The Last Rose Of Shanghai の小説・ストーリー

Not something Eclipsa would choose but I'm guessing choices are limited in wherever they are. "I love you guys. Please tell them when you see them. I love you all so fucking much. It hurts." "I'm sure it does. But you'll be fine. Anastasia, you need to finish this. The alpha won't believe you, so you've been gathering proof. It's in the roses. Check the roses. Okay?" I pulled back, and her thumb brushed over my eyes. "You've always been different from us. We're here with you, Ana. You can get to us whenever. I'm not sure how. There's something different about where we are. We're dead, but also trapped somewhere bad. But I know we're with you."

Rain’s lips twitched as she stared at their joined hands, when they finally let go, Rose’s cheeks were as red as her fucking name and for some reason Rain was beginning to grow a strange dislike for Roses. Damn it, her feelings were just all over the fucking place today. The room was as large as a fucking hotel room, a wide table in between two leather sofas. “She’s got nice ass,” Romeo said as he plopped down at the edge of the chair and relaxed into it. Luigi joined him, both of them acting like they were on a vacation. “Sergio’s late,” Enzo said, his eyes on the empty sofa where Mr. Mendes was supposed to seat.

" There were plenty of flower shops along the way, but none of them satisfied Willow. Eventually, she picked a store that looked clean and pretty and had beautifully wrapped flowers. Willow stepped inside. The shop owner greeted her with a smile. "What kind of flowers do you want to buy, kid?" "Roses!" Willow declared boldly. She heard that roses symbolized love. If she gave roses to her parents, they would surely understand just how much she loved them. The shop owner led her to the roses. "You can choose the roses, kid." "Thank you." Willow watched carefully from the side. There were different colors of roses—white ones, red ones, and even roses that gradually transitioned from white to bl

Alexander shuts his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her fighting to the death to protect them. "—but it was just a fluke. Those damn Roses and their explosives; it's as if they think they're military or something. Who ever heard of the mafia using bombs? It's simply not stylish," Rolf continues. "Well, it's clear they don't care much about style," Alexander replies, recalling the young woman they encountered, who had begged for help and drawn their attention. When they were distracted by her, the Roses began shooting, and she got caught in the crossfire. He shakes his head, determined to dislodge the thought. If he dwells too long on the horrific things he's witnessed, he fears he mi

"If ignorance is so safe, why can't you sleep at night? Why do you check your rearview mirror at every intersection? Why does the name Emeka Okonkwo still make your blood run cold?" She had no answer. She could only stare at him, her eyes burning, her throat tight with words she could not say. Dante pulled back. He reached into his jacket again—this time, for a second photograph. He placed it on the desk beside the first. Zara looked down. This photograph showed a woman—young, beautiful, radiant. She was wearing a white dress, her hair crowned with flowers, her smile wide and genuine. She was standing in a garden, surrounded by rose bushes and sunlight.

"The one Grant mentioned. For London. He said after San Vicente, it might be smart to make things clear." Her eyes flicked toward me. "To avoid confusion." I understood then. The white dress was not a wedding dress. It was worse in its own way: a costume chosen to make people talk, to make the duet look like a promise, to let the label sell a romance before Adrian had even decided whether he wanted one. Lily looked at me with that soft, wounded expression she used when she wanted a knife to look like a flower. "Mira, I really hope you'll come Saturday. It would mean a lot if people saw that there's no bitterness between us."

The next morning, Corleone came home carrying Lilia's favorite rose perfume on him. In his hand was my favorite apple pie, his deep eyes filled with affection. "Eat it while it's still warm. I made a special trip to the Hillsbalt to buy it." I lowered my gaze. Just ten minutes earlier, Lilia had posted a new story of her and a man in bed on Instagram. Though neither of their faces was visible, the blooming rose tattoo on the man's chest clearly identified him as Corleone.

Rosa’s gaze fell on the colorful flowers arranged there and she gasped softly in wonder. The shop lady’s smile deepened. “Would you like some flowers, young lady?” she asked kindly. Rosa looked up, her eyes shining bright with delight. A soft beautiful smile bloomed on her lips. Without a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “I’m the last one closing for the night.” the lady said kindly, arranging the flowers on the stall. “Everyone else has already packed up. What are you doing here all alone, miss? Aren’t you scared? There could be bad people out this late.”

Suddenly, the smoke shifts, and I see the glass greenhouse at the edge of the cliff. But it isn't beautiful anymore. The thousands of white roses on the floor are dead, turned into black ash. The thousands of candles have melted into pools of liquid wax that look like tears. And standing right in the center of the ruins, under the broken crystal chandelier, is Rosalina.

The room tilted, and yet I stayed rooted—watching my own happiness collapse. “C-Celine—” Adrian stammered, shoving Marielle off as though it made a difference. “How long?” My voice was a whisper, fragile and sharp all at once. “Wait, let me explain,” he begged, his hand reaching toward me. Marielle smirked faintly, her dress slipping from her shoulder. “Maybe you shouldn’t marry a man you can’t keep, sister.” The words sliced deeper than any blade. I laughed—a broken, bitter sound. “Explain? No. You already have.” My trembling fingers tugged off the engagement ring. The diamond that once blinded me now mocked me