Rachel Roses Novels & Stories

She walked to the shelves, poured herself some water from a secluded glass, and took a sip. Rachel wasn’t drinking anything at first, but then reached for the same pitcher and poured herself a cup. She took a small sip— Only for Daisy to snatch it from her hands in panic. “Are you okay?!” Daisy exclaimed. Rachel blinked. “Yes, why?” “You’re allergic to rose water. You remember that, right?” Rachel paused. “When I turned 20, my allergies didn’t bother me anymore.” Daisy narrowed her eyes. “Really?” It was a lie.

The air smelled sweet with roses and lavender, and the gentle breeze made the moment feel special. I stood near Rachel, clutching her bouquet of soft pink peonies, as we waited for the ceremony to begin. She looked stunning in her flowing white dress, the lace details catching the light of the late afternoon sun. Her hair was styled in loose waves, with a delicate flower crown resting on her head. “You ready?” I asked, my voice soft. Rachel smiled at me, her eyes shining with emotion. “I’ve never been more ready for anything in my life,” she replied.

A looked crossed his eyes,but it went away as quickly as it came, and soon he was looking at me amused again. "Of course, I didn't anticipate finding raunchy books in a sweet girl's bag, you're definitely right. Noted, I'm never doing that again." I scowled and he smirked. "So Rosie?" He asked, I couldn't help it, I rolled my eyes at that, rubbing at my temples. "No, my name's Rosette, not Rosie. That's childish." "Okay, so Rose. Well that's a pretty name for a very pretty girl, as cliché as it sounds, it's the truth, you're a pretty little flower." And the blush that was barely receding was back again.

'' She replies, lightly running her hand at Elis's back. A couple of hours later, I am left staring at the glass window near the back—only watching flowers blossoming beautifully. My lips curve up into a small smile, realising that there's a lot of roses here other than different flowers. To my surprise, I find Fiore standing a few feet from me as she watches the roses, ''They are Elia's favourite.'' She says, breaking the silence. ''Especially orange coloured roses,'' She adds. Roses. Is it a coincident?

Dylan cast her a fleeting glance, then fixed his gaze on the stretching road ahead of them, slowing the car into a stop as they came into an intersection and the traffic light blinked red. “The thing you call soul something,” Rachel responded. To keep herself from ogling at him, she looked down at the flowers, playing with the smooth texture of their petals with her fingers. She couldn’t let him know that what he keeps on insisting with that pull thingy is slowly affecting her. “Mate?” Dylan mused, pulling the gearshift, slowly accelerating the car as the traffic went green. “Yes, mate.” She nodded, suddenly became curious about how they smelled, and unconsciously brought the bouquet up to h

He held it up to the light, the delicate pen pressed between his fingers - light yet exquisite. "I like it", he turned, staring at the bouquet of blue roses, his gaze complicated. Dylan scratched his head, an awkward laugh escaping his lips. "That... the flower shop i contacted had ran out of chamomiles and only had those". Matthew inhaled, nodding slowly with a low hum. "Thanks" "It was nothing actually, just something that i had to do...out of courtesy", Dylan smiled, waving his hands lightly. They stared at each other silently for a while, neither having a word to say. After a moment, Dylan cleared his throat, his hands running through his thick, strands of hair.

The rain in Manhattan didn't wash away sins; it only made the blood slicker on the pavement. Sloane Volkov—known to the underworld as the "Black Rose"—stood in the shadows of an alleyway across from L'Eclat, a club so exclusive its entrance didn't even have a sign. She adjusted the hem of her gown. It was a masterpiece of deep, bruised purple silk that clung to her curves like a second skin. To the casual observer, she was a socialite waiting for a car. To the man she was hunting, she was death incarnate.

"Mickey, you're finally here. I was so scared. I had another nightmare. Tell me—tell me I escaped. Tell me I wasn't violated, right?" She clutched at him, desperate for reassurance. Her doe-like eyes shimmered with fear. Mickey wrapped her in his arms and gently stroked her back. "You got away. No one laid a finger on you. Don't be afraid, Rose. I'm here." Rose? Mickey, the woman in your arms—do you really believe she's your beloved Rose? Don't you know Rose is already dead? You killed her. My eyes stung as I watched another woman take my name and identity. And I could do nothing.

"My lady, how was it?" She asked, dropping the dress she was about to fold up on the bed. "They hate me, all of them." Rachael concluded placidly before making her way to a chair in the room. She settled on the chair before massaging her temples. "How so?" Rosa became intrigued; she grabbed a bottle of rose oil from the dressing table and then made her way to where Racheal was seated. "I couldn't see it on their faces." Racheal retorted frantically.

Rachel walks in carrying a stack of files and two coffees. "Good morning," she says brightly. "You're trending again." "I've always hated being popular." "I noticed." She places a coffee on my desk. "One investor canceled breakfast, another requested an emergency meeting, and three reporters are pretending to be delivery drivers downstairs." "They're getting creative." "One came dressed as a florist." I look up. "You're joking." "I wish I were. Security confiscated twelve roses." Despite myself, I laugh. Rachel points toward the coffee. "Drink before the next disaster arrives."