Roseanne Park Novels & Stories

I could feel his chest pressed lightly on my back. "Back in the city so soon Aiden?" He smiled. It wasn't a nice one. I could see. Cause I always did that. "Rose, Carrie is looking for you" I nodded walking to the back room and I turned to look at them too . But didn't give it any second thought. I had received my cash and I take my bag saying goodbye to Carrie and thinking about grabbing some food from the local mart.

She would push the bigger model off, but she saw the image of her savior. Even if she was already past seventy, Parker only huffed as she put her arms akimbo while still holding the tray. Her arms didn’t even seem hurt from her action. The staff and the guard would step in earlier, but Roxanne was armed. She might take Andrea hostage. It’s just that… this old woman was so ruthless that she just walked in with a tray at hand. “No wonder Griff hates the girls I pick up for him. What psychos… making an old woman do all the job.” As if nothing happened, Parker smiled at the terrified Andrea in front of her. “Are you okay, sweetie? Did you get hurt? Why are you dirty now?”

- she scrolled through the tablet's screen showing me the movie rankings and the loads of comments that trailed behind it. "It's really great, everyone is saying that Rose is a very admirable character. They love her personality and the vibes. You totally outshined Irina, a top star actress."- she chuckled, clapping her hands together like a shy girl who just found love. " So ~?." - I asked, feeling unperturbed. I pursed my lips in a thin line,such measly fame wasn't something to be all giddy about. They were often fleeting - they leave as quickly as they come. Besides, that wasn't my primary aim right now.

At the end of the hall, a door sat slightly ajar. I pushed it open… and froze. The room was filled with portraits of me. Me dancing on stage. Me reading quietly in the library. Me sitting alone on a park bench, lost in thought. Every angle of me, every moment… Jordan had captured in painstaking detail. I stepped closer to one painting. That was seventeen-year-old me in mid-dance, skirt flying, laughter radiant. In the corner, there was a line of tiny words that read: My rose has finally come to me.

“But what are you doing here?” Her eyes suddenly lit up with curiosity. “And wasn’t that your boss, Jabco Grey, outside?” she added casually. “I saw him getting into his car.” She dragged her suitcase inside and left it near the door. Rose was twenty, a university student, still young and careless in many ways. She was Riyana’s stepfather’s daughter from his first wife. After his wife passed away, he married Riyana’s mother. Their relationship was normal, not too close, not too distant.

The hall quietened, the silence hanging like a thick veil - almost as if everyone had suddenly held their breaths on wisp. The red - haired male stepped forward, reaching out for the bouquet of roses. His eyes filled with silent contemplation as he stared at the blooming,fresh roses and then at Dylan's expecting eyes. Without another thought he tossed the roses to the ground, trampling on them with his shoes tilled their petals scattered around in the dust. Gasps rippled through the halls, a clear expression of shock from the watching bystanders. "Dylan, how many times must i have to turn you away and how many times must you embarrass yourself in public like this?. You know.....", Simone pau

He was peeling an orange with a small, silver folding knife, his movements surgical and slow. Sloane slid into the booth opposite him. The air between them didn't just chill; it ignited. "You're late, Rose," Julian said. He didn't look up. He flicked a coil of orange peel onto the table. "I almost thought you'd developed a conscience." "I don't have a conscience, Julian. I have a contract." Her voice was like velvet over glass. She reached into her clutch, not for her gun, but for a cigarette she had no intention of lighting. Her hands were steady, a professional’s pride, but her heart was thudding a traitorous rhythm against her ribs.

Alexander Rossi didn’t chase women. Women chased him. Once, I’d spiked a fever so high I hallucinated. I crawled to his study, begging him to take me to the hospital. He glanced up from a weapons shipment manifest, dialed a private doctor, and returned to his numbers. Never touched me. Never asked if I was okay. Now here he was—across an ocean, his empire crumbling—because I’d left. "Come home," he said, voice rough.

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.

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.