chapter 1

Ten years.

A decade of my life woven into the fabric of Scott Kimes.

To everyone who knew us, it was an article of faith that he loved me desperately. That I was his one and only red rose.

Until that day.

I stood outside the patisserie. The glass was polished to a cruel, crystalline clarity. There he was—his arms wrapped around another girl, guiding her hands on a frosting bag. His smile so bright it felt like a physical blow.

It was supposed to be our tenth anniversary.

We were finalizing wedding plans.

Scott probably thought I'd wither without him, a rose cut from its stem.

He was wrong. From the very beginning, I never meant to bloom only in his garden.

…

The glass might as well have been a slab of Arctic ice, its cold seeping straight into my chest.

My breath hitched, stopped. A feverish heat bloomed behind my eyes.

I was pinned there, trapped in the mundane horror of a sunny afternoon.

My heart felt like a lemon tossed onto the street and trampled—a burst of searing acidity, a bitterness so profound it choked me.

The girl in the yellow sundress leaned back into his chest, a perfect, intimate fit. They looked like lovers. A real couple.

Part of me screamed to storm in, to smear that pristine cream across their lying faces, to shriek and demand why he was here, with her, when he should have been in a boardroom.

Another, colder part considered walking in calmly, asking for an explanation, waiting for the confession I already knew.

In the end, I did nothing.

I just stood there. For minutes. Or maybe it was an hour. Time had turned to glue.

I watched with surgical clarity as Scott steadied her arm, his grip a practiced cure for her trembling as she piped the frosting. I saw her pivot—a playful, calculated twist—and smear a dab of cream on his cheek. Her smile that followed was pure, guileless victory.

For the first time, I hated my own perfect vision. My mind, detaching, latched onto the absurdity of the glass wall—who decided that heartache needed an audience?

I bent, picked up my fallen bag, and turned away.

My retreat must have looked as it felt—a stumbling, graceless flight.

It wasn't until I was sealed in my car that the delayed shock registered. A cold sweat had soaked through my blouse.

I should go home and shower, I thought.

We were the perfect campus couple everyone envied.

Scott was a year older. A basketball injury made him repeat a grade, landing him in my class.

Fate placed him in the seat right beside mine.

Proximity bred possibility. The accidental brush of skin, a held glance—it was a perfect recipe for something unspoken.

A single look could stain both our faces with identical blushes.

But we were stubborn. Neither would cross the line. We held ourselves back, refusing to confess what everyone else already saw. They teased; we never admitted a thing.

This tense silence held until the eve of our finals.

The last bell rang. The classroom filled with misty-eyed goodbyes, final hugs for our tough but kind teachers.

Scott nudged my shoulder. "Hey, Rosé. Got something for you."

He handed me a notebook—his own handwritten math problems.

He was the genius who never bothered with notes.

"Total guess. But yeah, I think it's gonna be on the test." He looked away, a little awkward. "Do you trust me?"