His rose

The House of Pretty Lies

Chapter 3

Rose Adams’ POV

The Adams mansion looked beautiful when it lied.

White roses covered the staircase railing. Gold ribbons curled around tall glass vases. Crystal lights hung from the ceiling like frozen stars. Every table had been polished until it shone, every silver tray arranged perfectly, every corner cleaned until there was no trace of dust.

No trace of pain.

No trace of me.

To the guests who would arrive tomorrow night, this house would look like a dream. A wealthy family celebrating their beautiful daughter. A happy home filled with music, laughter, champagne, and expensive smiles.

They would never know that the girl carrying flower boxes across the hall had once been the daughter of this house.

They would never know I slept in the storeroom.

They would never know the roses decorating the mansion were bought with money that should have belonged to me.

“Careful with those!” Aunt Christina snapped.

I tightened my grip around the box in my arms and stopped near the ballroom entrance.

Aunt Christina stood in the center of the room wearing cream trousers and a silk blouse. Her blonde hair was twisted into a perfect bun, and diamonds glittered at her ears though it was barely afternoon. She looked elegant to strangers.

To me, she looked cold.

Always cold.

“If you damage even one arrangement,” she said, her eyes narrowing on me, “I’ll take it out of your skin.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.

Her gaze dropped to my bandaged palm.

The cloth I had wrapped around it this morning had already loosened. A faint red stain had spread through the fabric.

Her lips twisted. “And don’t walk around looking pathetic. People will be coming tomorrow. I don’t want anyone asking questions.”

I looked down quickly. “I’ll cover it.”

“You better.” She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Tomorrow is Brittany’s day. You will not ruin it with your face, your clumsiness, or your sad little eyes. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Speak properly.”

“I understand.”

She studied me for another moment, then turned away as if even looking at me irritated her.

“Put those flowers near the dining room. Then polish the guest bathroom mirrors again. I saw marks.”

I wanted to tell her I had polished them twice already.

Instead, I nodded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

I carried the flowers toward the dining room, my injured hand throbbing under the weight of the box. The petals brushed against my arm, soft and cool, and for one painful second, I remembered my mother.

She had loved roses.

Not the perfect white ones Aunt Christina ordered for parties. My mother liked garden roses — soft pink, slightly wild, with petals that opened like secrets.

When I was little, she used to tuck one behind my ear and call me her little Rose.

My chest tightened.

I pushed the memory away before it could break me.

Memories were dangerous in this house. They made me remember that life had not always been like this. That once, I had been loved.

I entered the dining room and placed the box near the wall. Long tables had been arranged for tomorrow’s dinner. Gold plates, folded napkins, crystal glasses, name cards. Everything looked perfect.

Except me.

I glanced at my reflection in the tall mirror near the cabinet.

Old gray dress.

Loose hair.

Pale face.

One cheek still slightly swollen from Brittany’s slap.

I touched it lightly and winced.

“Admiring yourself?”

My blood turned cold.

Rony.

I dropped my hand and turned slowly.

He stood near the doorway, leaning against the frame as if he had been watching me for a while. Maybe he had.

Rony Adams was twenty-four, tall, handsome in a way that made people trust him at first. He had dark blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and the same green eyes as Brittany.

But Brittany’s cruelty was loud.

Rony’s was quiet.

And quiet things scared me more.

“I was just putting the flowers here,” I said quickly.

His eyes moved over me, slow and uncomfortable.

“In that dress?” He clicked his tongue. “You look like a servant.”

I lowered my gaze. “I have work to do.”

I tried to move past him.

He stepped in front of me.

My stomach twisted.

The dining room suddenly felt too empty. The hallway beyond him was quiet. No staff. No Aunt Christina. No Brittany screaming for attention.

Just him.

And me.

“Always running away,” he said softly.

“I’m not running.”

“No?” He smiled. “Then why do you look scared?”

Because you’re blocking the door.

Because your eyes make my skin crawl.

Because every time I’m alone with you, I feel like something terrible is about to happen.

But I said none of that.

“I’m not scared,” I whispered.

His smile widened. “Liar.”

He took one step closer.

I stepped back without thinking, my hip hitting the edge of the dining table. The glasses behind me clinked softly.

Rony looked down at my movement and laughed under his breath.

“You know, Rose, you hurt my feelings.”

I said nothing.

He moved closer again.

“You act like I’m some kind of monster.”

My fingers curled into my dress.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.” His voice dropped. “Your face says enough.”

I forced myself to breathe.

I had learned how to survive Rony.

Keep eyes down.

Do not argue.

Do not anger him.

Find an exit.

There was none.

He reached out and touched a strand of my hair.

I flinched so hard that pain shot through my bandaged palm.

Rony’s eyes darkened.

“Still so jumpy.”

“Please don’t,” I whispered.

“Please don’t what?” His fingers slid lower, brushing near my shoulder.

I stepped sideways, but the table blocked me.

“Rony, I have work.”

“You always have work.” His hand closed around my wrist.

A gasp escaped me before I could stop it.

His fingers pressed exactly where my skin was already bruised from yesterday when he had grabbed me near the laundry room.

“Does it hurt?” he asked.

I tried to pull away. “Let go.”

He tightened his grip.

My eyes filled with tears, but I blinked them back.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “So scared. So helpless.”

“I said let go.”

The words came out louder than I expected.

For one second, even I froze.

Rony’s face changed.

The lazy amusement disappeared, replaced by something sharp.

“What did you say?”

My courage vanished.

“I… I’m sorry.”

He leaned closer, his grip painful now. “You’re getting brave.”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

I shook my head quickly. “I’m sorry. Please. Aunt Christina told me to polish the mirrors.”

His eyes searched my face.

Then he smiled again, but it was worse than anger.

“Tomorrow night will be interesting,” he said.

My heart pounded.

“What do you mean?”

He tilted his head. “So many people. So much noise. No one noticing who goes where.”

Cold fear spread through me.

I pulled harder, but he did not release me.

“Rony, please.”

He bent closer, his voice becoming a whisper against my ear.

“You really think you’ll get to turn twenty-one and walk out of here like some little queen? You think we’ll let you take everything?”

I went still.

He knew.

Of course he knew.

“Uncle James will handle the company,” he continued. “Mother will handle the house. Brittany will get what she deserves. And you…”

His fingers moved against my wrist.

“You’ll learn your place.”

My breath trembled.

“What place?”

His eyes dragged over me again.

I felt sick.

Before he could answer, Brittany’s voice screamed from upstairs.

“Rony! Where are you? Come here now!”

For once, Brittany’s voice felt like mercy.

Rony’s jaw tightened.

He kept hold of me for another second, long enough to make sure I understood he was choosing to release me.

Then his fingers opened.

I pulled my wrist against my chest immediately.

He stepped back and smiled as if nothing had happened.

“Go polish the mirrors, little Rose.”

I did not wait.

I hurried past him, almost running into the hallway. I kept moving until I reached the guest bathroom, then slipped inside and locked the door with shaking fingers.

For a moment, I could only stand there, breathing too fast.

My wrist was red.

My palm throbbed.

My chest felt tight, as if the air had become too heavy to swallow.

Tomorrow night will be interesting.

So many people. So much noise. No one noticing who goes where.

I gripped the edge of the sink.

No.

No, no, no.

I looked into the mirror.

A frightened girl stared back at me.

For years, I had told myself to survive one more day. One more week. One more month. I had counted time like a prisoner scratching marks into a wall.

Ten months until freedom.

Ten months until I turned twenty-one.

Ten months until I could claim what my parents left for me.

But after hearing Uncle James yesterday and Rony today, I finally understood.

I did not have ten months.

Maybe I did not even have ten days.

Tomorrow was Brittany’s party.

Tomorrow the house would be full.

Tomorrow doors would open.

Tomorrow people would be too busy pretending to be happy to notice one unwanted girl disappearing.

I opened the tap and splashed cold water on my face. Then I pressed my shaking hands against the sink and forced myself to breathe.

I had no phone.

No money except three crumpled bills hidden under my mattress.

No proper clothes.

No one waiting for me outside.

But I had one thing.

A chance.

Small.

Dangerous.

Almost impossible.

But still a chance.

A knock hit the bathroom door.

I jumped.

“Rose!” Aunt Christina snapped from outside. “Why is this door locked?”

I quickly wiped my face. “I’m cleaning, ma’am.”

“Then clean faster. Brittany wants her shoes polished.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I stared at myself one last time.

My mother used to say roses could bloom even after storms.

I had never believed her more than I wanted to now.

Because tomorrow, if I found even one open door, one distracted guard, one dark corner of the driveway…

I would run.

And this time, I would not let them catch me.