’s real nausea from stress and fear and the absolute wrongness of being in this place where my mother suffered.

I sit up on the bed and take some deep breaths, but the sickness remains.

Carefully, I stand. I lurch toward the bathroom, barely making it before I’m retching into the toilet.

The sound echoes off the tiles, violent and undeniable.

I hate puking but it’ll work to my advantage. I hope Julian hears and thinks it’s morning sickness.

When my stomach finally settles, I strip and step into the shower.

The hot water relaxes me for a few minutes, then I’m tense again as soon as the water is off.

When I’m done and I’m toweling myself off, I notice a summer dress hanging on the back of the door. Soft yellow fabric, simple but elegant.

My mother’s?

My hand freezes halfway to the fabric. But no—there’s a tag. It’s brand new and in my exact size. Someone went shopping for me, I guess. More mind games, probably from Lady Harrow.

I pull on the dress, noting how it skims my body in a way that will show even the slightest change in my figure. Of course. That bitch wants to watch my body transform. She wants visual proof of the lie I’m selling.

Another reason I need to escape with Adrian within the next four weeks.

The fabric whispers against my skin as I move to the window, staring out at the garden my mother rightfully called demonic.

Roses climb trellises in the dying light, their blooms the color of old blood.

Somewhere in this house, Adrian is fighting his own battles.

Somewhere beyond the gates, Lorenzo and Eleanora are trying to figure out a rescue plan.

And here I am, wearing a dead woman’s face in a dead woman’s room, carrying a ghost child that might be my only salvation.

Someone knocks on the door. It’s sharp, authoritative, announcing rather than requesting. When I open it, a guard stands waiting, his expression carved from the same emptiness as those trophy animals.

“It’s seven,” he says.

I blink at him.

As if I’m too stupid to understand the concept of time, he adds, “Dinner.”

My chest tightens with a familiar dread.

There’s the sensation of being herded, monitored, controlled and threatened.

But I breathe through it, focusing on the only truth that matters: Adrian needs me.

Somewhere in this maze of wealth and cruelty, he’s fighting his own war.

Lorenzo and Eleanora are working their angles from the outside.

I just need to hold the line from within.

I lift my chin and follow the guard down the hallway.