Arabella Rose Novels & Stories

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none. ✾ The little girl had tied her pretty little hair into a tight ponytail. She was called Amara, and she was one of the lucky young women who were chosen to be consorts of the future great Alpha of Cinco. She had just finished her morning chores and was supposed to visit one of her best friend, Eleanor. Amara had fondly called her El. She was proud of the fact that only a few people called her that name.

When I was done brushing and taking my bath, I changed into a pair of black leggings and a light blue sweater when I noticed the weather was a bit chilly. I packed my curls in a bun and left my room, nearly bumping into Anya. "Oh, dearie! I was just about to come and wake you up for breakfast!" she exclaimed with a cherry tone. "Good morning, Anya," I greeted the woman. "Good morning to you too. Follow me. I'm sure you must be starving," she said and turned to leave. "You have no idea," I mumbled and followed after her. "You haven't told me your name yet," she said to me. "Oh, I apologize. I'm Rosaline, but people call me Rose," I told her. she turned around to look at me and I felt a little

I poured myself a coffee and took a slow sip, letting the bitterness ground me. Women didn’t usually run from me. They stayed. They asked questions. They tried to use me, my name, my status, my influence to elevate themselves. They lingered, testing boundaries, seeing how much they could extract before they were asked to leave. Arabella hadn’t asked anything. She’d assumed the worst and still tried to make it right. Interesting. My phone buzzed less than twenty minutes later. “That was quick” I chuckled as I answered. “Arabella Hart”

“Friends and families discount.” Ollie paid the florist and then put the box of lilies inside his backpack before he plucked a single red rose from one of the shelves to his left. “Here.” He placed the rose in my hand. “It matches your hair.” Then Ollie turned around and walked toward the door without waiting for me while I stood there with my cheeks turning the same shade of red as the rose in my hand.

Arabella’s pulse skipped instantly. Lord Emerson sent flowers? Mrs. Whitmore placed them gently inside a vase near the window. “There was no note, my lady.” Of course, there was not. Still… Arabella could not stop staring at the roses after the housekeeper left. No man had ever sent her flowers before. Not even her husband. Especially not her husband. Slowly, she rose from bed and walked toward the arrangement. They were deep crimson roses, soft and rich in color. Beautiful. Her fingertips brushed the petals gently.

Arabella wanted to take rest very badly as tomorrow is her wedding with Xander, she didn't do anything to be tired, but still she was tired, as though, starting from the simple to hectic, all kinds of arrangements were done by Xander and his family. Completing her skincare routine, she was about to go to bed, and her mobile vibrated, she couldn't help but to feel tensed as looked at the unknown number flashing on the screen. She hesitated for a minute, but curiosity won over making her answer the call. "Hello?" She said cautiously. The voice on the other end was too familiar, "hello Bella, it's me, Ruby!" Arabella couldn't help but to sigh, she is so happy currently but with a single call th

But she wondered if the attackers had come to kill her as they did to the others because she doubted Sandro and his men were strong enough to hold them off. Francis had described the attackers as a formidable enemy. Covering her face, she trembled as the footstep got closer. "Please," she whispered. Then cleared her throat as she could barely hear herself. "Please, don't hurt me." "So, you are the Delicate Rose from the Rosette dynasty?" Arabella's head snapped up and her blue eyes collided with Sandro's sea-green orbs. He narrowed them at her, and he snarled. She glimpsed two canines, which looked more like fangs before they disappeared again.

ARABELLA My body froze. I can feel my breathing slow down as Alpha Ronan's words slowly sink in. “Of course I know you, Arabella," he said, clearing my confusion. "You were from the neighboring territory. A Luna of Blood Fang Pack. Wife of Adrian Voss,”

I opened the door just a few inches and saw a small cardboard box sitting on the carpet with no name and no return address, so I pulled it inside and opened the lid while the others crowded around me to see what was inside. Resting on a bed of white tissue paper was a single rose made of delicate glass and the stem was broken in half so it looked dead and jagged, and I knew immediately that it was a message from Elena Romano because that rose was the symbol of the investment firm we had burned down in Berlin.

Let them all. Because Nyxara Vale was not a memory. She was a reckoning waiting to unfold, and the storm inside her was only gathering strength. She would rise, not as the pampered heiress they remembered, but as something forged from sorrow and fury—a force that would tear through every lie, every alliance, every illusion they’d built on her grave. Cassian’s arrogance, Brielle’s cruelty, the world’s indifference—none of it would shield them from what was coming. They had not destroyed her. They had unleashed her.