I have always hated the smell of roses. Especially crimson ones—too red, too rich, too reminiscent of my childhood steeped in silence and shame. In our grand estate, roses bloomed endlessly, as if mocking me. To everyone else, they symbolized nobility. To me, they reeked of despair.

That was my worth to him—marriage fodder. Nothing more.

My mother’s final words were no comfort. “Live quietly… and preserve the Rosewood line,” she whispered with her last breath. I was too young to understand, too naive to see the prison those words carved for me. I thought "Rosewood" was my father's name. It wasn't. It was hers—the last shard of dignity she had clung to in a marriage forged on conditions and compromise.

When I turned sixteen, everything crumbled. That was the year my father summoned me to his study—our estate already half-swallowed by debt—and declared my fate with all the care of someone swatting a fly.

“Sire,” his advisor Reagan said, “the Grand Duke is seeking a bride. Imagine the prestige, the power, if your daughter were chosen.”

Reagan always spoke for me, always protected me. I often wondered why.

My father scoffed. “As if the Grand Duke would look twice at that thing.”

I swallowed my pride and answered, “If you permit it, Father, I shall enter the competition. I will become the Grand Duchess.”

He tossed a stack of papers at me—his will. “Take it. It’s all yours. The name, the estate… and the debts.” Then he left, his new family trailing behind him like a procession of betrayal.

I didn’t cry. Not for him. But my tears fell anyway—grief not for what I lost, but for what I never had.

That same night, I sat in my mother’s chair—her seat of power now passed to me by default, not design. Reagan, as always, was nearby, sorting papers like the world hadn’t just shifted.

“Why are you still here?” I asked, staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. “Rosewood is finished. You don’t have to pretend anymore.”

He paused, a rare crack in his well-worn facade. “You just lost your mother.”

“And you just lost your lover.”

The papers fell from his hands. His mask faltered.

“I know,” I said, softer this time. “I’ve known for years. I remember the fights. The whispers. I look like you, Reagan.”

He said nothing. But then, slowly, he removed his cloak. Gone was the stooped old man I had always known. In his place stood a middle-aged warrior with eyes like mine and a jawline I’d seen in the mirror a thousand times.

“I am sorry, Sophie.”

I shook my head. “Don’t be. I only want to understand. Why didn’t she marry you?”

He sighed and crossed the room, unlocking a hidden safe behind a shelf. “Because marrying that 'father' kept us safe. There are people—an organization—who wanted us dead. Still do. I crossed them once during a mission with my guild. I found something. Evidence. And I’ve been running ever since.”

He pulled out a box wrapped in old velvet. Inside was the evidence—the kind that could collapse kingdoms.

“The only man with the power to destroy them is the Grand Duke,” he said, handing me a second envelope.

“So that’s why you want me to marry him?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

“He doesn’t want the throne, Sophie. He wants revenge. The same people who ruined our lives murdered his parents. He’s our only chance. But he needs someone he can trust. Someone like you—working from the shadows.”

I stared at the envelope, feeling the weight of my family, past, and future in one breath. “But I’m nothing now. A noble in name only.”

He smiled. “That’s where you’re wrong. This”—he tapped the file—“is your secret weapon. Use it, and he won’t dare turn you away.”

I opened the envelope and smiled—a slow, dangerous smile.

It was perfect.

“I won’t fail,” I whispered. “Not for you. Not for her. I, Sophia Grace Rosewood, will rise from these ashes. I will restore our name. And I will bring that organization to its knees.”