Page 46 of Goldrage
Lady Harrow’s coffee mug freezes halfway to her lips and she blinks.
“You were nothing,” I continue. “A victim who learned to victimize because you lacked the spine to face your demons. You’re pathetic. And now you think manipulating one son makes you powerful? Shooting the other makes you formidable?” I lean forward, letting her see every ounce of contempt burning in my eyes. “You’re still that same terrified woman who used to beg Lucian not to hurt you. No matter how many people you manipulate, no matter how much blood you spill, you will always be that scared little girl who was never enough.”
Lady Harrow’s face drains of color, rage bleaching her features white as bone. “How dare you?—”
“But here’s what really eats at you.” I rise from my chair slowly, deliberately, letting her see I’m not running anymore. “Despite everything you’ve done, despite all your manipulation and scheming, your sons still love each other more than they’ll ever love you. Julian chose Adrian over your lies. Adrian chose to protect Julian even when it meant sacrificing everything else.” I lean closer, watching her pupils dilate with fury. “And deep down, you know that no matter how much poison you pour in their ears, that bond will always be stronger than your influence. In the end, you’ll be left alone, abandoned, to rot.”
Lady Harrow explodes from her seat, the monster finally shedding its human disguise. “You stupid little whore! You think you understand anything about my family? About what I’ve sacrificed?” Spittle flies from her lips as decades of suppressed venom erupts. “When that bastard baby is born dead, when Julian realizes what a manipulative cunt you really are, when Adrian bleeds out from his wounds because Julian finally stops playing nurse?—”
The words about Adrian barely leave her mouth before a primal rage takes control of my body.
My hand shoots forward, fingers tangling in her coiffed hair. Years of suppressed anguish, weeks of torture, days of fear—it all melts into one moment of pure, perfect violence. With every ounce of strength born from fury and desperation, I slam her face down onto the breakfast table, cracking a plate.
The impact reverberates through the room like thunder. The crunch of cartilage meeting porcelain, then mahogany. Crimson sprays across white china. There’s the wet, choking sound of Lady Harrow’s scream drowning in her own blood. The elaborate breakfast spread transforms into abstract art painted in justice.
Lorenzo launches from his chair, but I barely notice through the roaring in my ears and my heavy breathing. He touches my forearm gently, warning me to release Lady Harrow’s hair.
I do, and Lady Harrow slumps against the table. Her nose is a mess of blood and bone. Scarlet streams down her face, staining her powder blue suit. The guards just outside the doorway are frozen, too shocked by the sight of their untouchable mistress.
Lorenzo’s hands find my shoulders, whether to shield me or guide me away, I don’t know or care.
I stand over Liora’s broken form, glaring down at her. My chest is heaving, but for the first time in weeks, I can breathe. Real air fills my lungs. Real power courses through my veins. Not the helpless rage I’ve carried like shackles, but something with purpose and strength.
The Golden One is dead. What stands in her place is something they should have learned to fear.
“Threaten what’s mine again,” I say, “and I’ll do worse than this.”
Without waiting for a response, I shrug off Lorenzo’s protective touch and move around the table. Lady Harrow’s head is still bent forward as she presses napkins to her gushing nose. I undo the necklace clasp and reclaim the emeralds that have always been mine.Then I turn on my heel and stride from the dining room. Behind me, Lady Harrow’s gasping sobs create a symphony I’ll treasure forever.
Lorenzo catches up in the hallway. “Cugina, I told you to play nice.” I can tell he’s annoyed, but there’s admiration too.
I only shrug. “Why? They never have.”
His chuckle is a low and approving rumble.
For the first time since walking through the estate gates, I feel truly alive. The Consortium needs to know what happens when they mistake patience for weakness, when they threaten the people I love.
I’m done being afraid. Done playing the helpless girl. Done letting anyone—anyone—believe they hold power over me.
And God help anyone who stands in my way.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DANTE
The absence of chains shouldn’t feel like another form of imprisonment, but freedom within these walls is just captivity with a longer leash. My wrists bear raw marks where I was previously bound, the skin tender when I rotate them. Julian removed the restraints this morning. Not from mercy—never that. The doctor’s insistence that muscle atrophy would compromise my recovery forced his hand.
But I’m thankful for small miracles.
I push myself off the bed, testing legs that feel foreign after so much stillness. The first step sends fire racing through my abdomen, a sharp reminder of where Julian’s bullet tore through muscle and grazed my liver. My body protests each movement with dull throbs that ripple outward. Weakness infects my limbs and my muscles trembling from the simple exertion.
But physical pain is manageable. It’s nothing compared to the hollow ache that spreads through my chest whenever I think of Aurelia somewhere in thishouse, breathing the same air yet completely beyond my reach.
I grab the crutches that Julian left for me and walk around the room. After one lap, I’m breathless. I know I have injuries but I feel pathetic. I once fought a dozen men during as assault Lucian had me wage against the Lopez family, yet I now struggle with walking a few feet. I grip the bedpost, trying to calculate how long it will take for me to regain my full strength. I create a rehabilitation schedule in my mind—exercises I can do throughout the day, ways to start small and work my way up. Strategy has always been my refuge when emotions threaten to overwhelm me.
Patience. My plan has been set back, but Aurelia isn’t due for months. I have some time to heal and bring the Consortium down before she gives birth. A little time, but not much. I’ll need to be diligent and push for my body to heal as quickly as it can. My plan requires strength I don’t currently possess; I must get it back.
I walk another lap around the room, then another, ignoring the sweat beading on my forehead and the way my legs shake. I’ll walk until I collapse.
