Page 6 of Goldrage (The Chrysophilist Trilogy #3)

CHAPTER FIVE

AURELIA

T he blank page mocks me, so I swallow more pain pills. Hopefully, I’ll become loopy enough that the words will start flowing.

I’m sitting on my bed at Lorenzo’s estate.

The house is still in shambles but there’s a crew working to restore it.

My room wasn’t damaged, so it still has the same warm Mediterranean colors and soothing atmosphere.

The plush carpet cushions my feet when I walk, and the beige curtains filter all light into a soft glow that makes the pain in my side slightly more bearable.

Through the large glass window, I can see the expanse of Lorenzo’s green estate grounds where workers are clearing debris from Julian’s assault.

So much wreckage.

My pen hovers above fresh paper, and my hand trembles from more than just the pain medication I’ve been eating like candy.

A few weeks ago, I would’ve filled these pages with fury and purpose.

Now the words refuse to come, stuck somewhere between my shattered heart and this aching body that barely feels like mine.

Lorenzo gave me a new leather-bound diary because he knows how important it is for me to let out my thoughts. But what truth can I possibly commit to paper when everything I believed has crumbled to ash? Life is so changed now and I’m struggling to see the path forward.

I press the pen to the page and force myself to write down the only thing that’s still certain: my hitlist.

#1 Lady Harrow — My primary target. The puppet master who orchestrated it all.

She tried to murder her own son and wears motherhood like a costume.

She burned me with a cigar and promised to carve me into pieces for the Consortium’s entertainment.

Even if I don’t kill anyone else on my list, this bitch is going down.

#2 Gregory Whitman — Marcus’s brother, the one who traded my mother like currency in his gambling dens. He collected his percentage while she was passed around like a prize.

#3 Sergio Castellano — The trafficker who evaluated my mother like livestock.

#4 Olivia Marlowe — Victoria’s sister. Their mother was involved with torturing mine, though the two sisters didn’t do anything directly. Victoria hadn’t been born yet and Olivia would’ve been a toddler.

I stare at the last name, feeling a little unsettled. Victoria was technically innocent when it came to my mom, though she did plenty of other nasty things as a Consortium member. I killed her because I judged her as a bad person, but that’s not revenge, is it? Am I just killing whoever I want now?

Olivia is slightly different. She did participate in burning me with that cigar. And it was left on my breast, the bitch. But… she only did it once, and it was much lighter than other members. I do have a scar, but it’s mild compared to the rest, only a slight half-moon arc.

When she had leaned in that night, ready to burn me, Lady Harrow had been watching her like a hawk. Olivia had told me, “Too bad you got wrapped up in Julian. He’s the only reason I’m doing this. Nothing personal, you know?”

At the time, I didn’t know whether to believe her or not, but it was clear that Lady Harrow was hovering, pressuring everyone to participate.

What if Olivia didn’t want to do it but had to because Lady Harrow would’ve punished her for not obeying?

I go over my list again. The names stare back at me like they’re waiting for punishment, but they also feel distant now.

They’re like relics from another life when revenge was my only oxygen.

Lady Harrow—yes, she needs to die. But the others?

Once, I would’ve carved out their hearts without blinking.

I would’ve savored their terror the way they savored my mother’s.

Now all I taste is exhaustion.

What’s the point when the world has already ended?

The door opens without warning and I slap my diary closed as a reflex.

I glance up to find Eleanora standing there in the doorway, her silhouette framed against the ornate hallway sconces that somehow survived the attack.

The mirror across from my bed catches her reflection, making it seem like there are two of her watching me. Yeah, just what I need.

And why doesn’t she ever knock? She always startles me.

She enters with some medical supplies and that look of determination she’s had since rescuing me.

I remember just a few months ago when all she seemed to wear were purple dresses with flowing fabrics that matched her vibrant personality.

Now she’s all about practical jeans that hug her curves and tight black tops that won’t slow any movements.

Her long black hair is pulled back in a severe ponytail that accentuates her sharp cheekbones and amber eyes.

This version of my best friend moves like a soldier—each step precise while her gaze constantly sweeps the room for threats.

The gun holstered at her hip isn’t even trying to be subtle.

Could this woman somehow be a twin? I’ve considered it.

But her personality is exactly the same, only…

less focused on boys and fashion, with none of her usual excessive jewelry or manicured nails.

Her hands are now callused and a small scar crosses her right knuckle that I don’t remember seeing before.

“Time to change your bandages,” she announces, setting her supplies on the nightstand. Without warning, she snatches my diary off my lap.

“Hey, what?—”

“Oh, interesting,” she says as she’s already reading it.

My body is still too stiff and wounded to put up any kind of a fight, so I slump back on the bed.

Her eyes flick to me. “What’s this list about?”

I only blink at her and don’t respond. She has secrets and I have mine.

She closes the diary and drops it on the bed. “Fine. Lift your shirt.” She grabs some fresh gauze and waits for me to follow her command.

I comply, biting back a groan as the movement pulls at my wound. The bullet hole in my side throbs in rhythm with my heartbeat, a constant reminder of Julian’s parting gift. Eleanora’s fingers work carefully and peel away the old bandage. She’s gentle so I don’t feel too much pain.

“You’re getting good at this,” I say, watching her clean the wound. The edges are raw but healing, according to the doctor Lorenzo brought in. Still hurts like hell though.

“I’ve had practice.”

“More than just me?”

She ignores my question and focuses on what she’s doing.

“How many secrets do you have?”

She doesn’t even flinch; it’s as if I didn’t say anything.

With a sigh, I rest my head on the pillow behind me. My pain medication has kicked in so my head is woozy. I hate not knowing who my friend might actually be, but I also can’t feel too sorry for myself. I’ve hidden plenty from her, too.

And I’m so tired of lies and shadows.

“Vincent DeMarco,” I say suddenly. “I poisoned him. I watched him choke on his own blood while he begged for help, and I loved every second of it.”

Eleanora’s hands stop for just a moment before resuming their work. She doesn’t say anything, just listens.

“Marcus Whitman.” The words are flowing now, pulled out by a desperate need to stop hiding.

Where has that gotten me? It got me shot, betrayed, and the love of my life was taken away.

There’s no point hiding anymore. “I shot Marcus in a restaurant bathroom. First the knee, then the shoulder. I made him crawl through his own piss before I put the final bullet in his head.”

Eleanora applies antibiotic ointment with soothing strokes, but I catch the tension in her jaw. Is she shocked? Disgusted? God, I can’t tell anymore.

“Who else?” she asks quietly, reaching for fresh bandages.

I list the names like a litany of sins. I orchestrated each death and each moment of vengeance was for my mother. Francis DeMarco, a faked overdose. DeSean Smith, cut open and dumped in the ocean. Lucas Carter… well, he was a moment of insanity that Julian caused.

The only name I can’t say is Victoria’s; I realize only now how deeply I regret taking her life. She didn’t deserve it. Not like the rest.

Eleanora secures the new gauze with medical tape. Her movements never slow despite the horror story I’m reciting. “You’ve been busy.”

I blink at her. That’s it? She’s just indifferent to it all? “You don’t care?” I ask.

She only shrugs. “Why did you do it?”

“Except for Lucas, they were all people who hurt my mother. They deserved it. But you’re not, I don’t know, shocked? You don’t care that your best friend is a murderer?”

She moves to check the stitches along my throat next, her fingers ghosting over Julian’s handiwork. The wound has closed cleanly—whoever stitched me knew what they were doing—but it aches.

“Like you said,” she tells me, “they deserved it. I think the entire Consortium deserves it.” I open my mouth to respond, but she pats my shoulder. “You need to rest more. Stop writing hitlists and close your eyes, okay? Sleep helps the healing process.”

“I can’t rest.” My eyes drift to the window where twilight bleeds across the sky.

It’s almost evening, which means Eleanora will leave soon.

She’s left every night since we arrived at what remains of Lorenzo’s estate.

I have no idea where she goes and just because I told her my secret doesn’t mean she’ll tell me hers.

“It’s hard to sleep knowing Adrian is with those monsters. ”

For a moment, I glimpse something raw in Eleanora’s expression, like maybe she wants to tell me something. But then it’s gone.

She steps back, gathering her supplies. “Try not to move around too much tonight.”

“Why do you always leave? Lorenzo said you could stay here.”

Eleanora busies herself with packing the medical kit and avoids my gaze. “I have responsibilities. Look, I want to help you, but there are things I need to take care of. Complicated things.”

“Like how you knew where to find me? Or how you took down those guards like some kind of spy? What’s going on with you? Please tell me.”