Page 47 of Goldrage
Afternoon comes and I barely have the strength to move as I rest in a chair by the window. Perhaps I pushed myself too hard this morning, but I must. I must recover.
The light on my face is warm as I gaze at the garden below. Bianca’s grip on my arm borders on painful as shechatters on about a shopping trip she wants to take with her girlfriends. Her voice is a persistent mosquito buzzing in my ear while my attention is elsewhere.
Because there, on a stone bench near the fountain, sits everything I’ve been fighting to reach.
My Aurelia.
Her red curls catch fire in the sunlight, wild and untamed despite her attempt to pin them back. Even from this distance, I can see the careful way she holds herself; her injuries still pain her. Lorenzo sits beside her. They’re hunched together and I can tell they’re sharing private words they don’t want the cameras to hear.
If I hurry, maybe I can…
“How about a stroll in the garden?” I ask Bianca.
She squeals too loudly and I flinch. “Oh yes! I’d love that, hubby.”
I hate that I need assistance, but I let her help me to my feet and to my crutches. I barely have the strength to move but I force my muscles to work. If I hurry, maybe I can get to Aurelia before anyone notices my intent.
I convince the guards that Bianca will watch me—and that they surely can’t expect me to try to run in this state—and we depart. After several agonizing minutes moving down the hallway to the elevator, then from the elevator to the back doors, we’re outside. Bianca tries to steer me in the wrong direction.
“I thought we could sit by the fountain,” I say.
“Oh, okay. I guess.”
I don’t like her touch but it’s needed right now. Her hand at my elbow keeps me steady as the crutches scrape against gravel and I hobble along.
Sweat pours into my eyes and Bianca wipes it away with a handkerchief. “I think we should rest.”
“Yes,” I bite out. “Once we reach the fountain.”
The fountain finally comes into view, and Aurelia and Lorenzo are still sitting there.
Bianca’s fingers dig into my bicep when she notices where my attention has fixed. “Let’s go this way to a bench. You’re pushing too hard.”
I attempt to extract my arm gently, maintaining the facade of husbandly consideration. “Thank you. I’m fine. I just need?—”
Her grip tightens until it’s painful, both hands now clutching my arm desperately. “Adrian, you shouldn’t strain yourself. Stop. The doctor said?—”
“The doctor said movement would aid recovery.” I try again to free myself without making a scene, acutely aware of how many eyes watch us from windows and shadows.
Two guards materialize, their bulk creating a wall between me and my destination. “Mr. Harrow,” the taller one says, his tone respectful but firm. “The other direction would be better for your recovery. The eastern path has better shade.”
I grit my teeth. I want to shove past them and close the distance between Aurelia and me regardless of the consequences. But that would only tighten the noose around both our necks. Julian watches everything, waiting for me to reveal just how desperately I need her.
So I submit to Bianca’s insistent tugging, allowing her to steer me away like an invalid who can’t make hisown decisions. But not before I catch Aurelia’s gaze across the garden.
Those green eyes, usually bright with defiance, hold a weariness I’ve never seen before. For one suspended moment, we exist in a bubble where distance means nothing, where the barriers between us dissolve. I try to pour everything into my look—reassurance, longing, promise.
Love and adoration.
I’m coming for you. Hold on.
She looks away first, shoulders drawing up to her ears as she hugs herself and angles away from me. The dismissal cuts deeper than Julian’s bullet.
The estate settles into an uneasy quiet after dinner, that peculiar hush that falls over places with too many secrets. My crutches tap a lonely rhythm against the floor as I navigate the darkened hallways. It’s around midnight, and I told the guards I needed something to eat. The excuse is flimsy—I finished a second helping at dinner while I stole glimpses of Aurelia across the dining room table—but it got me out of my cage.
Guards trail me like patient shadows, maintaining professional distance while ensuring I don’t stray from acceptable paths. Their presence grates against nerves already worn raw, but I’ve learned to move as if they’re furniture. Acknowledging them only emphasizes my captivity.
My route takes me past Aurelia’s door. Pure coincidence, of course. Nothing suspicious about needing to use this particular hallway to reach the kitchens located in the opposite wing. My pace slows, crutches suddenly requiring more careful placement as I stall for time.
