Page 61 of Goldrage
Now, it’s time to inch my plan forward.
“Hubby?”
Bianca’s voice cuts through my reverie. I realize she’s been speaking while I’ve been lost in memories of red hair and fierce green eyes.
“I asked if you wanted some tea. You seem distracted.”
“Tea, yes.” I manage to focus on her face, noting the downturn of her lips. She expects more—conversation, attention, the facade of a devoted husband.
She pours me a cup of tea from the ceramic kettle on the table. “I was thinking we should take a proper honeymoon,” she says, handing me the cup. “Somewhere tropical where you can actually rest. What about the Maldives? Or Bora Bora? I think Julian might let us go if it’s just the two of us. He seems… occupied with other stuff lately.”
I inhale the chamomile and take a sip. The naivety in her voice is truly shocking. She speaks of Julian’s permission like it’s a formality, a minor obstacle to navigate. As if we’re playing house rather than playingRussian roulette. She isn’t fit for this world; she’s too soft, too sheltered, too convinced of her own importance.
It will devour her soon enough.
But that’s not my concern.
Valentine appears in the doorway with his usual measured bearing, saving me from having to craft a response about fictional honeymoons. His presence fills the space, but I notice the slight tension in his shoulders.
“Forgive the interruption,” he says. “The doctor is here to check on Mr. Harrow’s progress. It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Bianca immediately rises from the sofa, smoothing her pink designer dress. “Of course! I’ll come with y?—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Valentine’s interruption is smooth and professional. “The doctor just needs to examine the wound site and check his mobility. Routine medical matters that won’t require your assistance Mrs… Harrow.”
Her face falls slightly at being excluded, her bottom lip threatening a pout. But I can see the sparkle in her eyes from being called Mrs. Harrow. She settles back onto the sofa, picking up her phone again like a child denied a treat. “Well… I suppose I’ll wait here then. Don’t be long, Adrian. I’ll miss you.”
After setting my tea cup down, I retrieve my cane from beside the chair, using it to pull myself to my feet. The motion sends a spike of pain through my side—a reminder of my remaining road to recovery. With daily exercise, I no longer need the support of crutches. The cane is more precaution than necessity, though I lean onit heavily now. Let anyone watching the video feed think me weaker than I am.
As I follow Valentine down the hallway, I notice the older man’s unusual tension—a tightness around his eyes that wasn’t there moments ago. His fingers drum against his thigh in an uncharacteristic display of restless energy. Whatever awaits us, it’s not a routine medical examination.
The small examination room he leads me to is empty. No doctor, no medical equipment beyond the standard supplies always kept here. The absence speaks volumes.
As we step inside, I turn to question Valentine, but he’s already closing the door behind us. The lock clicks into place and sends my pulse racing.
“The guards outside aren’t your usual detail,” Valentine says without preamble, gesturing toward the hallway with a sharp motion. “I arranged for men who owe me personal favors. We have maybe twenty minutes before anyone thinks to check on us.”
I lower myself into one of the chairs, wincing slightly from the pull in my side. Valentine’s face draws my full attention. The man looks haggard, almost manic. Lines I’ve never noticed before carve deep grooves around his eyes, and his usual military bearing has crumbled, making him look older than his years.
“What’s going on? Is this about Aurelia? Is she?—”
“She’s fine.” The words come quick. “Napping in her room, safe for the moment. This isn’t about her. This is about…”
He stops mid-stride, both hands raking through his graying hair with enough force to leave it standing inwild tufts. The gesture is so unlike his usual controlled movements that it sends a chill down my spine.
“Christ, I don’t even know how to begin,” he mutters.
“Start anywhere,” I suggest gently, recognizing the signs of a man on the verge of complete breakdown. I’ve seen it before—in mirrors, mostly. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
Valentine’s laugh is bitter and sharp. “Fine. The beginning then. Twenty-eight years I’ve kept this secret. Twenty-eight fucking years of watching him grow up, watching him change, watching him become something I never wanted him to be, and I couldn’t say a damn word. Couldn’t be there for him when he needed me most. And now…”
A cold suspicion begins to form in my mind and I hold back a slight shudder. But the suspicion is so impossible, so devastating in its implications, that I can barely give it shape. My mouth goes dry. “Valentine?—”
“Julian is my son.” The words explode from him like shrapnel, tearing through the air between us. “Not Lucian’s. Mine. I’m his biological father.”
I’m thankful to be sitting because my head spins. I grip the arms of my chair to anchor myself as everything I thought I knew rearranges itself into new, terrible patterns. It takes a few tries, but I finally choke out, “What?”
Valentine sinks into the chair across from me and buries his face in his palms. “Your mother and I… we had an affair early on. Julian is the result.”
