Chapter 1: The Rose Girl Curse

Rumor had it any woman born with a rose-shaped birthmark brought nothing but trouble and war.

In Maple Heights, folks whispered about it in hushed voices, like the air itself might be listening. Old-timers at the diner would shake their heads, muttering that fate had a twisted sense of humor—not that any of them had ever actually seen one of those birthmarks in their lives.

When the Governor’s wife heard about it, she immediately sent people to look for a woman like that in town, determined to get rid of her before any trouble could start.

She called in her closest confidantes—the same women who ran the local charities and church socials—and gave them strict instructions: no stone unturned, no family exempt. The search spread like wildfire—suddenly, you had every mother in town checking her daughter’s back in secret, hoping they wouldn’t find anything out of the ordinary.

The moment the news reached the Sutton house, Miss Sutton went pale.

She locked herself in her room for hours, curtains drawn. She wouldn’t even touch her favorite tea. Her nerves, usually so steady, were shot to pieces. The staff tiptoed around, afraid to set her off.

And she had a rose-shaped birthmark on her back. If the Governor’s wife ever found out... well, she knew what would happen.

It was the sort of secret that burned, itching under her skin every time she changed clothes. Sometimes, she’d catch herself glancing over her shoulder in every mirror, half-expecting the mark to have vanished—no such luck.

The man she loved was desperate to save her. His plan? Find another woman, brand a rose birthmark on her, and send her into the Governor’s mansion instead.

He couldn’t sleep. He’d pace his room, sketching out plans on the backs of old envelopes, his mind racing with desperate calculations. Honestly, it was reckless—the kind of scheme you only dream up when you love someone enough to risk everything.

The mission was dangerous—so much so that even with a huge reward, nobody wanted any part of it.

Word got around quick. No amount of cash was worth a death sentence, and folks knew better. The night market buzzed with rumors. Still, the sign-up sheet stayed empty.

That is, until I tore down the notice myself at the night market.

"I’ll do it."

I said it before I could think. My voice cut through the smoke and laughter, drawing more than a few stares. Folks nudged each other, whispering behind their hands. I felt their eyes on me, but I didn’t flinch. Not this time.

Honestly, I always figured that if I ever had to die, it’d be here, in Maple Heights.

I always pictured my end coming quietly—maybe a fever in winter, or a slip on the icy steps outside the theater. Nothing dramatic, just a slow fade-out in the only place I’d ever really known.

But that was before everything changed—that dew-heavy night, when I knelt under the porch eaves and overheard the conversation in the study.

I pressed myself into the shadows, holding my breath so the wind wouldn’t carry it inside. I didn’t dare make a sound.

A girl’s sobs sounded especially raw—it was Savannah Sutton, the real Sutton daughter.

Her voice, usually so smooth and poised, was ragged with fear. Even the crickets seemed to hush, as if they too were eavesdropping.

“Please, Harrison, you have to help me.”

Her words trembled, barely above a whisper, but desperate enough to cut through the walls. I could hear her choking back tears, trying to keep her composure even as it slipped away. She was barely holding it together.

“Everyone knows how jealous the Governor’s wife is. If she finds me, she’ll kill me for sure!”

There was a sharpness in her voice, the kind that comes from knowing exactly what’s at stake. She wasn’t wrong. Everyone in town knew the Governor’s wife didn’t take kindly to threats, real or imagined.

A tall, straight-backed shadow fell across the frosted glass.

His shadow stretched long and somber, the outline unmistakable. Even from outside, you could sense the tension in his stance, the weight of too many secrets pressing down on his shoulders.

It was Harrison Drake, the Governor’s son.

He was the kind of man who looked like he’d never been caught off guard in his life—straight-backed, jaw set, every inch the golden boy of Maple Heights. But tonight, something was different. His voice was softer, edged with worry.

“We’ll find a way.”

There was a firmness to his promise, as if sheer willpower might be enough to bend fate. He sounded like someone who’d never learned how to give up. For a second, I almost believed him.

“What way? Unless you can find someone to take my place?”

Savannah’s voice broke on the last word. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that makes you feel like you’re intruding on something sacred. I held my breath.

“Yes,” Harrison said quietly. “I’ll find someone to take your place—to become the Rose Girl.” His voice was low, but it carried.

He said it like a vow, low and steady, but I could hear the tremor beneath. That’s what the mansion’s prophecy called her: the Rose Girl.

That name lingered in the air, carrying all the weight of legend and doom. In town, folks said the story was as old as the roses that grew wild along the mansion’s fence.

They said the old Reverend—respected by everyone—was meditating by the rose garden when he suddenly picked up his pen and wrote:

“When war rages, the mansion’s rose will bloom.”

The words were carved into the memory of every child who’d ever played hide-and-seek in those tangled gardens. Some said the Reverend’s hand shook as he wrote, others that his eyes were clear as glass.

Then he set down his pen, closed his eyes, and passed away. For a moment, the whole world seemed to stop.

It was the kind of death that folks talked about for years—peaceful, almost holy. They lit candles at the church that night, the scent of wax and roses lingering long after.

After his death, his disciples watched the skies for seven nights, trying to figure out what he meant with his last words.

They pored over old books, charted the stars, and whispered among themselves. Some said they saw omens in the clouds, others in the flight of birds over the river.

They claimed that within ten years, a woman with a rose-shaped birthmark would enter the mansion. This woman—some beautiful girl, marked by fate—would enchant the Governor, leading to upheaval and war across the land.

The story twisted with each telling, growing wilder every year. By now, it was less prophecy and more warning—a curse hanging over the mansion like a thundercloud.

When the Governor heard, he was annoyed.

“Nonsense! The Old Reverend must have been senile at the end. One wife is more than enough—why would I let anyone else into my house?”

He rolled his eyes, waving away the servants who tried to press the matter. There was a hint of laughter in his voice, but underneath, I caught a flicker of worry he couldn’t quite hide.

He never mentioned it again. Not once.

But the Governor’s wife took it to heart.

She started sending people out, quietly, to look for any woman with a rose birthmark.

Her network was vast—church ladies, garden club friends, even the postmaster’s wife. She left no stone unturned—her determination as sharp as the shears she used to prune her prized roses.

Everyone said the Governor’s wife truly believed the prophecy and meant to find the Rose Girl and get rid of her before anything happened.

The rumor grew with every retelling, picking up new details like burrs on a sweater. By the end of the week, folks swore she’d hired a private investigator from out of state.

That was why Savannah Sutton was so afraid.

She had a red birthmark on her back, shaped exactly like a blooming rose.

It was a secret she’d carried since childhood, hidden under layers of silk and lace. Only her closest confidantes knew—and now, that secret threatened to unravel everything.

Harrison Drake comforted Savannah late into the night. Only when she finally relaxed did she fall into a deep sleep.

He spoke softly, promising her safety, weaving stories of escape and new beginnings. The moonlight slanted through the window, silvering the tears on her cheeks.

He tucked her in. For a moment, the room was quiet.

His hands lingered for a moment, smoothing the blankets with a tenderness that made my chest ache. There was a time I’d dreamed of such gentleness for myself.

Then he came out, his eyes landing on me. My heart skipped a beat.

His gaze was sharp, unreadable, as if he could see right through me. I straightened, trying not to shrink under the weight of it.

Savannah had already punished me—she made me kneel for two hours, from dusk till late.

The hardwood bit into my knees, and the cold seeped up through my bones. Every minute felt like an hour, but I didn’t dare complain.

When Harrison saw me, he didn’t ask why.

He only said, “She must have acted up again.”

His voice was flat, as if this was just another chore to check off the list. I stared at the floor, wishing I could disappear.

Everyone knew Savannah was a wonderful person. At least, that’s what they said.

She’d risked her life to save Harrison.

She was gentle and kind to the staff.

So if she and I ever clashed, it could only be because I’d hurt her.

That was the story everyone believed, anyway. No one ever questioned it—not even me, after a while.

For that, Harrison had punished me countless times.

Savannah once cried that I stole her prayer beads, so Harrison made me kneel and pray my way up all one hundred steps at St. Agnes Church in the pouring rain.

I remember the rain stinging my face, the cold soaking through my dress. My knees ached for days afterward, but I never complained.

She said I pushed her into the lake and made her sick, so he had the maids drag me into the winter yard and dump a whole bucket of ice water over me.

The shock of it took my breath away. I shivered for hours, teeth chattering so hard I thought they’d break. Still, I kept silent.

Now, in the chill of early spring, I was soaked and shivering as the night wind blew. Harrison stopped in front of me, looking down with disappointment in his eyes.

His shadow fell over me, cold and heavy. I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to hold in what little warmth I had left.

“So many punishments, and you still haven’t learned your lesson?”

His words were sharper than the wind. I bit my lip, refusing to let him see how much it hurt.

I was freezing, trembling all over. For a moment, I thought I saw a hint of pity in his eyes as he reached out to help me up.

His hand hovered in the air, uncertain. For a split second, I thought he might actually care.

I instinctively shrank back.

Old habits die hard. I flinched before I could stop myself, bracing for the worst.

His hand paused in the air, his gaze turning cold.

The moment passed, and the wall between us slammed back into place.

“So is it Savannah you resent, or me?”

His voice was low, almost accusing. I kept my eyes on the floor, not trusting myself to answer.

I wanted to say I wouldn’t dare.

How could someone like me resent Maple Heights’ most honored guest?

But when I tried to speak, I found my throat—raw from singing all day at Savannah’s order—was full of the taste of blood. I couldn’t make a sound.

I swallowed hard, hoping he wouldn’t notice the wince.

Seeing my silence, Harrison’s eyes grew colder.

“Savannah made you kneel so you’d reflect on your mistakes. Looks like you haven’t learned a thing.”

He turned away, voice clipped. I hugged myself tighter, the cold sinking in deeper.

He strode off, ordering his men—

“Let her kneel another half hour.”

His words echoed in the empty hall, final and unyielding.

“And go find the broker. Ask her when the girl will be delivered.”

There was no warmth left in his voice—just business, as usual.

The night was deep and dark. The maids on night duty leaned against the doors, dozing off.

Their heads lolled, mouths open, the soft sound of their snores blending with the creak of the old house. No one bothered to check on me.

No one cared about me.

Only a little black dog padded over, pressing its warm, furry body against me.

Pepper. He was a mutt, but he had the heart of a lion. His fur was tangled, his eyes bright with loyalty. I buried my fingers in his coat, grateful for the small comfort.

I’d found him in the snow one winter—a tiny thing I later named Pepper.

He’d shivered in my arms, all bones and hope. I’d snuck him scraps from the kitchen, hiding him under my bed until Harrison found out.

Harrison kept him in the main house, spoiling him rotten.

He bought him a collar with his name engraved, let him sleep on the good couch. Pepper became a fixture in the house, a shadow at Harrison’s heels.

The maids and old women gossiped in private: “That mutt’s treated better than the actual family.”

They weren’t wrong. Sometimes, I envied him.

But now, Pepper’s fur was messy, clearly unwashed for ages.

He looked as forgotten as I felt. His tail wagged weakly, as if remembering better days.

Ever since Savannah showed up, Harrison had forgotten Pepper—just like me.

We were both yesterday’s news, left behind in the wake of something shinier.

“Come on, Pepper, let’s go home.”

I whispered it, but he understood. He nudged my hand, licking my fingers with his warm, scratchy tongue.

Pepper gnawed on a bone, then curled up with my pillow and fell asleep.

His little body rose and fell with each breath. I watched him, wishing I could drift off as easily.

I stroked his head, threw on a robe, and slipped out to the night market.

The streets were alive with noise and color—vendors shouting, music drifting from open windows. The smell of fried dough and roasting chestnuts filled the air. I kept my head down, moving quickly through the crowd.

All the shadiest business in Maple Heights happened here.

If you needed something illegal, or just plain desperate, this was where you went. Deals were struck in back alleys, secrets traded for cash or favors.

I wandered for a long time before finally finding the broker Harrison had mentioned.

She stood under a flickering streetlight, her face half in shadow. I hesitated, then forced myself to approach.

She didn’t recognize me. As soon as I walked up, she called out, all smiles:

“Miss, need some cash?”

Her voice was slick as oil, practiced and false. She sized me up in a single glance, already calculating my worth.

No wonder she was so eager.

The notice to buy a Rose Girl had been posted at the night market for days, and still no one had taken the job.

The paper was yellowing at the edges, the ink running from the damp. Folks pretended not to see it, hurrying past with their collars turned up.

Everyone knew it was a death sentence.

They said the last girl who tried never made it out alive. Fear had a way of settling into people’s bones.

I closed my eyes, did my best desperate country girl act, and rasped,

“How much money will you pay?”

I made my voice shaky, rough around the edges. She leaned in, her eyes gleaming.

The broker looked me up and down, clearly satisfied.

She grinned, showing bare gums.

Her breath smelled faintly of whiskey. She reached for my arm, steering me away from the crowd.

“Money’s no problem, miss. Come with me—we’ll talk in private.”

Her grip was tight, her tone all business. I followed, heart pounding.

Had the broker found someone?