One Cursed Rose

by Rebecca Zanetti

Genres: Romantic Fantasy; Fantasy Romance; Romantic Suspense; Dark Romance

Synopsis

For fans of Scarlett St Clair and Sarah J Maas, New York Times bestselling author Rebecca Zanetti explores the forbidden and the taboo in this modern twist on Beauty and the Beast – the first in a seductive new dark romance series set in a world where information is power, and those who control the flow of information live like gods…

“Sexy and utterly engrossing!” —bestselling author J.T. Geissinger

They christened me Alana—and while the name means beauty, beneath that surface is a depth I allow very few to see. I’m sole heir to Aquarius Social, a media giant about to succumb to an unseen enemy. My father’s solution is to marry me off to the son of a competing family. My reaction? Not a chance. Now I have just a week before the wedding to change my fate.

Who knew the unforeseen twist would be an assassination attempt on me and an unwanted rescue by Thorn Beathach, the head of the rival social media empire driving Aquarius under? The richest, most ruthless of them all, the Beast protects his realm with an iron rule: no one sees his face. When he shows himself to me, I know he’ll never let me go.

Thorn may think he can lock me in his enchanted castle forever, but I’m not the docile Beauty he expects. If the Beast wants to tie me up, I’m going to take pleasure from every minute of it . . .and we’ll just see who ends up shackled.

 

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Release date: June 25, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

PROLOGUE

Thorn

The shadows shift uneasily in the chilly night as I prowl against the brick buildings, rainwater dripping from the eaves high above. Accustomed to swallowing interlopers, the dark mass slithers inches away from my flesh.

For now, I have better things to worry about, so I tolerate the shadows, and they know it.

The moon breaks through the clouds above, glittering on the wet asphalt and torn pieces of trash littering the sidewalks. Palo Alto is one of my least favorite places in the world, full of too much money and too little sense. The giggling crowds exiting the bars instinctively keep their leather loafers and spiked Prada heels away from the tendrils of shadows twisting against the worn bricks, and thus away from me.

All prey have survival instincts.

I’ve timed my arrival perfectly, yet my heart rate increases as I stalk between narrow alleys and finally turn, halting across the street from the Urban Elixir, the city’s hottest new nightclub, my back to the building, my shoulders rock hard. The garish pink and green lights from the neon sign above the main door flicker in time to the pounding music from inside.

A drunk trips by, mumbling, and the taste of sodden tobacco fills my mouth. Fire lances through me and I growl in warning. The man scurries down the street and out of sight.

The taste slowly dissipates, leaving my tongue singed.

Then she emerges from the bar. Alana Rose Beaumont. The paparazzi rush forward, hampered by the velvet ropes and security guards that protect the glitterati from the commoners. It’s a dance unchanged through the ages.

My body settles as much as possible considering time isn’t on my side. Even now, my hands are degrees colder than they were a month ago. But she’s all that matters. I hate when she’s out of my sight.

Tonight she’s wearing a sparkly yellow dress, if it can be called such. Thin spaghetti straps hold up a generous bodice that narrows impossibly to her tiny waist and barely reaches the tops of her golden thighs. For a petite woman, her legs are surprisingly long, with five-inch pink heels giving her added height.

I’ve dreamed of those legs wrapped around me.

As is her custom on a night like this, she allows one of her assistants to lead her to the side and a waiting camera crew. Well, a waiting woman, often seen with Alana, and her smart phone. The woman’s name is Rosalie. She’s twenty-five, was raised by her janitor grandfather, and has a cat named Bruiser. I know everything about her, as she is often in Alana’s vicinity. She poses no threat to Alana, or she’d already be dead.

“What would you like to say to your followers?” Rosalie asks, holding her phone in front of her face. Rain dots her thick black hair but she ignores it, remaining in the best position to film.

Alana smiles. “That the Urban is the place to be.”

I tap my earbuds to zero in on Alana’s Aquarius Social media account, although I can hear above the flashing cameras and people jockeying into position to get closer to her. Aquarius is an emotional-intelligence platform that works on a combination of live video and popular sounds with a much simpler algorithm than my own social media company, but their AI capabilities are close to matching mine, which is a concern for tomorrow.

Tonight is about the woman.

She chuckles, and the throaty sound shoots right to my balls. More importantly, my mouth fills with the taste of honey. Pure, sweet honey. Then she continues speaking, and I nearly groan from the delicious words. “Make sure when you come by that you have an Urban gin martini because they’re fabulous,” she says as if speaking to a treasured friend. Millions of them, actually.

Her hair, a wild and teased mahogany that cascades down her back, flows in the slight breeze as if alive. But it’s her eyes. Those deep, dark, impossibly beautiful eyes that only a moron would call mere hazel. There is no color, no description, no label that accurately describes the hue.

Except . . . haunting. 

That’s what she does. She haunts my days and my dreams, and she hasn’t a clue.

The voices around her start to resonate through my EarPods, and with them different tastes prick my tongue. I swallow and push all sounds except her sweet voice away. It’s the only taste I want.

A hint of danger rides the wind, and I look around, seeing nothing amiss. Is there somebody else watching her? Do they not sense me? I have no problem taking out not only threats but rivals.

She continues speaking to her nearly six million followers, and I can feel the power in those numbers. A power most people will never realize exists.

Rosalie lifts the phone higher. “I noticed that Stacia and Corinda Rendale failed to attend this grand opening. The sisters are normally first to find the hottest parties.”

Alana’s eyes widen and she leans toward the phone as if about to tell a great secret. “I heard that the sisters”—she looks around as if to make sure nobody is listening, although, of course, millions are—“were possibly not invited.”

Rosalie properly gasps. A slight taste of strawberries slides across my tongue, but I push the tang aside to enjoy Alana’s tartness at the moment.

Amusement ticks through me briefly and I breathe the sensation deep. The Rendale sisters are heirs to the second strongest social media company, and their rivalry with Alana is cute. Sniping from any of them earns millions of clicks and thus results in empowering energy that can’t be bought. It’s a transfer of sorts. The more subscribers use and like different posts, the more traffic generated on the sites, and the stronger the crystals running the companies become. With that vitality comes the ability to offer more benefits to subscribers, which leads to more power and more money.

As well as longevity and health for the family members physically connected to those crystals. We all want to live longer than we should.

Of course, if the enmity between the women ever becomes a danger to Alana, I will take care of the matter.

The skies finish their tentative light rainfall and open to deluge the hapless world with gleefully aimed liquid spikes.

Alana retreats against the building, and I wish I had stood there. To be so close to her and to refrain from touching her is slowly driving me mad. It wasn’t a long journey to begin with.

She’s beauty personified, and she knows how to work a camera. I want her in a way that isn’t healthy . . . for either of us.

My fingers curl into fists, and I remain in the shadows, the flavor of her lingering on my tongue. Every molecule in my body wants to burst through the tempestuous storm and take her right now, but witnesses are a hindrance. No doubt I’m going to hell with my plan, but I’m past caring. Since my time is severely limited, I should leave her be.

The high road is no place for me, and that I can find a sense of honor is a lie

I don’t bother telling myself. Deep down inside me, the monster that devoured my soul years ago knows the truth.

For her? It is already too late.

She looks up, and our eyes lock. Hers widen. Her pupils contract.

Definitely too late.

 

ONE

Alana

Dark eyes gleam from the darkness by the brick building across the street, and I shiver. Just eyes. Bodies, space, and pouring rain separate us, and all I can see are eyes and perhaps the shape of a man. A large one.

But that gaze.

His stare thrusts into my body with a sense of warning more foreboding than the thunder bellowing in the distance. Lightning flashes, too close, and I jump.

“I’m glad you enjoyed your evening,” Rosalie purrs, carefully keeping her new phone out of the rain. “Is there anything else you would like to say to your friends?”

I turn, angling my face so the neon lights emphasize my good side. One of my cheekbones is two millimeters higher than the other. It’s sad that I know that. Worse yet that I’ll exploit it. “Oh yes. Please remember to either attend or pledge to support the runners in tomorrow’s Dash for the Doggies.” The stupid name rolls nicely off the tongue, but unfortunately this tidbit won’t lead to half the clicks my insult to the Rendale sisters will. “Those little puppies at the pound need our help.” I smile and lower my chin for my flirty look.

Rosalie giggles appropriately. “Will you be running, Miss Beaumont?”

I allow my cheeks to pinken. “In these shoes? Never.” I lift a bare and now freezing shoulder in my best “aw, shucks” move. “I have to attend an Aquarius Social board meeting tomorrow, but I’ve pledged to support several of our joggers. I hope all my friends out there will do the same. Also, I’d so appreciate it if you’d explode-star and share this little emote-video of mine.” I wink, giving our signal, perfectly masking my unease at having to attend a board meeting after all this time.

She ends the video. “Should we get a drink?”

“No.” A hard body emerges from the crowd, flanking me as a near duplicate mashes to my other side. “Miss Beaumont is leaving now.” They usher me through the bodies to a running Mercedes, assist me inside, and shut the door. Nameless bodyguards that I barely look at tonight.

My father rotates all security personnel after an unfortunate crush I developed on a bodyguard at the age of fifteen. The man was at least twenty-five, starkly handsome with blond hair and mellow blue eyes, and knew how to whistle war ballads. It was the whistle that intrigued me. He gave me my first kiss in the front seat of a Mercedes, and that moment was amazing.

It also sealed his death. A lesson I will never forget.

Tonight’s driver maneuvers the vehicle through the crowd and I turn, seeking those eyes by the building, but only find shadows now. Shivering, I lean forward and turn up the seat warmers as well as the heat. The driver is quiet, his broad hands appearing loose on the steering wheel as he expertly maneuvers out of the commercial area to the residential, ultimately pulling to a stop in front of my unimposing building, where two bellmen hurry out into the rain to escort me inside.

God forbid I turn an ankle.

Of course, they’re both packing, so I suppose I won’t take a bullet, either.

I look up at the charming four-story brick-and-mortar building that my father hates. He likes chrome and glass, and while I enjoy items that sparkle, love them really, I wanted something homey when I moved out of the mansion after college. Since I was merely the spare and not an heir, and since I have a uterus and not balls, my father grudgingly gave in.

Things have changed.

I shiver and duck my head against the rain, my face cooling from the harsh drops. One of the guard dogs holds an umbrella over my head as he swivels around, scoping the trees and bushes as if waiting for the hydrangea to shoot poisonous darts. Unfortunately, the wind isn’t cooperating and slashes the rain sideways and under the umbrella. The harsh wetness stings my face. 

Relief fills me as I enter the comfortable entryway and clip-clop on the impossibly high heels to the elevator, not showing my discomfort. A blister burns on my left heel, and I bite my lip to keep from stepping out of the shoe.

Instead, I rise to the top floor, regretting the need, or rather demand, for me to live at the top.

A basement apartment would suit me just fine. Of course, it’s easy to say that since I was raised in mansions or high-end hotels my entire life. I can be self-aware when necessary.

I enter my apartment, ditch the sparkling dress and offensive heels for torn yoga pants and a faded pink shirt older than I am before raiding the fridge for leftover Chinese. I use a fork. Nobody is here to see, so why dig for chopsticks?

My place is comfortable with cream-colored furniture, aquamarine accents, and hints of rose quartz. I finally relax.

After eating too many calories, I wash my face, brush out my impossibly wild hair, and lie in the bed until exactly three a.m. My bed is soft and the pillows plush. Here I have more of the rose quartz decorating my lamps, sparkling in picture frames surrounding family and friends, and woven throughout a thick rug that covers my hardwood floors.

However, there is no sleeping tonight for me. My childhood nightmare, the one I thought I’d banished, is back after my brother’s recent car accident and death. Finally, it’s time to move. I can’t hear the click of the security cameras being tricked onto a loop, if there is a click. Instead, the moment the clock ticks three in the morning, I stand, grab a flashlight, and silently make my way through the four-bedroom apartment to the landing outside. Then it’s a simple matter of walking down the five flights of stairs in my socks to the basement.

I can probably use the flashlight, but just in case, I leave it off. It’s for emergencies only.

Winding through the basement, I come to a heavy cement wall and click in a code on the barely there keypad. A hidden door opens.

Sprawling on a threadbare sofa, Rosalie looks up from a gallon of Chunky Monkey. She’s changed from her overcoat to sweats and a shirt even more faded than my own, although her protective angelite pendant still hangs between her breasts. “You sounded properly ditzy tonight. You sure you aren’t an asshole in disguise?”

I toss the flashlight onto the sofa, just missing her knee. “We’re both assholes.” I angle my head to see that she’s eaten the entire carton. Definitely an asshole. “Why in the world did you ask me for a drink? We both need sleep.” Does she know I’m having nightmares again? I try to retain some distance from my friends, hoping to keep them safe, but they know me too well.

“Please. The dark circles under your eyes beg for a triple vodka before bed.”

The door at the far end opens and Ella peeks out from our main computer hub, her citrine-encrusted glasses partly down her nose. She shoves them back up with her index finger. “Did either of you bring me 

anything to eat?”

I wince. “Rosalie ate all the ice cream.” And I the entire carton of orange chicken.

“You’re such buttheads,” Ella says without much heat. Her blonde hair is up in a ponytail, and her blue eyes are wide behind the thick glasses.

“We just decided that as well.” Rosalie shoves to her feet. “Where are we on the projects?”

A man clears his throat. Loudly. “Some of us are in here working, while others are stuffing their faces with enough dairy to cause flatulence for a year,” Merlin snaps from the other room.

I snort. “Merlin is in a mood.”

Rosalie coughs, her eyes red. Has she been crying again?

“I’m sorry Charlie dumped you, but he truly was a moron, and you’re better off.” I keep my tone gentle, but the truth is that Charlie ghosted Rosalie, which means he isn’t worth the crap in the bottom of an old drain. My tough friend is a true romantic with terrible taste in men.

She stands and holds her stomach. Yeah. That much ice cream can’t be good.

“Come on.” I sling my arm through hers and drag her around the sofa to the main computer hub. Well, our only computer hub. Ella is already back in her corner with her three monitors, while Merlin sits in his corner opposite. “We should have brought you two dinner, and we’re very sorry,” I say, meaning it.

The three of them use a hidden entrance to the building from the back alley, and Ella makes sure to note the timing of the patrols my father has in place. So far, we’ve been both good and lucky in avoiding detection.

Merlin turns and lifts one bushy gray eyebrow. He is around sixty with thick gray hair a few shades darker than his eyebrows, and he rents a room in the Victorian home Rosalie inherited from a distant aunt. As usual, he wears a suit with a bow tie; today it is a burgundy color. When I purse my lips, he looks down at the tie, apparently preparing to continue our usual argument. “You’re wrong. Burgundy and maroon are colors.”

“Are not,” I return per the rules of our long-running game, pulling out a chair to sit at the dented wooden table in the center of the room. “Those are ‘not colors.’” While the table is old, the chairs are new and plush, and the computer banks top of the line. Most of them are not available for consumers yet.

We’re not consumers.

He sadly shakes his head and waves a hand in the air to dismiss the topic. “Do we know why you’ve been called before the Aquarius board tomorrow?”

Claws slash inside my abdomen. “No. I’m sure it’s a routine type of thing, the annual

meeting.” My voice emerges way too shaky.

Rosalie pales. “Do you think they want you to take Greg’s place?”

At the mention of my dead brother, my only sibling, my heart aches. We weren’t close, but I have good memories from childhood when he used to play with me at the beach. And I don’t blame him for becoming harder as he grew up. Our father and our lives did not give Greg a choice. “I doubt it.” My father has never seen beneath my surface, probably because I look just like my mother, who died young. From what I can tell from her diary, she was more concerned with the newest handbag or lipstick than real life.

Of course, most people say that about me these days.

Merlin straightens his already perfect posture. “That’s a concern for another day, and we have work to do. It looks like the fun run for the animal shelters is on lots of donors’ radar after your video tonight.”

“Last night,” Ella corrects, typing rapidly. “In addition, our Backpack program has sent additional funds to the New York, Minneapolis, and Boise areas.”

I love that program. Kids without enough to eat can take a backpack full of food home from school every Friday and return it Monday. We’re in all fifty states now, and I’d like to be in every high and junior high school by the end of the year. “Good. Do we require more funding?” I need to arrange my next several videos carefully. It’s time to hide more of my spending habits from my father. I take funds from my various trusts to supposedly party and buy high-end goods, but actually funnel the money into various charities.

“Yes,” Ella says. “I’m tapped for the month, and so is Rosalie. You could probably buy a boat or something—or at least look like you’re doing so. Your father hasn’t checked your actual accounts in months.”

That’s because he doesn’t care, which is a hurt for another day.

“I’ll make it happen.” Being involved in good deeds can only help my social media profile, but I have to be careful about how many charities I appear to support. More importantly, I can never reveal what I truly love. Revealing my soft underbelly, so my brother had once told me, will always be a mistake with our father. “Where are we with the women’s shelters in Southern California?”

“Building three more safe houses within the next two months,” Rosalie says, reaching for a binder and flipping over a page. “I know we want to operate on a large scale, but it was a win helping the California state senator’s wife after she left the hospital.”

“She’s in a safe house in San Diego for now,” Merlin adds.

Good. The sight of those bruises will haunt me forever. I am just fine helping one person at a time. “What about the senator?” I hold my breath.

Rosalie looks at Merlin. “We could take him out, but it’d make the news.”

Merlin’s head draws back, briefly giving him a double chin. “We can’t afford the 

scrutiny, and it isn’t like we can go to your father for the name of a hitman.”

I hate that he’s right. “I could do it?”

Merlin’s eyes widen, Ella stiffens, and Rosalie laughs outright. “I love you, Alana. I’m sure you have a gun, and I have no doubt you could go to his house. But you won’t pull the trigger.” Her voice softens, as do her blue eyes. “You’re not a killer, and that’s a good thing.”

Right. Women like me have other people do the killing for them. I flash back to the funeral of the driver who kissed me, when his mother shrieked and threw herself on the coffin. My brother and I stood far away, watching.

“I did this?” I whispered, bile rising in my throat at the horror in my fifteen-year-old heart.

Greg shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not. He might’ve been killed even if he’d just looked at you. But I want you to see what happens when you step out of line. Don’t go kissing any more employees. Next time, it will be your fault, Alana.”

It is a lesson reinforced daily. I disappointed my father one other time, and my beloved collie disappeared. When I asked about Macbeth, nobody had an answer. It is still possible the dog just ran away, but there is no way to know.

Ella clicks her keyboard and flings a picture of two little girls up on the far screen. “Speaking of personalized rescue: Ana and Abbi Klostcky. Their mother and stepfather were just investigated for child abuse in Chicago, competing experts in the courtroom battled it out, and they have been returned to the pervert.” The girls are about five and six years old with wiry black curls, tawny brown eyes, and pinched faces.

I can feel the pain in them. “Were they evaluated?” My breath stalls.

“Yes,” Ella says. “The caseworker, doctor, and shrink all found abuse. The stepfather is a distant cousin to the judge, though that was not disclosed. I barely found it.”

I swallow. “Try bribing the parents first.” It still shocks me how often people give up loved ones for money.

“If that doesn’t work?” Merlin asks.

“Take them,” I say simply. We have a series of safe houses especially geared toward abused children. “I’ll get the money.”

Merlin swivels his chair, facing me and tugging on his bow tie. “Are we sure your funds will continue?”

I gulp. The subject is one we’ve avoided for months. While I do have trust funds left to me by my mother and other various relatives who have passed on, my father is the Trustee and most likely has the ability to slow the trickle of money to me should he choose.

Ella follows Merlin’s move, turning to face me. “The new industry report came out earlier today. Aquarius Social is in last position of the four social media giants, which is not good. The further you fall, the lower your . . . power and reach.”

Her concern is for us both. “I know.”

Rosalie chews on her full bottom lip. “Maybe that’s why you’ve been summoned to the board meeting. There might be a marketing plan in place.”

“I can only hope,” I whisper, feeling deep in my gut that it will not be that easy

For now, I have more people to save. “Where are we on the affordable housing initiatives in Georgia?” I’ll worry about my future, if I have one, when I step into the board meeting.

For now, I still have freedom, and I’m going to use it.

 

TWO

Alana

As I enter the boardroom, I’m immediately drawn to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the far wall. The sun bounces off them, not strong enough to pierce the fortified glass, but it’s the city stretching out in front of me, the vibrant Silicon Valley landscape, that catches my attention. I turn away to keep myself from walking right to the very edge and staring down the way I had as a child.

“Hello, Father,” I say.

My father looks up from a stack of papers at the head of the table, at the helm and in control as usual. Flashes of gray tinge his thick black hair, especially by his ears, accentuating his fierce jawline and even fiercer brow. There are no laugh lines near his eyes or his mouth, but time has carved her path in his skin anyway. His eyes are a deep brown, much deeper than mine, and lack the flecks of green gifted me by my mother. “Alana, good. You’re here. Sit.” He gestures toward the seat to his right.

I pause. No doubt that had been Greg’s seat. It hurts that my brother is not here. I falter and look across the table at my cousin. “Hey, Nico.”

“Alana.” He nods. ...