Page 3 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER THREE

AURELIA

T he corner of Lady Harrow’s bedroom has become my personal hell.

My wrists burn where the rope cuts into my skin, and I’m tied so tightly that my fingers have gone numb.

My jaw is throbbing from Lady Harrow knocking me out.

Every position sends fresh agony through my gunshot wound, and the stitches along my throat feel like they’re tearing with each shallow breath I manage.

The pain is a living thing now, pulsing through every nerve ending.

My side throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, each pump of blood a reminder of Julian’s bullet.

I remember the way he looked at me in that moment—not with love or even hatred, but with the cold indifference of someone disposing of garbage.

That wasn’t my Julian. That was the monster his mother created.

I sway to the side as I’m huddled in a corner. My vision is gray and fuzzy. But I won’t let unconsciousness take me; I’m going to look death in the eye .

Lady Harrow moves through her bedroom like she’s choreographing a ballet, her phone pressed to her ear as she coordinates tomorrow’s horror show. Her voice carries the same tone she might use to plan a dinner party.

“Yes, yes. Wonderful. The white silk gown will do perfectly.” She pauses by her vanity mirror to check her reflection.

“Something virginal. Innocent.” Her eyes find mine in the reflection, and she smiles.

“Yes, it’ll get bloody.” The person she’s talking to must make a joke because Lady Harrow listens and then lets out a shrill laugh.

God, she’s completely in her element. This is who she’s been all along, yet Julian never saw it?

He never wanted to.

I shift against the wall, needing to find some position that doesn’t feel like torture, but my body protests. I can’t even tell what’s hurting most from the new position because I feel pain everywhere. I suck in a few shaky breaths, trying not to pass out.

“The platform should be elevated,” Lady Harrow continues into the phone, now strolling toward the window. “Everyone needs to see clearly. This is theater, after all.”

Theater. That’s what my death is to her—entertainment for the Consortium’s twisted appetites.

I close my eyes and let Adrian’s face fill my mind.

Not the controlled, distant Adrian from our ten years together, but the man I discovered at Lorenzo’s estate.

I think of the way his blue eyes softened when he looked at me.

How he was so tender and gentle as he shaved my legs, kissing each of my scars like they showed my strength instead of my shame.

“I’d die a second time for you if I had to.”

His voice echoes in my memory, and I cling to it. Adrian. My Adrian.

When Lady Harrow finally kills me tomorrow—and she will be the one to do it after everyone else tortures me first—I want Adrian to be my last thought. I want to remember what it felt like to be loved completely, to be held safe and secure in a beautiful world without all this darkness.

God, please help Adrian survive.

I need him to survive whatever Julian has planned. He has to complete his mission and bring this whole fucking empire crashing down. Maybe then my mother’s death and my own will mean something.

“The timing is crucial,” Lady Harrow says, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she continues her circuit around the room. “We’ll start at sunset. The lighting must be dramatic.”

I want to roll my eyes but don’t because I’m afraid even that movement will increase my pain. Dramatic lighting for my execution. Because God forbid the Consortium’s entertainment lacks proper aesthetics.

“Security will be doubled, naturally,” Lady Harrow continues. “We can’t have any… interruptions.”

I can’t imagine who she thinks might try to rescue me.

Lorenzo is dead. Valentine was dragged away and will probably be locked in a room tomorrow.

Maybe she’s worried Adrian might somehow escape Julian and come for me.

The thought sends a flutter of desperate hope through my chest before reality crushes it.

Adrian was bleeding out when Julian carried him away.

Even if he survived, he’s in no condition to rescue me.

He’s probably not even conscious right now.

No one is coming for me this time.

The acceptance should feel like defeat, but instead, it brings an odd sort of peace. I’ve been running and fighting and scheming for so long. Maybe it’s time to stop.

Maybe I can just… let go.

Lady Harrow ends her call and turns to face me. Her smile is serene and almost maternal. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow, dear? I’ve planned something truly special for you.”

I meet her gaze without flinching, but it takes some effort to get words out through the pain. “Go… fuck… yourself.”

She laughs. “Such language. Your mother had more class, even at the end.”

The mention of my mother makes me burn with rage, but I don’t react. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

Lady Harrow walks closer. “She begged, you know. Once she had you, she begged Lucian to bring you back. She even dropped to her knees and promised to do anything he wanted. But can you imagine? What hadn’t he done to her by then?”

I clench my jaw. Stop. Talking.

“He refused, of course. Told her that bastard children didn’t deserve?— ”

A crash echoes from the hallway outside, followed by raised voices. Lady Harrow freezes mid-sentence, her head snapping toward the door. Something heavy hits the floor with a loud thud that rattles the windows.

“What the hell?” she mutters, moving toward the door.

Before she can reach it, the door explodes inward with enough force to slam against the wall. Lady Harrow stumbles backward, her composure finally slipping.

My heart is in my throat as I dare to look at who just entered—enemy or savior?

But it’s not a guard or Valentine or Adrian or anyone I would expect in a million years.

It’s Eleanora.

My best friend strides into the room like she owns it, dressed head to toe in a black jumpsuit that clings to every curve and allows a complete range of movement.

Her long dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail that gives her a facelift, and her amber eyes burn with a cold fury I’ve never seen before.

This isn’t my fashion-obsessed friend who cries over rom-coms and kind of loves to gossip. This woman moves with predatory grace, like I’m witnessing the real-life Catwoman.

“Eleanora?” I gasp, my voice rolling over gravel. “What are you—How did?—”

“Get out,” Lady Harrow hisses, recovering from her shock. “Get out before I have you removed.” She opens her mouth to yell for the guards.

Eleanora’s hand moves swiftly, drawing a gun from a holster at her hip and pointing it directly at Lady Harrow’s chest.

The pain didn’t make me pass out, but this might. Since when does Eleanora handle a gun like she was born holding it?

Secrets.

Why does everyone around me have secrets?

“You have exactly ten seconds to step away from my friend,” Eleanora says, her voice carrying an authority I didn’t know was inside her. Gone is the breathless way she usually speaks when excited about fashion or complaining about men. This voice could cut diamonds.

Lady Harrow’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t move. “You foolish little girl. Do you have any idea who you’re threatening?”

“Liora fucking Harrow,” Eleanora replies without missing a beat. “Murderer. Manipulator. And currently standing between me and someone I care about.” Her grip on the gun doesn’t waver. “So yeah, I know exactly who you are, bitch.”

I’m gaping like a fish. This can’t be the same woman who once spent twenty minutes debating between two nearly identical shades of purple nail polish. The same friend who once called me in tears because she couldn’t figure out how to use her new coffee machine.

Heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway. Lady Harrow’s face transforms with relief as three guards burst into the room, weapons already drawn.

“Kill her,” Lady Harrow commands without hesitation. “Now.”

The guards move forward in formation, but Eleanora is already anticipating them. She drops into a crouch as the first guard reaches for her, ducking under his arm and driving her elbow up into his throat. He collapses, gasping and clutching his neck.

Oh. My. God.

What the fuck is happening?

The second guard pulls his gun, but Eleanora spins like a dancer, her leg whipping out to knock the weapon from his hand. It skitters across the floor as she follows through with a strike to his groin that drops him to his knees.

I’m hallucinating. I have to be. Blood loss has finally made me lose my mind because there’s no way—absolutely no way —that my best friend just took down two armed men like she’s some kind of assassin.

The third guard tries to grab her from behind, but she anticipates the move, spinning around his reach and delivering a sharp jab to his temple. He crumples like a broken doll.

“Impressive,” Lady Harrow says, though her voice has lost some of its earlier confidence. “But there are more guards coming.”

As if summoned by her words, another guard appears in the doorway. This one is smarter—or maybe just luckier. He doesn’t announce himself or try to be heroic. He simply grabs Eleanora from behind, his thick arm wrapping around her throat as he drags her backward into the hallway.

“Eleanora!” I scream, struggling against my bonds.

The sound of a gunshot echoes through the penthouse, and I gasp. My heart twists painfully .

Eleanora…

“Well,” Lady Harrow says with satisfaction, smoothing her dress. “That problem is solved.”

I can’t breathe. Not Eleanora. Not her too.

But then her voice drifts from the hallway, sounding more annoyed than mortally wounded. She’s talking to someone. “Why the hell are you here? I had this handled.”

Relief floods through me so powerfully that I almost pass out. She’s alive. Somehow, impossibly, she’s alive.