novelnext Chapter 1: Roses and Thorns
Chapter 1: Roses and Thorns
I was fifteen the summer I met the boy with thorns in the Sullivan family's back garden.
The midsummer sun filtered through the rose trellis, casting dappled shadows across his pale skin.
He sat quietly in a wicker chair, the cord of his over-ear headphones trailing over his chest.
Scratches from rose thorns marked his right arm, but he didn't seem to notice—just kept flipping through a vinyl record in his hands like he was somewhere far away.
Without thinking, I walked over and pulled a Band-Aid from my school uniform pocket.
"You'll get an infection," I said softly, gently dabbing at the cuts.
His head jerked up. His dark eyes flashed with panic as he recoiled like a wild animal.
The record slipped from his lap and shattered on the cobblestone path.
Later, I found out his name was Percy Sullivan—the youngest heir of the Sullivan family and the center of every whispered rumor.
They said he'd been kidnapped when he was five. Said he came back different. Said he was autistic and barely spoke to anyone.
Three months after that day, Mr. Sullivan came to the Reynolds estate.
His cane tapped against the marble floor with each deliberate step.
"This one will do," he said, pointing at me while I polished the staircase banister.
"Percy needs someone…attentive."
Mrs. Reynolds smiled sweetly, but her nails dug into my arm like claws.
"What an honor, Mr. Sullivan," she gushed.
My stepsisters leaned over the railing upstairs, giggling like glass wind chimes—sharp and cruel.
"I heard Percy bites when he has a meltdown." "I heard he once—"
"I said I don't—" He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me.
I placed the pills and a glass of water on the table. "Time for your meds."
He stared at me, something unreadable swirling in his eyes. Then he looked away, voice low.
"So you came back."
I didn't answer. Just counted the pills and pushed them closer to him.
He snatched them up and swallowed them dry, his Adam's apple bobbing hard.
"The Reynolds family didn't want you," he said suddenly, a smug tilt to his voice. "You had nowhere else to go."
The wheels of my suitcase echoed down the hallway.
I dragged it toward the guest room without looking back.
Mr. Sullivan's deal had been too good to pass up.
A million dollars—and my freedom.
The cost? Thirty more days of dealing with Percy Sullivan and his endless tantrums.
After dinner, I called the new nanny into the kitchen. "He needs warm milk before bed—forty-five degrees, no hotter."
She scribbled in her notebook like her life depended on it. "Anything else?"
"He hates celery and carrots, but he has to eat them," I said, opening the fridge. "And these are his supplements. Every day—"
The study door slammed open.
Percy stood in the doorway, eyes locked on the box in my hands.
Under the overhead light, his face was paper-white. The corners of his eyes were red, raw.
"What are you doing?" His voice was calm, too calm—it made my skin crawl.
Helen flinched.
I slowly put the box back. "I'm teaching Helen how to take care of you."
He stared at me for a beat, then slammed the door hard enough to rattle the chandelier.
The next morning, I noticed the medicine box had been opened.
Two sleeping pills were missing.
Helen's scream tore through the house just as I was packing my things.
A crash followed. Then Percy's voice—sharp and furious.
"Who said you could touch my stuff?!"
I ran upstairs.
Helen stood frozen, her hand bleeding, shards of glass around her feet.
Percy was in the corner, shadowed and seething.
"Get out," he snarled at me.
I didn't budge.
He grabbed a photo frame and threw it.
Glass shattered at my feet.
It was our wedding photo.
"I said GET OUT!"
"This is my house! Not yours!"
When I married into this family at twenty, I thought I'd finally found home.
But now I knew—without your name on the deed, you're just a guest.
I stared at the calendar, days marked off in red.
Engaged at fifteen. Married at twenty.
Ten years.
Ten years of debt, duty, and silence.
"Percy," I said, my voice raw, "let's get a divorce."