“Rose”

The rose sits on the table in front of the King.

It stares at me. Mocks me.

“Princess.”

The King’s voice echoes around the dining hall, pulling my attention from the rose to him. A gentle smile brightens his face, his dark eyes twinkling in the candlelight.

His fingers tease the petals of the rose before softly tracing the thorns down the stem. He lifts the rose and holds it up for all to see.

“A rose,” he proclaims, “for my Rose.”

My breath catches as he rounds the table. My stomach knots as he strides forward. My heart breaks as he stops.

“My love,” he says, and bows as he presents the rose to my sister.