Poor Man's Rose Novels & Stories

'' He leans in so that our noses are touching, ''Are you any better, Rose? I bite hard onto the insides of my cheeks, trying to avoid myself from tearing up. For once, I really finally have lost hope on my own. Maybe I'm never worth it. He wouldn't see me as anything else but a fucking prostitute. I was raised and taught to be a prostitute—not a woman who men will desire.

He stayed in the car and waited. Holding a bouquet of white roses, Daisy slowly walked through rows of gravestones until she stopped in front of the one tucked away in the farthest corner. The stone bore only Dario's name and the years of his birth and death. In the photograph, he had on a black suit. His distinct features were exactly the same as the first time Daisy had met him. She placed the white roses in front of the gravestone and stood there silently for a long time. Finally, she said softly, "When I said I wouldn't forgive you, I meant it. But I don't hate you anymore either. Rest in peace."

They were arguing, voices low but intense. “…impossible this time of year,” the old man was saying. “The shipment was intercepted in Miami. The risk…” “Name your price,” Nicholas’s voice cut through, cold and final. “Triple. I need it tonight.” The old man sighed, shrugged, and disappeared into the foliage. He returned minutes later, holding a pot with extreme care. The plant was stunning and sinister. Deep, velvety black petals, almost purple in the low light, shaped like a rose but more exotic, with long, cruel-looking thorns along its stem. A Black Mafia Rose orchid. I’d heard the stories—a hybrid smuggled out of a failed cartel bio-lab, symbolizing a dangerous, obsessive love.

I stepped forward, picking up the roses from the ground. I noticed that these roses had been carefully trimmed of their thorns and were of a very rare variety. "Mrs. Todd, this old man broke the flowers that Mr. Winston prepared for everyone and disturbed everyone. I'll have someone take him out." I said, "It was an accident. Could you please prepare a new basin? Since these roses on the ground were specially brought by Mr. Winston, it's a pity to just let them be admired. Why not ask the ladies present to take one in hand and feel Mr. Winston's intentions?"

On reaching outside his house was a stunning sight, right in front of the little manor he stayed in was a medium-sized garden filled with only flowers and vegetables, twirling flowers, crawling ones, ones as tall as trees mingled with lovely vegetables of various sizes and shapes, large pumpkins, glowing tomatoes, green spinaches, and broccoli, ripened onions hidden within the ground but with healthy leaves that screamed its near maturity. The marguerite lilies swaggered around looking as peaceful as ever, the candelas beamed at him with their huge eye, the jasmine not being left out outspread its pretty white petals and Feral felt his mood liven up a bit. He plucked up a blue rose which he

she replied. "Nothing much... Means something happened," I said. "Well... I'll be fucking someone today," she replied making me choke on my spit. "You'll be doing what?" I asked like I had not just heard what she said. "You heard me right," she replied. "But.... What about your mate?" I questioned. "Look... Rosie. I'm an Omega. I accept my fate that my mate may probably never accept me when he realizes who I am," she responded. " So ... It's best I enjoy my life before I get old."

I smiled. Rose had mud covering her clothes, with splashes of water on her top as well. "You should change your clothes, otherwise you will catch a cold." She nodded with a sheepish smile, "I went to collect water from the river but slipped over the rock and fell." I paused but continued stirring again...the river. "Can you add the final petals and stir this? I have some work to do." Rose looked at me in shock and to my surprise, she shook her head in a no immediately, "I can't do that, you shall always complete your work other..."

For the exact same reason Ethan pretended to be poor 20 years ago. To be loved for himself, not his money. On a rainy Tuesday in Shoreditch - just like Camden 20 years ago - Rose Carter, 20, in Zara and sneakers, with her father's grey eyes, was making coffee, when Leo came in late, soaked, holding a single white rose from a Tesco £3 bouquet. "For you, my Rose," Leo said, smiling, his brown eyes warm, his hoodie dripping. Rose, who had heard the story of her father standing in rain with 999 roses from her mother's shop 20 years ago 500 times from Grandma Rose - now 102 years old and still alive with cheese - rolled her eyes.

I stood near the side, watching her. "Thank you all for coming tonight," Rodah began, her voice clear, steady, and incredibly fluent. She spoke with a sharp intelligence that completely commanded the room, explaining the inspiration behind her landscapes without a single stutter. But as she spoke, the low murmurs started in the corners of the hall. "Did you hear she's from the slums?" a woman whispered nearby. "Yeah, her father is a pathetic gambler who sold her like a piece of meat to pay his debts," a man replied. "Fascinating how well-spoken she is for a peasant."

The irony hit hard. As we drove further in, we stopped in front of the second villa. I stepped out and gaped—it was the most beautiful one of all. Painted soft white and pastel pink, with tall glass windows gleaming under the afternoon sun. Inside, the living room took my breath away. Gold and blush accents framed the walls, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla—my favorite scent. What a coincidence, I thought. A woman, probably In her early fifties, appeared from what looked like the kitchen. She smiled gently and spoke quietly with the assistant. I barely listened, too overwhelmed to focus on their conversation.