Chapter 1: Bury Me Where the Roses Die

"Let's talk about the book later. For now, tell me-where do you see yourself in five years?"

The therapist tilted her head, pen poised above her notebook, waiting for an answer I didn't have.

The room was too quiet.

Too clean.

Too perfect.

The soft click of her pen seemed to echo through the silence, growing louder and louder until it was the only thing I could hear.

My fingers twisted the wristband around my wrist.

Tighter.

Until-

Snap.

The band struck my skin.

A small sting.

Pain.

A reminder that I was still alive.

And not dreaming.

Or worse...

Dead.

"Dead."

The word slipped out before I could stop it.

"...Oh."

The therapist cleared her throat. She went still, her pen hovering above the page. Not for long. Just long enough for me to notice.

"Okay," she said slowly, her eyes dropping to her notes before returning to me. "Sorry. I wasn't expecting that answer."

"You asked where I see myself in five years."

"I did."

"So I answered."

Silence.

"You said it very casually."

"Because it's true." I looked toward the window. "I don't see anything. No birthdays. No college. No career. No boyfriend. No messy breakups. No husband. No kids running around the house. Just pills. Hospitals. Breathing machines."

My fingers loosened around the wristband.

"And maybe one day..." I swallowed. "I just won't wake up."

The therapist scribbled something down. Probably another word for "broken".

I looked at the clock. "Where was I?"

Then I remembered.

"Oh, right." The book.

Bury Me Where the Roses Die.

That was the name of the novel I'd spent my entire summer break reading. It belonged to my mother-one of her favorites. Apparently, it was also the book that started everything.

Years ago, my mother and father had reached for the same copy in a library. Their hands touched. They started talking. Then dating. Then falling in love. And eventually, having me. All because of an old book from 1813, written by an author who'd been dead for centuries. At this point, he was probably nothing but bones, teeth, and whatever the worms had decided not to eat.

Funny how something as simple as a story could change someone's entire life.

The book had sat untouched on our shelf for years, gathering dust. One afternoon, with absolutely nothing better to do, I picked it up. Summer was almost over anyway. I'd already dyed my hair black as a small act of rebellion, moved out of my childhood bedroom and into the attic, and spent most of my days doing absolutely nothing.

The attic wasn't exactly comfortable. In the mornings, sunlight poured through the glass ceiling and gave me migraines. But at night? It was worth it. The glass roof turned the entire room into a window to the universe. Hundreds of stars stretched across the darkness. Some remained still. Others streaked across the sky like arrows.

So that was where I spent most of my summer. Lying on my bed. Staring at the stars. Reading my mother's favorite book. She'd already read it countless times and spoiled the ending more times than I could count. But I didn't care.

It was about a girl named Rose, a servant who survived the Black Plague, a cruel household, and a family built on lies. Somehow, from that misery, came the greatest love story I'd ever read.

Rose had lost everything to the Black Plague-her family, her freedom, eventually even her name. After her parents died owing a fortune to usurers, the debt became hers. Unable to pay, she was seized and given as a living gift to a powerful family, where she became a servant in the household of a Grand Duke.

She was overworked. Then abused. The Grand Duchess and her children treated her like something less than human.

But she endured. And what she found destroyed them all.

The Grand Duchess had been unfaithful-with the Grand Duke's own brother. None of the five children were his. It should have destroyed him. Instead, he fell in love with the girl who told him the truth: a Grand Duke and a servant, a nobleman and a girl who wasn't supposed to meet his eyes. The Empire's laws left him no way to divorce his wife and marry her, so they became lovers in secret.

Until he learned the rest. His wife and brother hadn't just betrayed him-they were planning to kill him, quietly, and let the children he'd raised as his own inherit the duchy in his place.

So he moved first.

Pillows were pressed over his wife's face while she slept in their bedchamber, leaving no external wounds. Everyone assumed it was natural.

Three of the children were poisoned slowly over days or weeks, their deaths easily attributed to spoiled meat, tainted wine, even the Black Plague itself.

A staged fall from a horse claimed the life of his brother while he rode alone at night-dismissed as nothing more than clumsiness, or unfortunate luck.

Only two remained.

Then the youngest discovered the Grand Duke plotting his next move. The boy was abducted and taken to one of the duchy's remote fortresses, where he disappeared without a trace. No body was ever recovered. Officially, he was simply missing. The truth was he'd been forgotten in the cells where he died of starvation and dehydration, without anyone outside ever knowing.

One child was left-the eldest, the boy he'd raised as his own son though he was really his nephew. One by one, the boy pieced together the truth: his mother, murdered. His real father, murdered. His siblings, gone. All of it traced back to one man.

The Grand Duke.

The boy drove a sword through his heart and fled before the Empire could find him.

The Grand Duke died leaving everything to the woman he'd loved-his fortune, his title, his estate, and the child growing inside her.

His final words were the most beautiful part of the entire novel.

Bury Me Where the Roses Die.

Not for the beauty they possess,

but because they will remind me

of the only beautiful thing

I ever had the courage to love.

Let the petals cover my heart,

where your name still beats.

Let their thorns tear through the earth

as your absence tore through me.

And when the moon climbs over my grave,

tell her I never feared the dark-I feared a world where I could see the light

and still never find you in it.

If heaven asks what I left behind,

I'll give them my last breath

and tell them it belonged to you.

And if fate is cruel enough

to keep us strangers in the next life,

then I will find you anyway.

I will know you

by the way my soul breaks

the moment our eyes meet.

So when I die,

bury me in roses-let your name follow me into the darkness, so even in death, I will be surrounded by something as beautiful as you are.

I cried the first time I read it.

Not because it was simply sad, but because the poem was where my middle name had come from, I felt as though I understood it in a way I couldn't explain.

It felt strangely personal.

Like the words had been written for me.

Like, somehow, the book had always been about me.

I didn't have any friends. Depressing, I know.

My mother worked night shifts as a caregiver for a wealthy elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. DiGenaro. She'd been working for them for thirteen years. They'd given us most of the furniture in our house. Some pieces were old and rare. Others were expensive enough that I'd never dare ask how much they cost. Whenever they got tired of something and bought new furniture, they simply gave the old pieces to Mom. It was one of the reasons our house looked far richer than we actually were.

Mom spent her mornings sleeping. I spent my nights alone. It was just me and the silence. The television played reruns of shows I'd already watched a hundred times, but I kept it on anyway. Silence made me think too much. Boredom was easier.

Every evening before leaving for work, Mom left a note on the kitchen counter. It always said the same thing.

"The food's in the microwave. Don't forget to take your medication before you sleep."

I didn't bother reading the rest. I already knew what it said. I crumpled the note and tossed it in the bin before reheating my dinner. It tasted exactly like something you'd buy from a convenience store and immediately regret.

Mom had taken the doctor's advice a little too seriously. Low sugar. Low fat. High protein. At this point, I was beginning to suspect she was secretly trying to turn me into a vegan.

The pills sat on my nightstand. The bottle was almost empty. I'd gotten used to them. Taking them was simply part of my daily routine. I'd started when I was twelve. Now I was seventeen. Five years of swallowing tiny pills that were supposed to keep me alive.

Familial Pulmonary Arterial Hypertension. FPAH, for short. My lovely inheritance from Dad.

People always said I looked more like Mom. Same eyes. Same nose. Same smile. But this? This was the only thing Dad had left me. The only thing that connected me to him.

The medication didn't cure me. It just slowed death down. But only a little.

Dad died when I was five. Because of the same disease. I remember his face from old photographs. Sometimes, if I close my eyes hard enough, I can almost remember him holding me. Laughing. But his voice? Gone. Completely erased. I can't remember what my father sounded like.

FPAH was rare. Extremely rare. I guess I hit the jackpot.

Tomorrow, school started again. My Senior Year at Institut de la Reine.

It was founded in 1847 as an elite boarding school exclusively for the daughters of aristocratic, royal, political, and wealthy families. For more than 150 years, from 1847 to 2000, Institut de la Reine remained an all-girls institution.

In 2000, the school officially became coeducational, admitting boys for the first time in its 153-year history.

The transition came with another major change: the school abandoned its boarding system. Apparently, someone finally realized that putting hundreds of teenage boys and girls under the same roof was an experiment nobody needed.

To this day, Institut de la Reine remains one of the most prestigious and expensive private schools in the world. Although boys are now admitted, the school's traditions, architecture, uniforms, ceremonies, and rigid social hierarchy still bear the unmistakable influence of its 150-plus years as an elite girls' institution.

It sat on 105 hectares of land in one of the wealthiest suburbs in the country, and it screamed old money because it was built by old money. The children who went there weren't just anyone-they were the children of politicians, billionaires, diplomats, celebrities, and other influential families. It was ranked among the best schools in the country, both academically and athletically. One of those schools where getting accepted was notoriously difficult, and paying the fees was just as hard.

So how did someone like me get in?

Mr. and Mrs. DiGenaro. Their kindness. Or perhaps their pity. Either way, I wasn't complaining.

Still... I sighed. My long, boring summer break was finally over. I didn't even know why I bothered going. It wasn't like I'd live long enough to make money from anything I learned there. Sometimes it felt like everyone was investing in a future I wasn't going to have. They were paying for a life I wasn't going to live.

But Mom wanted me to go. So I would. Like always. Like it mattered.

The next morning, the alarm tore me out of a shallow sleep. My chest felt heavy again, like someone had stacked bricks on it overnight. I stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before forcing myself out of bed.

I took a cold shower. It was supposed to wake me up. Instead, I felt like an undead extra in a zombie movie.

My uniform was the kind of thing Institut de la Reine had perfected over generations: crisp, immaculate, and impossible to wear without looking at least a little put-together.

A short-sleeved white shirt was tucked neatly into a high-waisted black plaid skirt, the pleats falling in soft, measured folds before flaring gently around my knees. Thin gray and faint red lines threaded through the dark fabric, subtle enough to miss unless you looked closely.

Beneath my collar sat the school's oversized black plaid ribbon tie, its long tails resting against my chest.

Black socks. Polished black leather shoes.

And then came the part I couldn't decide on-the blazer or the jersey.

I stood there for far too long, staring between the two.

In the end, I chose the grey jersey. It was softer, warmer, and far less suffocating than the blazer.

Both carried the same embroidered crest over the heart.

I wore mine like everyone else did.

Even if, somehow, it still felt like a reminder of exactly where I belonged.

When I finally dragged myself downstairs, Mom was already in the kitchen. The television played quietly in the living room.

"...a severe storm is expected to hit the area at approximately two o'clock. Residents are advised to bring an umbrella if they plan on going outsi-"

Click. The television went black. Mom had already turned back toward the stove.

She was still wearing her nightgown. The exhaustion beneath her eyes was impossible to miss, but she moved around the kitchen anyway. Like clockwork.

When she saw me, she smiled. It didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Morning, Mom."

"Morning, sweetheart. Are you excited about your first day as a senior, Natalie?" she asked, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "Maybe now the freshmen, sophomores, and juniors will finally start addressing you properly."

"Yeah, yeah." I laughed, reaching for my bag before grabbing an apple from the kitchen counter. I gave it a quick toss from one hand to the other, then tucked it away with the rest of my things before heading for the door.

"Sit down and grab a bite before you leave."

"The bus leaves in thirty minutes. I'll be late."

I turned toward the door.

"Natalie Rose Sinclair."

I froze.

Mom frowned. "I said sit."

I sighed. "Mother knows best." I smiled as I sat down.

In front of me sat a bowl of plain, unflavored rolled oats, looking about as appetizing as cardboard. Across from me, Mom ate eggs, bacon, and buttered toast.

I stared at it.

The oats stared back.

I lost.

After breakfast, Mom slid a lunchbox across the counter.

"I packed you something healthy today."

"Of course you did."

"Less sugar. More protein. Doctor's orders."

"Yay."

I gave her a weak nod and forced a smile. Mom didn't say it out loud. She didn't have to. I knew what she was thinking. She was worried I wouldn't make it to graduation. Maybe she was worried I wouldn't make it to tomorrow.

She kissed my forehead before I grabbed my bag.

"Have a good day."

"You too."

I glanced at the clock. Twenty minutes had somehow disappeared. I hurried toward the bus stop, and immediately regretted taking my time at breakfast.

"Fuck."

The bus was already pulling away. I stopped dead and watched it disappear around the corner.

I checked my phone. Great. I was officially late for the opening ceremony.

Outside, the morning air was cold. I hugged my bag against my chest and waited for the next bus.

And waited.

By the time I finally arrived at school, I still had a ten-minute walk from the entrance to the main campus. I was halfway there when a Shelby Mustang GT500 roared past me, its engine drowning out the morning chatter. I barely had time to turn my head before a Camaro RS/Z28 followed close behind. Both cars' taillights flashed as they turned, then disappeared around the corner.

I frowned. "Weird."

Then again, this was Institut de la Reine. Apparently, arriving at school in a car worth more than my house wasn't particularly unusual here. I shrugged and kept walking.

When I reached the parking lot, expensive cars filled every space. BMWs. Mercedes. Porsches. Cars that were worth more than houses. Than our house.

The hallways were nearly empty. The students who'd also arrived late were sprinting toward their classrooms. I watched them disappear around the corners. "Look at them go. I wish I could do that." I hurried after them, my shoes squeaking against the polished tiles.

Posters had appeared in every locker, though quite a few had already been torn down, crumpled into little balls, or simply discarded on the floor, waiting for the cleaners to find them.

WELCOME, SENIORS - CLASS OF 2026

Congratulations on making it this far. Your senior year begins now.

At the center was the school's traditional heraldic crest-the same emblem embroidered onto our blazers and stitched into our jerseys. A quartered shield bore four symbols: two crossed keys, a feather quill, an open book, and a burning torch. Two rearing wolves stood on either side, framed by ornate flourishes. Beneath the shield unfurled a parchment scroll bearing the school's motto in elegant lettering:

AD MAIORA

Est. 1847.

I remembered looking it up once. Latin for Toward Greater Things.

As I opened my bag to dig out my books for my next class, it slipped from my hands and everything spilled onto the floor.

I really didn't have time for this, I thought, dropping to my knees to gather everything up-until another hand reached down to help.

I looked up.

A boy I'd never seen before had already knelt beside me, quietly helping me gather everything I'd dropped. He was quite tall. Attractive. Messy dark hair framed his face, and his eyes were sharp enough to make me look twice. Hunter eyes.

In that uniform, he looked unfairly good. The black blazer sat perfectly across his shoulders, the trousers tailored cleanly down his legs, and the black plaid tie added just enough contrast to keep the whole thing from looking plain. He didn't look like a student. He looked like a supermodel who'd somehow wandered into a school uniform.

He looked completely out of place. Not because he didn't belong. Because he looked like he belonged everywhere.

I stared at him for a moment.

He raised an eyebrow. "Is there something on my face?"

"No."

"Good." He looked back at his schedule. "Because I'd rather not start my first day looking ridiculous."

There was no embarrassment in his voice. No awkward laugh. He simply said it like it was a fact.

As soon as I'd finished gathering my things, his hand held up one of my books.

"Bury Me Where the Roses Die."

I froze.

He held up the book. "Vrega VII, isn't it?"

I stared at him. "You've read it?"

"Yeah." He glanced at the cover. "How far are you?"

"I'm late."

"That's not what I asked." He handed the book back. "But okay."

His accent caught me off guard. It wasn't from these parts. Pure King's English-the kind I'd only ever heard in movies and television.

"Hold on. Mind helping me out? I'm a little lost."

I checked the clock before I turned around.

"I'm late," I muttered.

"Right." He nodded. "So am I."

I kept walking.

He didn't follow. Behind me, I heard him sigh. Probably wondering why he'd decided to ask the most unhelpful person in the building for directions.

I made it around the corner. Then stopped.

I don't know why. It wasn't guilt. It wasn't kindness. It was something else.

Fear.

Fear of dying young. Fear of leaving nothing behind. Fear that when my time finally came, there would be nothing waiting for me on the other side. No legacy. No memories. No proof that I'd ever existed.

I thought about Dad. Five years old. Gone. Just like that.

And maybe... just maybe... good deeds mattered. Maybe the things we did for other people were the only pieces of ourselves that survived after we were gone. Even if nobody remembered you for it.

I turned around.

He was still standing exactly where I'd left him, still holding that crumpled schedule.

I sighed. "Come on."

His eyes flicked toward me. "Where are you heading?"

"Computer science."

"I'm heading there too." He fell into step beside me.

"Computer science is this way."

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he slipped his schedule into his pocket.

"Alright." He caught up without rushing. We walked beside each other.

After a few seconds, he spoke. "Cailean."

I glanced at him.

"My name." He held out a hand. "Cailean