Page 38 of Goldrage
“Uh, Gideon.” He’s still apologizing with every gesture, retrieving napkins from the table to dab at thechampagne staining the hem of her dress. “My family handles, uh, technical services for members. I usually stay behind the scenes.”
Technical services. Such a delicate way to describe hacking, surveillance, and digital warfare. I watch them interact, noting how Bianca’s spine straightens slightly, how her voice gains confidence as Gideon continues his endearing fumbling. Is this choreographed? Did he bump into her on purpose? With Gideon, I can never tell where the performance ends and reality begins.
A new server appears and offers me sparkling cider. I take it, hoping they’ll leave me alone now that I have a full glass. Gideon seems absorbed in chatting with Bianca now, so I drift away. If he really needs to speak to me, I’m sure he’ll find a way.
I float around the edges of the ballroom with my cider, just letting my thoughts drift. All these people, dancing and drinking and scheming while Adrian suffers upstairs. While Lorenzo tries to figure out an escape route and Eleanora conceals weapons and I stand here growing a fictional child in my fictional womb… Adrian is alone.
The machinery of the Consortium grinds on, indifferent. Vincent DeMarco’s death didn’t stop the drugs from flowing. Victoria Marlowe’s absence barely caused a ripple. All the others I killed didn’t result in any lasting effects. Even Julian shooting his own brother is just another power play in their endless game.
The machine continues on.
But Adrian knows how to stop it. If we can free him…
I stop walking and stare at a black rose. Actually, what if we don’t need to free him to set his plan in motion? What if we could do it from here, right under their noses? Lorenzo has access now. Eleanora clearly has resources we haven’t discussed. And I—I’m the golden goose, untouchable as long as this pregnancy holds their attention.
We’ve been trying to figure out a way to free Adrian, but maybe all we need to do is find a way tomeetwith him. He’s being watched constantly, but if we can just talk to him, he could tell one of us how to move forward with his plans. Everything he was working on before is still at Lorenzo’s estate. Adrian could just direct Lorenzo to the documents and files and tell him what to do and when.
A smile curves my lips, genuine for the first time tonight. Wouldn’t that be something? To dismantle their empire from within while they toast to my fertility and plan their dynasty?
I turn to go find Lorenzo, but someone is blocking my path.
“Quite the gathering.”
It’s Olivia Marlowe. She’s in a red dress that flares dramatically at the waist. Her dark hair is twisted into an elaborate updo with small buns and braids that must’ve taken hours to perfect. She’s watching me but she’s too far away and her expression is hard to read.
I’m suffocated with a memory: Lady Harrow’s living room, my naked skin exposed to the leering gazes from an intimate gathering of Consortium members. The acrid smell of cigar smoke and booze tickles my nose.Olivia’s face among the crowd. The kiss of burning tobacco against my flesh.
The phantom pain flares across my inner thighs where most of the scars are, and I have to lock my knees to keep from swaying. But this is the game, isn’t it? Smile through the scars. Dance on the graves of your dignity.
“It certainly is,” I manage, my voice steady despite the bile climbing my throat.
“You look radiant,” Olivia continues, and the warmth in her tone unsettles me. Is this fake warmth, or genuine? “Pregnancy suits you. Though I imagine this whole spectacle feels rather overwhelming.” Her gesture encompasses the ballroom, but I hear the subtext: the vultures are circling, waiting to feast on whatever drops from my bones.
I study her face, searching for the trap. There’salwaysa trap. “It’s… a lot,” I say, the truth slipping out in an attempt to catch her off-guard. “I’m still adjusting to everything.”
“The Consortium can be suffocating. Especially for women. We’re often treated more as assets than people.” She sips her wine and gazes out at the crowd.
Assets. Like my mother, traded until there was nothing left but diary pages and a daughter’s rage.
Olivia sighs and her shoulders drop. Her eyes meet mine, and what I find there stops my breath. Recognition. Not of my face or my name, but of the particular exhaustion that comes from being displayed and devalued. If this is an act, she’s a very good actress.
“But you seem stronger than most. That’s good—you’ll need it.” She pauses, something shifting in her expression. “And… about that night…”
My heart hammers against my ribs. The night I was burned with cigars? Is she about to threaten me?—
“Olivia, darling! How wonderful to see you.”
Lady Harrow materializes between us, her timing too perfect to be a coincidence. A smile carves her face as she slides into position, claiming territory. “I hope you’re not overwhelming our guest of honor with too much conversation.”
“Of course not.” Olivia’s response flows like water, but I catch the flash of irritation—maybe even disappointment—before she’s smiling demurely. “I was simply offering my congratulations on the happy news.”
She turns to me with a slight bow. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Golden One.”
Then she’s gone, melting back into the crowd, taking whatever truth she’d wanted to say with her. I watch her navigate the room, noting how she chooses her position carefully—visible but not prominent, present but not engaged. Another woman learning to survive in a world built to consume us.
Lady Harrow’s fingers close around my arm like shackles. “Come, dear. There are more people for you to meet.”
The urge to rip away from her touch flares through me with violent intensity. I want to grab her by that perfectly styled hair and remind her exactly what happens to women who burn other women. I want to scream the truth of her monstrosity until these crystal chandeliers shatter from the force of it.
