Page 1 of Roses are Royal

PROLOGUE

Ishould’ve known it would end this way. Lying here as mascara and tears stream down my face, my nails chipped and clothes torn, with what I’m pretty sure is a dislocated shoulder, I’m surrounded by crystal from the shattered chandelier. And all I can think about is whether I unplugged my curling iron this morning.

Time is a funny thing when you don’t have much of it left. I always thought my life would flash before my eyes, playing out like a montage of my top achievements and highlights throughout the years, but in reality, all I can think about is that damn curling iron. The one I’ve had for years, with a frayed cord and wires visible from use and overall poor care. White electrical tape that is no longer sticky, just hanging on for dear life. Why did I curl my hair today? What will happen to that curling iron when I’m gone? Will it burn everything down and take my memories with it? I should really throw that thing away. It’s not like I can’t afford a new one.

It turns out, my life montage is a series of dumb questions about a curling iron. Not my first kiss with Luc in the back of his mom’s red Honda Civic in a dark parking lot when I was in high school. Not my first job offer received right out of college to work for the top design firm in the country. No, not any of the things that might actually mean something. A freaking curling iron.

1

ROSE

My first potential client meeting since leaving my misogynistic design firm, and I’m running late. It’s not my fault the client chose to build their house out in the middle of nowhere. It’s as if they don't want people to find their property. There aren’t even street signs out here. They just sent me a location pin with coordinates, and I’m praying the GPS knows where it’s going because I’m following it without question.

I take what appears to be the final turn from the directions down a long winding driveway, if you could even call it that. It’s flanked by two large gray stone pillars, which I’m assuming will eventually have a gate added for additional security. It's only wide enough for one car and still dirt and gravel. Apparently, the contractor is waiting on some specialized material needed to complete the pavement.

The rest of the drive past the entrance is beautifully framed by massive cottonwood trees that seem closer to the cloudy sky above than the damp ground below. The driveway path looks like it was created to follow the natural pattern of the forest rather than cutting a straight track forward. I can appreciate the respect for nature, especially this deep into the woods, but it definitely lacks practicality.

This driveway must be at least half a mile long, if not longer. It will be an absolute cluster to get moving trucks in here to drop off all the items I’ll need to fully design and furnish this place. That is, if I get the contract, and that’s a big if. Typically, I would insist on having a contract signed before making it this far along in the process, but I’m willing to take the risk since I make the rules now. Plus, I really want to sign this client. Everything we have discussed over email for his property is straight out of my literal dreams. Some of the design ideas could be from my own personal sketches of my dream house.

While I have over ten years of experience working in luxury design, that was all with Franklin & Sons. The firm carries a lot of weight within the New York social scene and is known for designing the most expensive and luxurious penthouses and brownstones in the city. Even though I started my career with them straight out of college as a lowly intern and worked my way up to senior designer, I was never going to make partner for one simple fact: my gender. Franklin & Sons isn’t just a name but a requirement. Which is why, with no notice, no other prospects, and no plan, I quit.

That’s right; I gave a perfectly manicured middle finger to the head partner, who I thought was my mentor and had my back, until he stabbed a knife in it, metaphorically speaking. In reality, Thompson (yes, that’s his first name) couldn’t physically hurt anyone. I dedicated ten years of my life to that company just to be passed over three times for open partner positions, which were eventually filled with less experienced male counterparts whose projects generated half the revenue.

All the late nights and early mornings—wasted. The countless weekends I spent catering to the whims of New York socialites, instead of having a little fun, making friends, or going on dates. Just so they could brag about a stupid (and usually ugly but god forbid they take my advice and taste into account) vase or lamp or sculpture—insert whatever useless object here they hyperfixated on—that I spent weeks or sometimes months to source only to serve no practical purpose other than to showcase their wealth and complete lack of taste.

Instead of acting the part of the demure, polished, professional, tailored suit-wearing, effortless-blowout-having (which, in fact, is not effortless), emotionless, plastic Botox face (yes, I get Botox, relax), perfectly Barbie-formed feet from hours in sky-high Christian Louboutin heels, I gave them the real me in all her perfect glory. And the real me is confident, loud, loves bright clothes, tacky chunky jewelry, and most importantly…flat shoes—no high heels or pointy toes in sight. Just comfortable, casual, and cute. God forbid I wear leggings in public too—the horror.

So, when I marched into the senior partners’ weekly meeting three months ago, wearing leggings (I mean they were Lululemon, I’m not an animal), a tie-dye Nirvana crop top, white platform Converse, and my naturally curly chocolate-brown hair, and told them I quit, I have never felt more alive. Did security immediately escort me out? Yes, but for those glorious three minutes it took for security to arrive, I felt like I had finally accomplished something in my life. The days to follow, however, were not all rainbows and sunshine as one would expect after quitting a high six-figure job with no backup plan.

I’m no stranger to living life on the other side of the metaphorical tracks, but I thought I had finally made it and broken out of the poor, orphan life I was destined for. While my childhood wasn’t all bad, I never had a sense of security or a feeling of family or true friends. I bounced from foster home to foster home and eventually aged out of the system after high school. Usually when kids enter the foster care system as babies, as I did, they have a better chance of being adopted, but I didn’t have that kind of luck.

After quitting my financially secure job without a plan or family or friends to fall back on, I needed to come up with something quick, and being my own boss sounded like the perfect solution. I didn’t want to work for someone else ever again. I never wanted my ideas, decisions, or voice to ever be questioned or dismissed by some entitled man with more nose hair than brains, so starting my own design firm has been a breath of fresh air. After I spent a few days wallowing in the despair I created with my own actions and decisions, I rolled off my fuchsia velvet midcentury modern couch in my Upper East Side loft, paused whatever trash reality television series I had on, and decided to make my own way in life on my terms.

2

ROSE

Sliding out of my white Mercedes GLC with brown leather seats (a girl can still like expensive things) into the damp, post-rain air of Upstate New York, I am speechless for the first time in my life. Not because there is mud all over my previously pristine white SUV that, until today, had never been outside of the city, let alone on dirt, not because I am surrounded by the sheer power and beauty of the dense forest around me, and not even the enormous all black Victorian-style mansion I have the hope of designing, but because of a man…a shirtless man, working on installing something on the side of the front door…a doorbell camera perhaps?

With dark brown hair, which looks almost black due to sweat, muscles chiseled across his dark tan skin, where I didn’t even realize back muscles could exist, and almost every inch of skin covered in tattoos, a large Grim Reaper is taking up most of the middle of his back. He wears black denim jeans that are essentially painted on to the most muscular legs I have ever seen, like tree trunks to match the woods around me. All culminating in worn tan leather work boots covered in the same mud now on my tires. A girl could get used to this view. If the front of him is anything like the view from the back, I’ll need to get used to schooling my facial features when I’m around this man. It’s like my every dark fantasy has come to life, tattoos and all. He even has faint scars I can see under some of the inked designs that just add to his allure. I’m desperate to know every secret and story each of those scars holds.

Well, now I feel quite overdressed, and I thought my outfit was going to feel extremely casual compared to the typical bland dress code of Franklin & Sons. I have on a pair of flowy wide-leg black linen pants with a tasteful but chic cropped forest-green silk V-neck top that meets the high waist of my pants with strappy gold platform sandals—which I’m now rethinking, considering I’m standing in mud. A stack of gold bangle bracelets and my signature gold rings across multiple fingers highlight my matte-black almond-shaped nails. I even curled my hair today, which is saying a lot, considering I’ve barely gotten fully dressed in weeks. I’ve been wallowing in self-pity since I haven’t been able to land a client since I quit. But today is a new day.

I’m assuming this is the contractor I was recommended by for this project. I had never worked with someone from Precision Builders even though my client said they got my information from them. I was thankful for the recommendation, regardless of how it happened, because this was my chance at a fresh start and to take control of my future. Come to think of it, I never actually spoke to anyone over the phone about this project. All conversation was over email, which I guess isn’t that uncommon these days. I honestly hate talking on the phone, so email or text is always preferred.

“Hello?”

Maybe I should’ve verified more information about the client before driving out to the middle of nowhere alone. Or told someone where I was going even though the only people who would notice I’m missing are my doorman and my food delivery guy.

“Excuse me, miss?”

But really, what’s the worst that could happen? He’s a serial killer? Unlikely. Especially not with a body like…

“Can I help you?”

My eyes snap up to see the sweat-soaked stranger looking at me with the darkest green eyes I have ever seen and frustration on his face. Clearly, that wasn’t the first time he tried to get my attention. Well, this is awkward. I have been caught blatantly checking out the contractor and still haven’t said anything. Speak, Ro, use your words. You know a lot of them. Just pick one.

“Hi.” Brilliant. You’re a regular Shakespearean. He’s dazzled, I’m sure.