Page 58 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

DANTE

T he sheets stick to my skin as I roll over to check the time. It’s nearly noon. I groan and cover my eyes with the crook of my elbow.

It has been three weeks, and I still wake expecting Julian’s voice down the hall. But I’m at Lorenzo’s estate and that’s hardly rational.

Also, my brother is gone.

The silence presses against my skull like a vise, and I know—God, I know—he’s never coming back.

I turn my face into the pillow. The cotton absorbs another round of tears I thought had dried up yesterday. Or was it the day before? Time bleeds together when you’re suffocating.

My head pounds with the familiar ache of too much crying. Behind my eyes, pressure builds until I think my skull might crack. That might be ideal; then some of this pain would leak out.

The curtains are still drawn so the room is covered in a film of gray.

I can’t remember when I last opened them.

Aurelia slips in sometimes, sets water on the nightstand, murmurs soft words I don’t deserve.

Her own grief sits heavy in the slump of her shoulders, the shadows under her eyes, but she’s doing her best to care for me.

I should comfort her. Should be the man she needs. Instead, I curl deeper into myself, letting the mattress swallow me whole.

Julian.

His name echoes in the empty chamber of my chest. I see him everywhere—in the mirror when I catch my own eyes, in the way shadows fall across the bedroom floor, in the space between heartbeats where regret lives.

We buried him and Valentine last week. The funeral plays on repeat behind my eyelids.

Small. Private. Just us and the ghosts we carry.

I’d stood there, staring at fresh dirt, thinking of all the words I never said to my brother.

All the times I chose strategy over honesty, and the moments I could have reached for him but didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” I’d whispered to the earth. But sorry doesn’t resurrect the dead.

The gray in this room doesn’t help. It just leaves more space for memories—Julian at eight, following me through the gardens. Julian at fifteen, fury replacing the softness in his eyes. Julian at the end, a gun at his temple as he smiled that terrible, peaceful smile.

My fault. Forever my fault.

If I’d been stronger. If I’d protected him better from our parents. If I’d chosen him over my mission just once?—

The bedroom door creaks. I don’t move .

“Adrian?” Aurelia’s voice is tentative. “Are you awake? You should eat something.”

How is she being so much stronger than me at a time like this? She lost her father and the boy she once loved, yet she’s the one out of bed and I’m wallowing in agony.

She’s always been stronger than me. I love this woman so damn much and pray I deserve her.

“Come here,” I say hoarsely.

She closes the door and pads over the plush carpet. Then she’s in my arms.

The tears come again, hot and shameful. My body shakes with sobs that feel torn from somewhere deep, somewhere I’ve kept locked for years. All that control, all that careful planning—none of it saved him.

Soon, Aurelia is crying too, both of us seeking the safety we still have left in each other.

Hours pass. Or minutes.

Eventually, I kiss her forehead and say, “Let’s try to eat.”

As I sit upright, the room spins. When did I last eat? I drain the glass of water on my nightstand and Aurelia takes my hand as I get up.

My legs shake when I stand. Weak. Pathetic. Everything I trained myself not to be.

After I change into fresh clothes, we walk together to the patio.

Through the glass, sunlight assaults my eyes. I squint, raising a hand to shield myself from brightness that feels obscene.

Lorenzo and Roby are playing on the grass. They’re kicking a ball back and forth, Roby’s laugh carrying on the breeze. The sound is an innocent warmth I desperately need.

But it’s also a trigger. Memory slams into me: Julian and me, that same age, that same game. We used to play sports together, so long ago.

I lean against the doorframe as my legs threaten to give out. Aurelia remains beside me, squeezing my hand and giving me all the time I need.

Eleanora is sitting on a stone bench and she claps when Roby scores some invisible goal. Lorenzo scoops Roby up and spins him around. The boy shrieks with delight, and something shifts in my chest. Not healing—too early for that. But maybe the first glimpse of it.

The Consortium is dust. I accomplished what I set out to do. The families scattered to their corners, licking wounds, too suspicious of each other to reunite. Their power is finally broken, their unity shattered.

That’s a relief, but none of it brings Julian back.

However, watching Roby tackle Lorenzo’s legs, watching Eleanora smile, watching life persist despite death—something whispers that maybe this is enough. Maybe this is what I was really fighting for all along.

Not the destruction of an empire. But the chance for something new to grow.

“Ready to sit?” Aurelia asks me softly.

I turn to her then so I can fully witness this beautiful woman in the afternoon light.

I trail my fingers through her loose, vibrant red hair, then rest them along her collarbone, just above my emerald necklace.

The elegance looks absurd against her worn gray sweater and yoga pants that have seen better days.

It’s completely mismatched, like wearing diamonds with pajamas, but seeing it there against her throat is a vision of perfection.

She wears it constantly now. I’ve caught glimpses when she thinks I’m sleeping: the way her fingers find it unconsciously, how she tucks it beneath her shirt like a secret. Even to bed sometimes, the chain tangled in her hair come morning.

Someday, when we’ve both found our way through this darkness, when the grief doesn’t choke us each second, I’ll give her something else to wear. Something that tells the world she’s mine and I’m hers.

I’ll give her a ring.

I dip my head to kiss her and she sighs against my lips.

We share another kiss and then both move toward the patio table where sandwiches and fruit have been waiting for us.

Just as we sit, a guard appears at the garden gate. “Mr. Mancini,” he calls out. “You have a visitor.”

Lorenzo’s face darkens as he sets Roby down. “Who?”

“That woman,” the guard says with clear distaste.

Irritation flickers through my numbness because I know exactly who he means. I’d hoped she’d have the sense to stay away, at least for now. At least while we’re grieving and trying to piece ourselves back together.

Lorenzo grumbles something in Italian and glances at me. “She won’t leave unless we deal with her.” I nod and he speaks to the guard. “Bring her in. Let’s get this over with.”

A few minutes later, Bianca sweeps onto the patio like she owns it, her heels clicking against stone. She looks different: harder somehow, like she’s finally grown a spine. My surprise doubles when her gaze lands on me and her pretty features twist with irritation.

Not hurt. Not longing. Irritation.

What a pleasant surprise.

Without a greeting, without acknowledging anyone else exists, she thrusts a manila envelope at my chest. “Here.”

Curious despite myself, I take it. The weight feels significant. Legal. I tear open the seal and pull out the papers, scanning the first page.

Divorce papers.

A very pleasant surprise.

“You treated me like furniture,” Bianca says, her voice pitched high with indignation. “Like some inconvenient obligation you could ignore. Well, I found someone who actually sees me. Who treats me the way I deserve. He’s a much better man than you’ll ever be.”

I look up from the papers to study her face.

There’s a manic gleam in her eyes, the desperate shine of someone who’s convinced themselves of their own lies.

She’s already attached herself to some other man, probably someone who’ll give her the attention she craves until he realizes what waits beneath the pretty surface.

I feel a flicker of pity for whoever he is. But mostly, I feel relief.

To finally be able to move forward with Aurelia by my side is the hope I’ve been needing.

Lorenzo appears at my elbow with a pen before I can even ask. We share a look—his knowing smirk matching the faint smile tugging at my lips. It’s my first real smile in weeks.

I sign quickly, the way I’ve signed a thousand documents that meant far more than this sham ever did. Bianca snatches the papers from my hands the moment I finish.

She gives me a pointed look, then turns that same weighted stare on Aurelia. Some message passes between the women that I’m too tired to decode. Then she’s gone, storming off in a cloud of expensive perfume and wounded pride.

“Well.” Lorenzo claps my shoulder with enough force to make me sway. “This calls for celebration, no?”

The smile comes easier this time. Small, but real. “Why not?”

Lorenzo disappears inside and returns with wine. He pours generous glasses while Eleanora raises a curious eyebrow.

“To freedom,” Lorenzo toasts, lifting his glass.

“To family,” Eleanora adds, softer.

Aurelia and I remain silent, but toast just the same.

We drink, and the wine burns warm down my throat. Aurelia settles beside me on a patio chair, close enough that our thighs touch. I wrap an arm around her, pull her against my side where she fits like she was carved for this space.

Julian floats through my thoughts—he’s never far—but for now, for this moment, I let myself enjoy this: Aurelia’s warmth, Lorenzo’s terrible jokes, Eleanora trying not to laugh at them, Roby stealing chocolate off the table when he thinks no one’s looking .

We spend the afternoon outside just enjoying each other’s company.

The sun dips lower, painting everything gold. We drink and talk about nothing important. About everything except the dead we’re carrying. And slowly, incrementally, I feel something in my chest that isn’t just grief.