Goldsin (The Chrysophilist Trilogy Book 1)
Goldsin: Chapter 16

I button up my Maje knitted black minidress, adjusting the material clinging to my body.

White details adorn the dress, one long strip in the middle accompanying the buttons, and four strips where the faux pockets are located—two on the chest and two on the hips. The hemline falls dangerously close to the thigh, leaving a hint of skin, but with the way the neckline wraps up and over the collarbone, this is a perfectly classy dress for the occasion.

Tonight, death is within my grasp, and I’ll be playing it like strings, making Marcus Whitman dance to his demise. I can hardly contain my excitement. My heart races eagerly, my fingers shaking slightly as I secure the last button of the dress.

Inhaling a steady breath through my nose, I try to regain control.

Tonight is nothing out of the ordinary. It’s just another night spent as a killer.

A killer, the voice inside my head haunts. Tonight you’ll have more blood dripping from your hands.

“God, you’re unbelievably sexy when you’re preparing for murder.”

Julian’s voice drops a note as it drifts to me from the bed, where he’s lying with one leg bent at the knee, fingers laced behind his head as he watches me intently. Not a care in the world, just my body as his sole focus. Not what I’m about to do tonight.

Maybe being a part of the Inferno Consortium from a young age shaped his perception, making murder seem like an inevitable occurrence in life.

I feel my neck up to my cheeks heating. I’m blushing undeniably at his words, the red in perfect contrast to my pale complexion.

I hate how easily he can affect me. With just a few sweet words he gets my body responding to him.

“Wish I could join you tonight. Nothing like a good kill to get the blood pumping, right?” he adds, a lopsided smile stretching his lips.

I try to ignore the piercing heat on my skin, reminding me—no, reminding him—of how pliable I am at his meager compliments.

“Focus. You have your own business to take care of.” I twist and turn, checking to make sure the dress is ready to be worn outside.

Am I telling him to focus, or myself?

“True, but it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the view.”

My gaze flicks to his through the mirror, and I catch his eyes roaming the length of me. Slowly. Torturously.

Shaking off the effects, I slip on my shiny black pumps from Amina Mauddi. They’re Eleanora’s. I wore them once and then forgot to give them back . . . But all things considered, that’s what best friends are for, right?

Four days have passed since our bathroom encounter. I expected Julian to go running to his father, or better yet, to kill me with his bare hands. Instead he’s been the most helpful.

He arranged tonight’s event. Being my eyes and ears, he managed to replace out where Marcus was having dinner. The guy’s a busy man, and with only a week for me to do what I need to do, it’s been hard to replace a free slot in his agenda.

8 p.m. sharp. Table reserved for two at Sulawesi Spice down in Pioneer Square.

He’s going there with some colleagues. And all I have to do is kill him.

Sounds laughably simple, if you take away the sixty reserved tables and the staff. Oh, and his bodyguards, of course.

Arranging my hair, I style it in a half-updo, leaving two pieces to frame the light makeup around my eyes. I’m smoothing down some rebellious strands with gel when I hear the mattress dip.

Standing from the bed, Julian joins me by the mirror. “Put this on,” he murmurs.

Our eyes meet in the reflection. Before his usual cocky grin can stretch those soft lips, something vulnerable flashes behind his cold eyes. But just as quickly as it appears, it’s gone.

“It’s perfect for Sulawesi Spice. Trust me, you’ll have every man’s eyes on you . . . including Marcus Whitman’s.”

He hands me the dress. Our fingers brush together, and I try not to show the surge of emotion that courses through my body at the touch.

My fingers run smoothly over the black bodice of lace, down to the long satin skirt. I peek inside at the tag, and when I read “Alessandra Rich” I eye Julian skeptically.

“I gather this wasn’t just lying around your room, was it?”

“Are you implying I don’t have girls leaving things for me to replace?”

I cross my arms. “A whole dress? What, did they leave your room naked?”

“And satisfied,” the asshole adds.

I push the dress back at him. “I can’t accept this.” Turning to face the mirror, I give him my back.

“Aurelia,” he murmurs down my neck. “Accept the gift.”

“No, thank you.” I lift my chin.

“Stefanie will be very hurt when she hears about this,” he pushes, knowing exactly what to say.

“Stefanie?” I can’t control the way my voice pinches. “You went to her? Why?”

Stefanie is Lady Harrow’s private stylist.

A chuckle leaves his lips. “Isn’t it obvious?”

He bought me a dress . . .

He bought me a dress.

Why?

“Fine.” I sigh, trying my best not to let his attentive stare catch the gratitude spreading into a blush over my cheeks. “But don’t think I’m wearing this for your benefit.”

He grins. “Of course not.”

He doesn’t make a show of turning the other way while I change into his dress. I know what thoughts invade his mind while he trails my movements, but it’s the subtle change in his gaze that makes me wonder what really lies behind his mask of lust.

Am I just another body to him?

What does he really think about when I’m on his mind?

His childhood best friend? A killer? A body to check off the list?

How different is he from his father? From the Inferno Consortium?

I adjust the straps of the dress as Julian checks his watch. His expression turns stony.

“I need to head out. There’s some business I have to take care of with the Inferno Consortium. You’re sure Eleanora is joining you tonight?”

Right. Whatever he needs to take care of is too much of a burden for me to know. I spilled my guts to him, but he can’t even tell me one thing about tonight.

Classic.

I nod at his question. Eleanora has something to take care of with her family before the dinner, so I’ll meet her there.

“How am I supposed to kill Marcus without her noticing?” My fingers automatically land on my lips as I remember the pale pink lip gloss adorning them.

“Don’t worry about it,” he reassures me as he shoots off a quick text. “I told Emeric about his ‘little toy’ being at the restaurant tonight. He’ll make sure to keep her busy.”

“Did you tell him about me?”

About me killing people.

“No.” He puts his phone back in his pocket, blue eyes clashing with mine. “He doesn’t need to know.”

“Thank you.” I give him a small smile, relieved no one knows about me.

Yet.

Julian takes a step closer to me, and just when I thought things couldn’t get any weirder, he presses a soft kiss to my forehead, freezing me with the action.

“Knock ’em dead.” He grins sheepishly. Then he leaves.

Only he can replace humor in the most unusual of situations.

I watch him turn the corner and disappear, unable to suppress the smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

“Have you tried their Rendang before?” Eleanora asks. Her tongue peeks out to lick at her lips as her eyes roam the faux-leather menu. “I heard it’s absolutely divine!” Her eyes twinkle with excitement as she peeks up at me.

Soft lights glow from above us, adding a hazy vibe to the biomorphic restaurant. Plants crawl over every wall, and sets of booming flowers sit on each circular wooden table. Red chairs hold the customers as they chatter away, matching the ceiling-height red curtains at the entrance.

The whole restaurant is packed, leaving me with a sense of dread at the thought of having to kill someone in a place so crowded without being noticed. But this is the most upscale Indonesian restaurant in downtown Seattle, so I should have expected some obstacles.

“Can’t say I have,” I reply, eyes darting around the space to replace Marcus Whitman.

He’s sitting five tables away from us. From where I’m seated, I can see his side profile as he discusses something with the other three men dressed in suits. His bodyguards are pressed against the wall close by, their eyes like a hawk’s, scanning the perimeter.

“Then we should definitely order that!” Eleanora’s voice fills the room with her enthusiasm. “Oh, and the Nasi Goreng too! I’ve been craving it all week.”

“Sounds delicious,” I murmur.

The aroma from the dishes being served at the tables next to ours digs a hole in my stomach, making it growl with indescribable hunger. My mind may be elsewhere, but those dishes do sound delicious.

Placing the menu down on the table, Eleanora’s brows knit, meeting in the middle. “Is everything okay?” Her lips, painted a deep burgundy color, curve at the corners. “You seem a bit . . . distracted.”

Her long black hair is braided to the side, daisies and irises pinned here and there, decorating the hairstyle. They’re the perfect complement to the lilac Carolina Herrera dress with black tulle peeking out from below. Its square neckline showcases the shining pearls around her neck.

Assuring her, I place my hand over hers. “Everything’s fine. It’s just been a long day, that’s all.”

Humming, she lifts a brow and inclines her chin toward me. “Did you go shopping without me?”

Confusion pinches my features. Then I remember about the dress I’m wearing. “Of course not! Julian gifted me the dress.” I all but whisper the admission.

“He what?” Her hand falls to her chest. “My God. The guy knows how it’s done,” she says, more to herself. “Well, four thousand dollars has never looked better on anyone else.”

Nearly choking on the cool water I’ve been sipping on, I try to quash the realization Julian spent so much money on me.

What the hell is going on in that head of his?

The waitress, dressed all in white, jots down our drink order, tells us she’ll come back for us to order food in a bit, and leaves us in a comfortable silence I appreciate.

I glance at Marcus every now and then, but Eleanora, blind to my ulterior motive, detests the silence. We’ve shared each other’s company in silence many times before, but she loves to chat, and a date at Sulawesi Spice practically screams for conversation.

“Did you see that new art exhibit at the gallery down the street?” Eleanora’s question breaks me out of the spell that is Julian Harrow. “The paintings were so full of color, yet they seemed so . . . so dead. I could’ve spent hours there.”

“Really?” I place my menu on top of hers on the table, my attention drifting between her and Marcus. “I haven’t had the chance to check it out yet.”

“We could go together sometime this week!” The light speckles of honey in her eyes shine at the idea.

I could honestly benefit from some time with her. Time where I’m not planning a murder.

“Sure.”

Laughter from one of the other tables filters in, and I flick my gaze back to Marcus. He’s laughing at something one of the sullen-looking men said. His relaxed demeanor irks every fiber of my being.

Time stops. Everything but him blurs, and you’d think I was the protagonist of a romcom with the way my heart beats out of my chest. I might as well be⁠—

Madly in love with the thought of killing him.

“Earth to Aurelia!” A snapping of fingers follows Eleanora’s words. “Are you with me?”

“Sorry.” I force a sheepish grin.

There’s movement to my right, and I notice the waitress leaving our table. Eleanora follows my gaze and says, “I took the liberty of ordering for you too.”

“Fair enough.” I laugh, this time focusing my attention on what my best friend has to say.

Hours pass us by. Our food arrives, and I surprise myself, eating everything presented to me without a second thought. I guess killing doesn’t make me squeamish.

I look at my friend. The way her nose wrinkles as she laughs herself away. I wish I could tell her the truth. Everything. But I can’t risk putting her in danger. Her life is already messed up as it is. I can’t pile more shit on her plate.

Her family just informed her of the man they’ve arranged for her to marry. A young man or an old man, we have no idea what age he could be. I don’t know if she’s intentionally keeping the details of her soon-to-be spouse close to her chest or if she seriously has no intention of knowing more about him.

Swirling my wine around the glass, I sneak a peek over her shoulder to where Marcus is now ordering dessert. Time is ticking by. I need to put the plan into action.

Each second is a hammer against my skull. I can feel my blood boiling relentlessly as it flows through me.

“Isn’t this place just perfect?” she gushes, patting her lips with the satin napkin. “I could eat here every day!”

Mumbling my response, I make a mental note of my next steps.

“Oh, did you hear what happened to that couple down the street from where I live?” Eleanora starts. “Apparently⁠—”

“Evening, ladies.” A soothing voice lands in the middle of our conversation, and I spot Emeric sauntering up to our table wearing a playful smirk reserved just for Eleanora. “Mind if I join you?”

Thank you, Emeric.

“Absolutely—”

“Not!” Eleanora spits out, dark brows looming over her venomous eyes as she glares at Emeric. “This is a girls-only night out. You can replace yourself another table. Or better yet, another restaurant.”

Seeming unbothered by her, Emeric takes a chair from the table next to ours, giving the old lady dining by herself one of his signature smiles, then sits.

I swear, the lady blushes. Or maybe she’s suffering from a severe allergic reaction, because her skin is furiously reddening.

“Are you not listening to me?”

He shrugs at her. “I’ve been told I have selective hearing.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” she mumbles, taking a generous sip from her glass of Sauvignon. “Why are you here, Emeric?”

He takes his time, glancing around the restaurant before a smile plays on his lips. He looks back at a fuming Eleanora. “Just thought I’d grace you ladies with my charming presence. Plus, I couldn’t resist the chance to see the lovely Aurelia.”

I try to contain my laughter as Eleanora lets out a derisive snort.

“You aren’t welcome here. So leave.” She narrows her eyes and pushes her body forward, locking her gaze with his on the other side of the table.

“Ah, come on, love. Don’t be like this.” He gives her a lopsided smile. “I promise to behave,” he whispers.

I watch them as everything outside of themselves seems to fade away. This may be the best chance I’ll get to steal away without worrying Eleanora.

Julian was right: Emeric knows how to distract her well.

I slip down the corridor, quickening my steps as their loud voices fade. My breath catches in my throat when I spot the waiter carrying Marcus’s dessert. I know it’s his, because Julian was kind enough to inform me this is Marcus’s favorite restaurant, and he always asks them to make a specific off-the-menu dessert.

I clench the vial in my hand, skillfully opening it as I pass by the waiter. With one step to my left, I bump shoulders with him, careful enough not to make him drop the food, but hard enough to blur the action of me pouring the contents of the vial into the dessert.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I quickly grab for his arm, forcing eye contact with him as the white powder mixes with the meringue topping.

Three seconds.

That’s how long it takes to change the course of a life. That’s how long it takes me to set Marcus’s demise into motion.

The waiter apologizes too, then he delivers my gift to Marcus on a silver platter. Literally.

I wait in the shadows, watching carefully for him to take a spoonful of his beloved dessert: Key lime pie. Pathetic. But before he can, one of his bodyguards steps forward. He leans over and takes a spoonful in his place, his lips sealing the dessert in his mouth as a bullet of panic rises in my throat.

He’s testing the food before Marcus eats it. How did I not notice this during the dinner? He has a food tester.

I draw in a sharp breath, my stomach churning. This could fuck up the whole plan.

Without moving an inch, I stay waiting, my eyes glued to both of them.

It doesn’t take long for the effects to take place. Just when my feet are starting to cramp in the heels, the sound of silverware clattering reaches me.

Marcus is about to excuse himself from the table when the bodyguard whispers in his ear and bolts out of the restaurant. Not to the bathroom, where Marcus’s fast steps are taking him.

Thank God.

The weight of all the unease and anticipation finally lifts. I was so certain they’d both go to the restroom together, but lucky for me, Marcus is a traditional boss: the employee and the employer can’t share the same restroom.

Poor man. He’s probably running around the street searching for a public restroom right now.

Marcus rushes past me, and I lean closer to the wall, making sure he doesn’t see me. But I can see him perfectly—the way his face is a shade paler and how his hand clutches at his lower belly. His steps are clumsier the more he hurries.

When the restroom door closes I follow behind him, making sure no eyes are on me. Slipping through, I lock the door behind us.

He’s inside one of the stalls. Grunts fill the otherwise silent room while I lean against the sink and wait.

I stretch my fingers, cracking them at the knuckles.

Spiking the Key lime pie with laxatives was a bit childish, but God, how exhilarating it is to know I’ve humiliated him. Sometimes death feels like the easy way out. And having him found with shit in his pants? That’s priceless. Fitting, really. Especially for dirt like him.

The stall door opens, and the shadow of a tall figure falls over me. His thick eyebrows wrinkle as he gives me a once-over.

“Can I help you?”

“I think you can.” I place a hand on my hip, the action pulling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes sparkle with something close to hunger.

Disgust pushes its way up my stomach. He thinks I’m willingly flirting with him.

He couldn’t be more wrong.

“Have we met before?” He takes a step closer to me.

Then, as if remembering what he just did, he steals a fast look over his shoulder. Maybe he’s checking to see if he left a mess, or perhaps he’s just sniffing to decide if I can figure out what he did from the smell.

The answer is yes.

When he turns back to me he scratches his chin. “You seem familiar.”

Deciding to play with him a bit, I say, “Maybe I remind you of yourself, Dad.”

I laugh at the way his face contorts.

“Or maybe you remember my mother—Lucian’s little gift?”

His face lights up before crumbling to the pit of the earth.

Oh, he remembers her well.

I let a wide smile curve across my face. “You never thought you’d see her again, did you?”

Realization creeps into his expression.

“Were you relieved to learn she killed herself? Why was that? Was she not good enough for your sick games?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter. Because now I’m here in her place, ready to make you pay for all the suffering you caused her.” I pull out the gun, with the silencer in place. “Lost for words? Let me help you with that.”

I don’t even attempt to aim. Instead I squeeze the trigger. The bullet passes through his left knee. And just like I promised, the bastard heaves out a pained scream.

“That’s better, don’t you think, Marcus?”

The sound of his body collapsing to the floor follows next, hands stained red as he clutches his now shattered knee.

As the pain courses through him, every indent of his face contorts, stretching toward the ground. He turns around, putting all his weight onto his good knee as he tries to crawl toward the bathroom door, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Excitement surges, and my lips twitch as I step forward to kick him in the stomach, putting a stop to his pathetic attempt.

He looks up at me with mercy shining in his bulging eyes. But I have none to give, just like he had no mercy for my mother when she was alive.

“Are the things you did to my mom flashing back to you, huh?” I shout at him as rage overcomes me, and I shoot him in his right shoulder. “All those disgusting, degrading things you made her do—did to her!”

This time nothing comes out of his mouth, only short gasps for air.

The sight’s a sweet caress to my tortured soul.

His sweating hand struggles as it pats his pants pocket, trying to get something out of it. The object gleams in his hand, and in one swift movement I kick the phone from his grip.

“Don’t even think about it,” I say through clenched teeth, my patience slowly evaporating.

“G-go to h-hell,” he hisses, using all his remaining energy to spit those three words at me through gritted teeth.

I beam down at him. “After you.”

And I shoot him in the center of the forehead.

I watch his unmoving body for three seconds—that’s how long it takes to change the course of a life—before the smell of feces hits my nostrils. Not the smell of blood but the flood of brown liquid leaking from his trousers.

It’s disgusting. Borderline nauseating. But I can’t not revel in his humiliation.

I didn’t even need him to strip. It’s obvious he died covered in his own filth.

Before leaving the bathroom, this time I double-check there’s no blood on me. When I’m happy with how I look, I return to Eleanora and Emeric, who are closer to one another than they were before.

Emeric must have worked his magic, because the furious Eleanora that I left behind is nowhere in sight. Or she’s playing him. You can never really tell with these two.

I pour myself some wine and swallow it down in one breath.

“Ugh.” Eleanora’s face scrunches up. Looking around the restaurant, she asks, “What is that awful smell?”

Twirling my finger over the rim of the glass, I mumble in amusement, “Smells like a coup to me.”