It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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remember: feedback a day keeps writer's block away ;)
no, but honestly, inline comments - where i get to witness y'all react, whether it's shock or anger or humour - those make all my hours spent writing worthwhile <3
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【 01.
One
Aaghaz 】
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[ Aaghaz • thebeginning ]
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ROSALINE DAVENPORT IS cut from marbles and emeralds—this is the first thought that floats through any mind that sets its sights on her. On her, who is all porcelain skin, flashing green eyes, and glossy reddish-brown hair twisted back into a sophisticated chignon that rests at the nape of her slender neck.
She is a vision. Oh lord, she is a vision.
And she knows this. She takes pride in this.
Rose smiles at her reflection, her eyes travelling down her form wrapped in rich satins of peach and silver, the elegant embroidery looking like it's painted on the soft material rather than being woven through it by the finest hands.
Her beauty is legendary in that vintage sort of way, something brought to life from the very forefront of an artist's imagination—a cupid bow for lips that are as naturally red as her name, emeralds for eyes that have been carved into her face, ivory for skin that shields her bones, and hair that has an undertone of something burnt but polished. All things that no fingertips can sketch, that no hands can mould into a sculpture.
Rosaline Davenport is no goddess but on nights like these, she likes to think she has ichor running through her veins.
There's a soft knock on her door and Rose knows by the timid nature of the sound that it's her mother, and not her dad.
She wants to pretend not to have heard it, but she bites down on the childish impulse and tells her mother to come in.
At Rose's permission, the door opens to reveal Isabelle Davenport cloaked in chiffons of a deep plum shade. The older woman strides in, her footfalls inaudible and her posture regal-like. There's that kind of matured grace to every muscle movement of Isabelle, something Rose knows comes from years of carrying oneself with all the etiquettes expected from a socially prominent figure.
