His rose

Rose Adams’ POV “Where the hell are you, b***h? Get here now!” Brittany’s voice cracked through the hallway like a whip. My hand froze around the mop. For one second, I stood completely still, staring at the wet marble floor beneath me. The water in the bucket beside my feet trembled slightly, though I wasn’t sure if it was because of my shaking hands or the fear that had already begun crawling up my spine. Time for another punishment. In this house, Brittany never called my name unless she wanted someone to blame. I swallowed hard, leaned the mop against the wall, and wiped my damp hands on the old apron tied around my waist. The skin on my fingers had become rough from cleaning chemicals, but I barely noticed anymore. Pain had become normal here. Fear had become normal. Being treated like nothing had become normal. “Rose!” Brittany screamed again. “Are you deaf?” “I’m coming,” I called softly, though I knew she wouldn’t care whether I answered or not. I hurried down the hallway, keeping my eyes low. The Adams mansion was beautiful to everyone else. Tall windows, polished floors, crystal chandeliers, expensive paintings, fresh flowers in every corner. Guests always praised the house. They said my aunt Christina had wonderful taste. None of them knew the truth. This house had belonged to my parents. These walls had once held laughter, warmth, and bedtime stories. Now they held screams. I reached Brittany’s bedroom and stopped at the doorway. She stood in front of her full-length mirror wearing a silver dress that shimmered like moonlight. It hugged her perfectly, falling around her like something made for a princess. And Brittany was the princess of this house. She got everything. New clothes. New jewelry. Parties. Friends. Freedom. I got her old clothes after she threw them away. Sometimes not even that. Her green eyes found mine in the mirror, sharp and full of hate. She turned around slowly, and that was when I saw the dark stain near the waist of her dress. My stomach dropped. I had not touched that dress. I had not even entered her room today. But the truth had never protected me before. The moment Brittany stepped toward me, I knew what was coming. Her palm struck my face so hard my head snapped to the side. Pain exploded across my cheek. Before I could recover, she slapped me again. Then again. “You filthy little w***e!” she screamed. “How dare you touch my dress?” Tears burned behind my eyes, but I forced them back. Crying only made things worse. “I… I didn’t touch it,” I whispered. Another slap. My lip split, and the metallic taste of blood touched my tongue. “Don’t lie to me!” Brittany grabbed the front of my faded shirt and pulled me closer. “How did this stain get here?” “I d-don’t know,” I said, my voice shaking. “I swear, I don’t know.” Her lips curved. That smile scared me more than her anger. It meant she was enjoying this. It meant she had already decided I was guilty. “You don’t know?” she repeated softly. I shook my head. Her fingers shot into my hair. I gasped as she yanked hard, pain ripping through my scalp. She dragged me forward and shoved me with enough force that I stumbled backward. My hip hit the edge of the table. Something wobbled above me. I looked up just in time to see the flower vase fall. It crashed against the marble floor, shattering into dozens of pieces. I tried to catch myself, but my palm landed directly on the broken glass. A sharp scream tore from my throat. Pain shot up my arm, hot and blinding. I pulled my hand back quickly, staring at the red spreading across my skin. Small pieces of glass were stuck in my palm. Blood dripped onto the floor. For a moment, the room spun. Brittany looked down at me as if I disgusted her. “Look what you did now.” I clenched my injured hand against my chest, trying to breathe through the pain. “I’m sorry,” I whispered automatically. Sorry. That word lived on my tongue. Sorry for breathing too loudly. Sorry for standing in the wrong place. Sorry for being alive when my parents were not. Brittany stepped closer, her heels clicking against the floor. “You can never have a dress like this, Rose,” she said, her voice full of cruelty. “Even if you sold yourself, you still wouldn’t be worth enough.” The words sank deep. I lowered my head because that was what I had been trained to do. Do not answer back. Do not look angry. Do not give them another reason. “Clean this mess,” she snapped. “Then get out. And don’t show me your ugly face again.” “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered. She turned away as if I were nothing more than dirt on her floor. I waited until she left the room before I allowed myself to move. My palm throbbed badly. Every breath hurt. I went to the small bathroom attached to her room and turned on the tap. The cold water hit the cuts, and I bit my lip so hard I almost drew blood again. Piece by piece, I pulled the glass from my hand. My vision blurred. But I did not cry loudly. Loud pain was punished here. Silent pain was safer. After cleaning the wound as best as I could, I wrapped my hand with tissue first, then an old cloth I found in the laundry basket. It wasn’t proper bandage, but it would have to do. Then I returned to the bedroom and cleaned the broken vase. It took longer than usual because my palm burned every time I moved. I swept the glass, wiped the blood from the floor, and scrubbed the stain from the marble until my knees ached. By the time I finished, my hand was shaking. I looked at the silver dress lying across Brittany’s bed. The stain was still there. Maybe it had always been there. Maybe Brittany had done it herself. Maybe she only needed an excuse. It didn’t matter. In this house, I was guilty before I even spoke. My name is Rose Adams. I am twenty years old. And I live like a prisoner in my own home. When I was ten, my parents died in a car accident. I still remember that night in pieces. Rain on the windows. Police lights flashing red and blue. A woman crying somewhere near the front door. Someone telling me I had to be brave. I didn’t understand what brave meant then. Now I know. Brave is waking up every morning in a house that hates you. Brave is swallowing your pain because no one is coming to save you. Brave is surviving when everyone around you keeps trying to break you. After my parents died, my aunt Christina and uncle James moved into our home with their children, Brittany and Rony. At first, I thought they had come to take care of me. I was wrong. They came for the house. For the money. For my father’s company. For everything my parents left behind. Uncle James took control of Adams Company, saying he would manage it until I was old enough. Aunt Christina took over the house. Brittany took my bedroom, my clothes, my mother’s jewelry, and anything else she wanted. And I was moved into the storeroom. A narrow room at the back of the house with one small window, an old mattress, and walls that smelled of dust. That became my place. Not daughter. Not niece. Not family. Servant. I was allowed to finish school, but nothing after that. No college. No job. No friends. No phone. I was not allowed to leave alone. I tried to escape three times. The first time, I was fourteen. The second time, sixteen. The last time, eighteen. After the last attempt, Uncle James locked me in the storeroom for two days without food. Rony stood outside the door that night, laughing softly and telling me no one would ever believe me if I asked for help. Rony. Even thinking his name made my stomach twist. Brittany was cruel in loud ways. Rony was cruel in quiet ones. He watched me too closely. Blocked my path when no one was around. Touched my wrist, my hair, my shoulder, always pretending it was nothing. But it was never nothing. Every night, I pushed my small table against the storeroom door before sleeping. Just in case. My injured palm pulsed as I walked back downstairs. I had to finish mopping before Aunt Christina noticed. If the floor dried with marks, she would make me clean the entire hallway again. As I reached the bottom of the staircase, I heard voices from the drawing room. Uncle James. Aunt Christina. I slowed without meaning to. “She turns twenty-one in ten months,” Aunt Christina said sharply. “You said everything would be handled before then.” “It will be,” Uncle James replied. “Stop panicking.” “She can claim everything once she turns twenty-one.” There was a pause. Then Uncle James spoke again, colder this time. “Rose will not be a problem by then.” My blood went cold. I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing. “What are you planning?” Aunt Christina asked. “Whatever is necessary.” A chill passed through me. Whatever is necessary. Those three words felt like a hand around my throat. I stepped back quietly before they could see me. Ten months. Only ten months until my twenty-first birthday. Only ten months until I could claim my inheritance, my father’s company, and maybe a life that belonged to me. But they knew it too. And they were not going to let me reach that day easily. I returned to the hallway and picked up the mop with my uninjured hand. My body moved automatically, but my mind was somewhere else. I had no money. No phone. No one to call. No place to go. But staying here was no longer just painful. It was dangerous. Next week was Brittany’s birthday party. The whole house would be full of guests, caterers, music, cars, and security distracted by wealthy people pretending to be important. Doors would open. People would come and go. It might be my only chance. I looked down at my bandaged palm. Blood had already begun to stain the cloth. A strange calm settled inside me. I was scared. I was always scared. But fear could not be my prison forever. Brittany could slap me. Aunt Christina could insult me. Uncle James could threaten me. Rony could wait in dark hallways. But I would not stay here until they destroyed whatever was left of me. I would run. I didn’t know where. I didn’t know how. But I would run. Because if I didn’t escape this house soon… I might never leave it alive.