Unopened Rose Novels & Stories

I close my eyes momentarily to control the anger rising in my chest, slipping away into the locker room to leave my heels. But as soon as I open the metal door, a bunch of red roses fall to my feet. I stagger back, immediately looking around to see if anyone is around. Since no one is, I gather all the roses in my hands, crushing the delicate petals and shoving them all in my pockets. A thorn burrows itself into my thumb pad, but I don’t care. I just need to make sure that no one sees this. Especially the note. My blood soaks through the paper as I unfold it, decorating the grim words like a bright red rose.

They want to dismantle the hierarchy of the entire wolf kind. "Who’s your contact?" I demand, stepping back. "How are you moving across borders unseen? Who’s feeding you intel?" He grins up at me, his teeth stained red. "The Rose." My heart hammers against my ribs. "What did you say?" "The Rose," he whispers, a look of reverence crossing his twisted face. "She blooms in the dark. She carries the scent of the garden and the poison of the grave. She opened the door for us." Wild roses.

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.

Suddenly, an uninvited guest crashed the wedding halfway through. It was Carlo. He was bony, wearing a wrinkled suit, and holding a wilted bouquet of roses. He staggered in front of me, babbling, "Rosa… look, I brought you your favorite roses. Won't you marry me? Let's get married today." Luca's bodyguards moved in to remove him, but I held my hand up. I took the wilted bouquet of roses and looked straight at him. "Oh, Carlo. Look at me. Take a good look... Whose wedding do you think this is? This is my wedding. Mine, and I'll be marrying Luca. And you? You're just a madman crashing someone else's wedding."

The door creaked open, and there she was, bright as always but this time she was carrying a massive bouquet of deep red roses. The kind you see in glossy ads for people who never have to check their bank balance. “Okay, what is this?” I asked, standing. “Not from me,” Rosie said, setting the bouquet down with exaggerated grace. “Reception said a courier dropped it off. No name. No brand. Just roses.” I blinked. “Roses?” “Mm-hm.” She bent slightly to inhale them. “Imported, obviously. Whoever sent these has taste. And possibly an obsession.”

I opened my own studio, and my days became full, vibrant, and happy. One night, Jordan stepped out of the shower, a towel slung loosely around his waist. As he turned, I caught sight of a tattoo on the small of his back. I leaned closer. It was a rose in full bloom—beside it, a little girl dancing. My fingertips trembled as I traced it, my eyes stinging. "I had it done when I was seventeen," he said softly. His gaze lowered to mine, eyes shimmering with starlight. "I wanted to keep it a secret until the day you became my bride."

Rosemary’s phone screen lit up with a new message. She frowned, setting down her cup. > “Who is it?” Adrian asked. Rosemary stared at the screen, her face draining of color. > “An unknown number.” She hesitated for a moment, then opened the message. Only a few lines appeared — but they were enough to make her blood run cold. > “You think I’ve lost? I still have something you don’t know. The world hasn’t seen everything yet, Rosemary.” — C.V. The phone slipped from her trembling fingers onto the table.

I said. "It is open," she said. "The rose is open." I sat back down. "It opened this morning," she said. "I could see it from the street. Five petals. Fully open. The color of it is." She stopped again. "Come to your window. Right now." I was already at the window. The rose on the window box was open. Fully. Five petals wide. The color of something that had been patient in the cold for three months and had decided, on a Thursday morning in March at approximately seven in the morning when the light was the pale specific gold of early spring in New York, that the time had come.

He'd forgotten that he, too, used to treasure her, and yet, he was the one who abandoned her in the end. He'd forgotten way too many things, and this was his retribution now. "W-what are you saying?" Layla stepped back in disbelief, tears gushing from her eyes. "The middle notes of this perfume are rose and sandalwood," Eric said. "You said that you were deathly allergic to roses. But if that were the case, then why haven't you been having any allergic reactions when you've been wearing this every day?" Layla's eyes widened in disbelief as her face paled, her delicate makeup somewhat distorted by the terror on her face.

I start walking again, slower, and the whole floor lets out a breath behind me. I push open the door to my glass office. On the desk sits a courier box, square, black, tied with a thin ribbon. It wasn't there last night. I think of the courier who carried it up, the receptionist who signed for it, the elevator camera that will show nothing useful. I lift the lid with one finger. A single black rose lies on white tissue. No card. No note. Its petals have been left uncut, the stem trimmed clean. I do not touch it. I put the lid back down.