Page 29 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

AURELIA

I pace in my room, my feet wearing a path between the window and the bed.

How am I going to get to Adrian? Every time I see him, he’s with guards or Bianca.

There are cameras everywhere. Lorenzo talked to Gideon and even he’s having trouble figuring out a good way to hack into the security.

Gideon said it was because the security is self-contained on private networks.

He also said the network is PAN, whatever that is.

He rambled off a lot of jargon, but I got the message: hard for anyone to hack outside of the estate, even for someone like Gideon. And it’s not like Gideon can just show up here. That’d be insanely suspicious.

But either me or Lorenzo needs to speak to Adrian privately. We need to move this plan forward. The doctor will draw my blood again in about two weeks, and if Gideon isn’t able to hide the results, well…

We just need to get to Adrian before that.

My fingers drift to the emerald necklace that’s back home along my collarbone. I grin because I can’t help myself. The memory of Lady Harrow’s blood spattering across the table when I broke her nose still tastes sweet. I’ll savor it the rest of my life.

I’ve seen her in the halls and she now cowers when I pass by. Her face is a mess with bruises along her nose, and there’s a bandage over the bridge. Only me and Lorenzo—and two guards—know why Lady Harrow is beaten up, so I wonder what she told everyone else.

I know she won’t tell anyone the truth, that the Golden One got the best of her.

Stupid bitch.

I pause at the window, pressing my palm against the cool glass. Below, the garden is like a painting with manicured hedges and blooming roses. But I’m growing so tired of this place.

My breath catches when I notice Adrian outside.

He appears from the hedge maze. The afternoon sun catches in his hair, and for a moment I can pretend we’re back at Lorenzo’s. Before the lies. Before the bullets. If Roby were next to him, then the image would be perfect.

Then I see her .

Bianca clings to his arm like a barnacle, her fingers digging into his sleeve. The sight of her sets my teeth on edge and I actually growl. That’s my place beside Adrian. My arm to hold.

Adrian glances up, and for one second, our eyes lock across the distance. My hand lifts, fingers spread against the window like I can reach through and touch him.

He looks away.

Another dismissal .

Fuck! I need to speak to him. I need to know what he’s thinking, how he’s doing.

I watch him guide Bianca toward the fountain. She leans into him, and hatred burns through me so pure I start shaking.

But beneath the rage, there’s doubt.

I move from the window and sink onto the bed. I have doubts about everything now. How much longer can I keep pretending to be pregnant? Soon, Julian and Adrian will wonder why my belly isn’t growing.

Was not telling Adrian the right decision? And I doubt whether we can move forward with his plan in time. If the plan will even work.

And I doubt… my whole fucking life I think. My revenge schemes.

All those names, all that blood on my hands. Vincent DeMarco choking on poison. His brother dying of a fake overdose. Marcus Whitman crawling through his own piss. DeSean Smith getting beaten to death. Victoria burning.

God, what have I become?

The peace I thought revenge would bring is actually just a void. Each death was supposed to heal something inside me, balance the scales. But I’m still broken. Still angry. Still empty.

I killed Victoria, who was innocent, and I almost killed Olivia. She burned me because Lady Harrow commanded it, not out of personal cruelty. She’s just another woman trapped in this nightmare, playing whatever role keeps her alive. And I almost killed her for that .

My hands shake as I brush hair from my shoulder. When did the lines blur? When did I stop being my mother’s avenging angel and become something soulless?

I hear footsteps in the hallway and glance at the door. The footsteps approach and then fade as they walk away. I recognize the measured gait: Valentine.

Valentine!

The thought that pops into my head is a huge risk, but there are no other options.

I remain outwardly calm as I lazily reach for my diary. I write a quick note and then tear it out slowly and ball it in my fist. I don’t think the cameras saw. Then I pretend to write some more.

After a half hour, I slip from my room, the tiny piece of crumpled paper burning against my palm. My bare feet whisper across the marble as I wander, trying to look like I’m bored. Really, I’m searching for Valentine.

Finally, I find him strolling along the west wing. He tenses when he sees me. We’ve been avoiding each other because I don’t think either of us knows what to say.

It’s time to bridge the gap and pray I’m not making a huge mistake.

“Hi.” I keep my voice soft.

He glances around, checking for witnesses. “Aurelia. Are you… how are you feeling?”

“Nauseous but surviving. Just… wanted to say hi.” I move past him, letting our hands brush. The note transfers between our palms in a movement so smooth the cameras won’t catch it. He doesn’t react, just slides his ha nd into his pocket and strolls off in the opposite direction.

When he has a chance, I know he’ll find a private place to read what I’ve written:

I need your help. If you truly care, I need to see Adrian.

That note feels like handing him a loaded gun. He’s betrayed me before, sold me out to Lady Harrow’s schemes. But he also raised me. Some part of him must love me. And he did try to save me when Lady Harrow was planning my public execution.

God, please let him be on my side.

The hours that follow are agonizing. I try to act normal—writing in my diary, nibbling at lunch while Lady Harrow watches with her swollen, purple face. I take my walk through the gardens, noting how the guards’ eyes follow, how they tense whenever I veer too close to the estate’s edges.

Sunset bleeds across the sky in shades of violence as I head to the library.

I settle into a library chair, pretending to read while my thoughts race in endless circles.

What if Valentine doesn’t help? What if he runs straight to Lady Harrow?

What if I doomed us all? I should’ve asked for Lorenzo’s opinion first. What if?—

A shadow falls across the entry.

Valentine stands in the library doorway, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he crosses to the shelves and slides a leather-bound volume into place. Our eyes meet for one heavy moment—a lifetime of complicated history compressed into a single glance.

Then he’s gone.

My fingers itch to grab the book he left, but patience is survival here. I force myself to read another chapter, to yawn and stretch like someone genuinely tired. Only then do I stand and start browsing the shelves. I gather several books, including the one he left, and drift toward the gardens.

I move to a blind spot among the rose trellises. I settle on a stone bench and crack open Valentine’s book.

There’s a note just inside the cover:

Midnight. His room. Cameras cut 11:58-12:13. Guards called to east wing. 15 minutes maximum.

The note trembles in my fingers. Fifteen minutes. After days of nothing, I’ll have fifteen precious minutes with the man who holds my heart.

Thank you, Valentine.

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough. But I’ll take whatever scraps I can steal.