Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)
Goldsin: Chapter 4

Has Julian always been such a psycho?

The encounter with him still lingers on my skin like an unwanted ghostly touch, his whispered promise ingrained in my mind. He tasted DeMarco’s blood without second-guessing it. God. I can feel the two glasses of champagne I drank earlier threatening to come up.

Liar. You liked it. His depravity lures you in, my inner voice reprimands me.

Turning my head to the side, I give myself a once-over in the entryway mirror of my apartment. My cheeks and my neck are now an oxblood color—an embarrassing contrast to my pale complexion.

Julian isn’t here, but simply the memory of tonight makes my hands tremble. At least I know he can’t reach me now. Well, he could. I’m only an elevator ride away from his penthouse.

I dart my gaze around the small living room, searching for Valentine, but all I find is the empty green velvet couch and the TV turned off. The lamp next to the couch is off too.

The only source of light comes from the small, rusted gold sconce above the irregular oval mirror in my entryway. My own restless face stares back at me.

My hair is luckily still pinned behind my shoulders, although some strands have escaped, thanks to Julian’s playful fingers. A few more strands cling to my neck, while others spring on alert like I just came back from war.

And I might as well have.

I hate how easily he gets to me even despite my best efforts to remain calm. If he wants me to feel a certain way, he always gets what he wants.

He’s had this power over me ever since we were seven.

Couldn’t I just remain a distant memory to you?

What an idiot I was back then to complain when he stopped giving me attention.

I let out a deep grunt before straightening up and walking into the narrow corridor connecting the living room to the kitchen. A sense of relief immediately rushes through me at the familiar surroundings. White picture frames are scattered across the wall, containing photos of my youth. Most of them are photos of myself smiling at Valentine behind the camera, but there are also some of Julian and me.

Every time I walk past them I’m overcome with the thought that sometimes the pain of losing people is worth it for the memories you have with them.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the burned scent of vanilla coming from the curved green diffuser on the light wooden console table. I bought it for Valentine last Christmas. He’s a coffee addict, and the smell is starting to linger to the point of being nauseating.

Just like what happened with Adrian and Julian tonight. The memory picks at my nerves.

I guess the scent of vanilla can’t soothe everything.

“God, I need a drink.” I sigh, massaging my temples with my fingers.

“Rough night?”

I head into the kitchen to find Valentine sitting at the table sipping a cup of black coffee—his nightly ritual.

“Is it that obvious?” I collapse onto the chair next to his.

He doesn’t even need to study me up close to know there’s something wrong. He’s the right hand of the Harrow family; he already did that the moment I walked through the door.

“Your cheeks are flushed, and you look like you’ve been through hell.” His shaved dark hair, peppered with strands of gray, is all I can see due to the size of his mug.

Collecting large mugs has been Valentine’s hobby for the past two years. Half of the kitchen cabinets are full of them, along with different coffee beans.

Valentine is in command of day-to-day operations in the Harrow business. Both of the Harrow businesses, the Inferno Consortium being one of them. He’s an intimidating, solid wall of muscle, clad in his usual attire: a black T-shirt and black pants. But underneath it all, there’s a warmth he reserves only for me. It’s in the way his eyes narrow the slightest amount, or how the corner of his mouth jerks up when he looks at me.

He doesn’t see the orphan girl, but someone he raised as his own.

He’s never told me much about my mother, only that he was working for the Harrows when she was alive. Now I know about her past, it makes complete sense he decided not to tell a little girl her dead mother was a sex slave. However, he does like to remind me—always—how he didn’t really have a choice in adopting me, because the moment he saw my big, round eyes he was forced to take me in.

Without going into detail, I mutter, “Julian Harrow,” before asking, “Is this your first cup of the night?”

“Third,” Valentine states bluntly. “Ah, so it’s Julian this time, not Adrian.” He gives a knowing smirk.

“Adrian is a whole other issue.” I sigh, massaging my temples again. “But yeah, tonight was all about Julian. Wait—did you say ‘third’? You know what the doctor said. No more than three a day!”

Valentine suffers from mild hypertension, and the doctor advised him not to be excessive with his coffee intake, but Valentine is stubborn. If he wants his coffee, he’ll have it. I like to think my resilience comes from his stubbornness.

His forehead crinkles. Resting his elbow on the table, he gives me his full attention. “You need to be careful around them, especially Julian. He’s dangerous and unpredictable. Stay as far away from them as possible.”

I don’t even have the opportunity to answer, because he adds, “You know how dangerous the Harrows can be.”

He’s completely ignoring my comment about his well-being. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s doing it on purpose, steering the conversation in another direction.

“I’m aware. I won’t let them stand in my way.”

Valentine arches a brow, waiting.

“And I’ll be careful. I promise,” I huff.

Satisfied, he nods before returning to his coffee.

We stay there for a moment, silence between us, as I stare at the man who gave me a chance.

My thoughts drift back to my mother’s diary. I’ve had it for a few months, since the day Valentine decided to give it to me, yet the details of the horrors she went through still eat at my insides every time I read them. The way her handwriting changes depending on her emotions, on what she went through each night at the hands of powerful families. Families like the Harrows.

“Thanks for always being there for me, Valentine. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I whisper, breaking the silence with my wavering voice.

His eyes twinkle with warmth as he looks up at me. “Anything for you, kid.”

Then, like any other time when things get a little emotional, he asks, “Do we need to go cut some onions?”

I can’t help but chuckle, and the faintest smile stretches his lips.

We haven’t cut onions since I was ten. We always used to, whenever my little heart couldn’t handle the emotions storming inside of me. Since Valentine is the worst person to go to for comfort, he’d make us cut onions in the kitchen. He said this way, I could cry my emotions out without having to talk about them.

“No need. Save them for another time.”

“All right.” He clears his throat. “Now, go get some rest. You’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”

“Got something for me?”

“You just wait and see.”

Nodding, I make my way to my bedroom.

The moment I open the door, the mellow shade of cool teal greets me. Next are the various pieces of art I’ve painted over the years—some bold and vibrant, others dark and moody, just how I like them.

My bedroom is my cozy refuge from the chaos outside.

A console bookcase, which I painted white with scattered green leaves, stands against three walls of my room, overflowing with new and well-worn books, while some shelves are occupied by cherished mementos.

There’s a small vanity table that I still need to paint facing the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The view outside is just like one of the art pieces adorning the wall: a sky full of twinkling stars.

In the center of the room, far from the four walls, is my sanctuary: my bed, with its plush duvet and collection of colorful pillows. There’s no headboard—I decided to throw it away, wanting an unobstructed view of all my artwork while lying down. Some of the pieces on the wall behind my bed were purposely painted to be looked at upside down.

I plop down onto it, positioning the pillows to hold my back as I get comfortable. Brushing my fingers over the softness of the duvet, I lift the diary off the nightstand and open it.

The persisting scent of old paper and . . . lilies fills the air before my mom’s secrets are whispered back to life.

This is all I have of her. This book is a bridge between us; a connection that transcends time and death.

The more I read it, the more I get to know her.

Her fears, hopes, and dreams are all faded ink now. This is all that’s left of her.

I clutch the diary tighter, my knuckles turning white.

This, right here, is my mission. My purpose.

I was born from the ashes of my mother’s suffering. The least I can do is avenge her name.

Skimming the pages, I flip through the last entries. An ache spreads in my chest as her emotions seep from the inked words and surround me, making me feel like I’m there with her.

June 21st

They treat us like animals. They rotate us depending on the day and their twisted desires. But as time passes, the more I’m requested to be out of my room and in theirs.

They use me as an object. They see me as a soulless person.

The things they do to us . . . the way they make me feel.

I must endure it. Now more than ever—for my daughter, for the hope that one day she’ll be free from this hell.

The words blur as my fingers, holding the diary, tremble.

Five months after this entry I was born. My mother must have only just found out about me. Maybe, just maybe, I gave her the last remaining strength to fight for us.

I continue reading the words I’ve read a hundred times already. Each entry boils my blood.

These powerful families . . . these monsters have been hurting and manipulating people for far too long. They hide behind their power and wealth, but I see right through them. I see their weakness and I’ll use it against them.

The Inferno Consortium will learn what pain feels like. And how powerful someone they’ve wronged really is.

July 15th

Today they tried to break me.

They tried and succeeded, but I didn’t let them see it.

Lady Marlowe decided to use my naked body as it pleased her the most. She made me crawl on all fours around the room, for all the guests to see. And when that wasn’t entertaining to her anymore, she burned me with her cigarettes.

But she didn’t touch my belly. My Aurelia. She didn’t touch her.

Tears sting my eyes before falling down my cheeks as images of my mother’s torment fog my vision. How her dignity was stripped away with each cigarette butt that touched her skin. How they laughed as she suffered.

In this moment I swear to myself, I won’t just kill them. I’ll make them suffer, just as they did to her.

July 15th

I can still hear her raucous laugh as she stood over me. The sizzling sound as she stubbed out her cigarette on my naked back. The overwhelming pain and the metallic taste of blood as I bit down on my lip to stifle my cries.

August 2nd

They didn’t call me today. They left me alone in my room, and it’s the only moment I’ve had to imagine my beautiful Aurelia. How her laugh will sound or if she’ll have my vibrant red hair.

She’ll be brilliant. A bundle of life. I’ll make sure of it.

She’s my purpose, my strength to keep fighting.

She’s going to make a wonderful woman.

Her determination and hope intertwines with mine, igniting a fire in my core—a burning desire to ensure her dreams weren’t in vain.

With each word my resolve grows stronger.

I will not let her down.

September 17th

They think I’m weak. They think they can break me.

But I’ll never give up. No matter how much pain I have to endure, I’ll go through it for my daughter.

I want to see her smile. I want to hold her and promise her everything will be all right. That her life will be full of joy and love.

I will endure anything for her sake.

October 8th

If there is one thing I have learned through all this, it’s that love is not just a fleeting emotion or a simple connection between two people. It is a force powerful enough to withstand any heartbreak. Any cruelty. And it is that love which sustains me now, as I hold onto the hope that one day, no matter how faraway it may seem, Aurelia and I will be together against all this.

October 19th

How much longer can I survive this?

The days are shorter now. The sun doesn’t shine as brightly as it once did.

But I have to be strong. For my Aurelia. For the love she gives me, even if she’s not here yet.

For the hope that she will one day live the life I dreamed of.

November 21st

Today I made a promise. I looked into those green orbs and promised her I’d fight for us.

I’ll make sure they all pay for their sins. For each time I cried alone in bed; for each time they touched me.

I’ll fight for my old self, and for my daughter.

This one is her final entry, written the day I was born, just four days before she was found hanging in her room. Something happened in those days. Something that shredded to pieces what little resolve she had left.

Whatever it was doesn’t matter. I know who did it.

Now, all I have to do is retaliate. For her, for myself, and for every other victim of these monsters.

Hours pass me by as I read through the pages. My eyes start to flutter closed as sleep threatens to pull me in. The diary slips from my hands and I’m plunged into a restless sleep.

I find myself in a dream, a consuming blackness, with my mother’s words sketched in big, bold letters everywhere.

“If there is one thing I have learned through all this, it is that love is not just a fleeting emotion or a simple connection between two people . . .”

“I won’t let your pain be for nothing,” I whisper into the darkness.

The dream changes shape, and I find myself standing at the edge of a cliff with Seattle no more than dots of light below me. Wind picks up, and it whips around me, tugging at my hair and my clothes as it pushes me closer to the precipice.

In an instant the wind takes shape as a figure, standing behind me, hissing, “Look at them, Aurelia.”

My gaze focuses on the world below.

“They think they’re untouchable, that their sins will never catch up to them.”

I dart around, expecting to come face-to-face with the source of the voice. But no one is there.

Only darkness surrounds me. And yet the voice sounds familiar. I’ve heard it before, but the more I force myself to pinpoint it, the harsher the headache pounds at my head.

“Who are you?” I yell into the pitch-blackness.

“Does it matter?” the voice replies from somewhere above me. “What matters is that you know what must be done.”

I twist around, but there’s still nothing there.

“Say it,” the voice purrs.

And without being told what I need to say, the words flow from my mouth.

“They’ll pay for what they did to my mother,” I vow. “Every single one of them.”

“Good,” the voice says, sounding satisfied. “You know what needs to be done, Aurelia. Don’t hesitate. Don’t falter.”

“I won’t,” I say into the abyss surrounding me. “They will feel the same pain and humiliation they inflicted upon her—I swear it.”

The voice shifts, sounding different as it warns, “Remember, the path you walk is a dangerous one. Trust no one.”

“I won’t.”

Whoever this entity is, they don’t need to tell me twice.

“Especially not him.”

The moment the last words reach me, the image of Julian appears in front of my eyes.

He’s standing tall and proud, his eyes filled with the same darkness that taints the atmosphere.

“I’ll never trust him,” I breathe.

“Good.” The voice breaks, fading back into the wind as the dream shifts.

And I find myself in yet another nightmare.

I’m back at tonight’s fundraiser. Both Julian and Adrian are standing frozen in front of me. Their gazes scorch every part of my body as they stare at me.

But there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. Something I can’t quite identify. Something that freezes me to the spot.

Valentine’s earlier words echo next. “Stay away from them, Aurelia. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”

Maybe I do.