Lila Rose Author Novels & Stories

Instead, she shifted uneasily on her seat, swallowing continuously as her jaws clenched tightly All these Lillia noticed, and as she had expected, she smiled. “Oh forgive me, I must have left out the meaning of that statement.” She began softly, parting her palms and stretching them toward a close distance to the lavender candles. Then, she made a pulling gesture that drew the incense it emitted in her direction. Briar Rose stilled, her chest heaving heavily as she watched Lillia. “The incense chases out every evil that may have been conjured to haunt me or may have found me through other means like rumors.” Lillia explained gently. “This is what I am inviting in.”

Amir brings out physical drives, old-school encryption, systems that require hands and presence and consent. “This is slower,” Jade says, watching cables snake across the dining table. “Yes,” Amir replies. “That’s the point.” Lila sits with a notebook instead of her phone. Paper feels strange in her hands—solid, untraceable. She writes names. Dates. Fragments of stories. Not full accounts. Just enough to honor existence. “She was seventeen,” she says suddenly. “The art account. She posted at night because that’s when she felt safe.” Jade looks up. “Did she tell anyone?”

Still… It did. A loud voice suddenly interrupted her thoughts. “Seriously? You’re writing notes at a hockey game?” Lila looked up quickly. Three girls stood in front of her row, laughing. One of them stepped forward with a smirk. Chloe Simmons. One of Vanessa’s closest friends. Her eyes flicked down to Lila’s notebook. “Let me guess,” Chloe said loudly. “You’re writing another fantasy story about Ethan Ryder?” The other girls laughed. Lila’s cheeks burned. “I…I’m just studying,” she murmured.

Vivian let out a sound somewhere between a squeal and a gasp. “Oh, my god. Who have you been hiding? You’ve got a secret rich man somewhere?” Rose shot her a look. “I went back to the fights last night,” she said. “And I won.” Lyon, still standing there, let out a low breath. “That explains it,” he said. “You’re the Wild Rose.” His gaze sharpened. “No wonder you rattled my man.” Luke appeared from the back, stopping short as he took in the scene. “Since when did this place turn into a flower shop?”

Lila laughed—wet. “I’m not crying. It’s just… rain.” Emily smiled. “We know.” They talked for an hour—about her latest pieces (a series of fractured cityscapes with gold threads), about Noah’s surf meet (he won first this time), about Alexander’s garden (roses still blooming despite the season). When the call ended, Lila stared at the blank screen. Then she stood—grabbed her coat, scarf, sketchbook. Walked out into the rain. She wandered—past the Duomo, along the river, through narrow alleys—drawing quick sketches of doorways, wet cobblestones, umbrellas blooming like flowers.

"You look so much like your mother." Ellie's spine was rigid beneath my hand. "Father." Eliana. There was no record of that being her full name. I'd searched everything when we'd first brought her in—birth certificates, school records, every database I could access. Ellie Knight. Nothing about Eliana. Another secret she'd kept. Another piece of herself hidden away. Vittorio's gaze slid to me, assessing with the cold calculation of someone who saw people as chess pieces. "And you must be Lorenzo, head of The Black Rose. It's nice to finally meet you. I've heard amazing things."

Lila’s gaze was fixed on the rosebush opposite her: thorned and bare, winter having stripped it of any blooms. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” I said quietly. She didn’t answer at first. Only blinked, slow and heavy, as if dragging herself back from somewhere far away. “I’m not alone,” she murmured finally, voice hoarse. Her eyes flicked toward the guards, then back to the roses. “Am I?” There was no bitterness in her tone, just exhaustion. The bone-deep kind that settled in. I’d seen this type of exhaustion in warriors after battle, who had given up hope.

“I think you’re stupid enough to steal from the Delgados.” His finger flexed on the trigger guard. “Tell me why.” “Because you burned my past. Because you stamped ash across everything I loved, and because your notebook might prove it.” She wanted to utter these words so badly, but she didn't. Instead she said, “I wanted to know who I work for.” “Curiosity gets maids fired.” “Bullets splatter,” she reminded. A tense beat. Then he exhaled; frustration, not relief. “Put the book down,” he repeated.

She carried a leather satchel and a paper cup of coffee that she set on Evelyn’s desk as if the office already belonged to her. “Black, two sugars,” Lila said. “The way widows drink it.” Evelyn’s mouth went dry. “How did you—” “I pay attention.” Lila pulled the visitor’s chair closer, turned it around, and straddled it backward. The skirt rode high enough to reveal the lace band of her stockings and a sliver of bare thigh above. She rested her arms on the chair back, chin on her forearms, and smiled. “So. My thesis. Female hunger in twentieth-century confessional poetry. I brought the new pages.”

“Keep your voice down. The walls here have ears.” “Whose?” Lila asked. “Her guards? That gamma with the suspicious eyes? You really think anyone will question the sweet pregnant Luna?” “Yes.” I turned. “Because I would.” She rolled her eyes and flopped back on the bed. “You’re getting paranoid.” “Paranoia keeps us alive.” I bent to straighten the basket Rose had left behind; her scent still clung to the cloth—lavender, honey, that faint trace of wolf and sandalwood she picked up from him. “She’s smarter than she looks. If she keeps asking questions, she’ll find the cracks.”