Roses Never Bow

Tristan Montgomery, the golden-boy heir of one of Manhattan’s most untouchable tech dynasties, supposedly fell in love with me at first sight. On the third morning of the fall semester, he had nine hundred and ninety-nine white Casablanca lilies delivered to the lawn outside my Columbia dorm. He stood beside them under the September sun, handsome and effortlessly expectant, waiting to claim me. I parted my lips to speak, and that was when the glowing, translucent text scrolled across my vision like a live chat feed. [The side character actually thinks the male lead fell for her at first sight. He completely mistook her for his anonymous online girlfriend!] [Sadie was too self-conscious about her background to say yes to him online. She made him promise they’d only meet once college started.] [And then Sadie accidentally lent that vintage silk hair scrunchie he mailed her to the side character! Tristan spotted it and confessed to the wrong girl!] [Sadie thinks Tristan moved on, so she blocked him in tears.] [Don’t worry, once Tristan spends more time around Sadie, he won’t be able to resist her gentle innocence. He’ll figure out she’s his real girl soon enough.] [In the end, Sadie and Tristan get their happy ending, while this social-climbing imposter gets publicly exposed, cyberbullied, and expelled before she even finishes her degree!] I paused. My gaze drifted over the crowd of breathless freshmen, then settled back on Tristan. I curved my lips into a dazzling, radiant smile. "Sure, babe." 1 Before the sheer triumph could fully break across Tristan’s face, I tilted my head and kept going. "On a thirty-day trial run." He blinked, thrown off balance. "A what?" "I mean, I like you well enough," I said, my voice sweet, conversational, and completely detached. "But it feels like you don't actually... know me at all." I reached out, my manicured fingertip grazing the waxy petal of a Casablanca lily. The heavy, cloying perfume hit my throat. I’ve always detested flowers with aggressive scents. I pulled my hand back and took a deliberate step away. "I prefer roses. Crimson roses." Tristan’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine bewilderment crossing his dark eyes. "Wait. Didn't you say—" I widened my eyes innocently. "What did I say?" The glowing text flared in front of me: [Sadie told him lilies were her late mother's favorite flower! That's literally the only reason he ordered them!] [LMAO, the side character is slipping up already? She couldn't even keep the act up for sixty seconds!] I held Tristan's gaze, smiling faintly. One of his lacrosse teammates leaned in, elbowing him with an amused smirk. "Come on, Montgomery. Girls do this. Don't interrogate her, just deliver." Tristan snapped out of it. He raised a hand, signaling the delivery crew. "Clear them out." By seven that evening, nine hundred and ninety-nine deep crimson Bulgarian grand gala roses occupied half the common lounge and trailed right to my doorway. My phone vibrated on the desk. An audio note from Tristan: Babe, did the roses make it up? Day one of probation. Am I passing? I leaned over the desk, inhaling the rich, velvety fragrance of the petals. Pressing the microphone button, I let my voice drop into a smooth, leisurely purr. "They're gorgeous. Thank you. Get some sleep, Tristan." The floating comments were losing their minds: [God, Sadie, stop crying in the bathroom! She’s just showing off! Tristan loves YOU!] [The side character demands whatever she wants without an ounce of shame. Sadie is nothing like that. How could Tristan be this blind?] [Just wait until he figures it out. He’s going to crush her like a bug.] According to the floating text, as our relationship progressed, Tristan was supposed to spot tiny discrepancies, slowly realizing he had picked the wrong girl. In response, I was supposed to panic, spinning an increasingly frantic web of lies until I painted myself into a corner as a deceitful, calculating social climber. I looked up toward the opposite side of the room. Sadie’s heavy privacy curtain was pulled completely shut, trembling slightly. I smiled, said goodnight to my other roommate, and turned off the lamp. 2 The next morning, my alarm went off at 5:30. By six sharp, I was on the track circling the athletic field. After finishing my third mile, I slowed to a walk, scanned the empty bleachers, and checked the perimeter. Tristan wasn't there. I pulled out my phone, went to his contact card, and tapped Block & Delete. The floating comments surged instantly: [WAIT WHAT?! She deleted the male lead?!] [Hahaha, Tristan is still dead asleep in his frat house! He’s going to wake up and find his brand-new girlfriend vanished into thin air!] [Okay, I kind of have to respect how cold-blooded she is. Not a single second of hesitation.] I slipped my phone into my pocket, walked over to John Jay dining hall for black coffee and an egg white wrap, and attended my morning lectures as planned. It wasn't until the end of my second computer science class that Tristan cornered me outside the lecture hall. Sadie was walking a few paces behind me, clutching her sketchbook to her chest. Tristan didn’t spare her a single glance. His jaw was set, his expression stormy, his unlocked phone gripped in his hand. "You blocked me?" I looked through him and kept walking down the marble hallway. He had clearly prepared an entire speech to demand answers, but seeing my absolute indifference, the arrogance dissolved into immediate panic. He surged forward and caught my wrist. I stopped, glanced down at his fingers, and jerked my arm back with a sharp flick. "I don't converse with emotionally volatile people." Tristan went rigid. His fingers snapped back as if scorched, and he fell into step beside me, his voice instantly dropping an octave, frantic and placating. "No, wait—I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. I was just stressed out, and my tone was off." He swallowed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I woke up, saw I couldn't reach you, and lost my mind for a second... Did I do something wrong? Just tell me. I'll fix it." I stopped at the top of the stone steps, turning to face him. "Six o'clock this morning. I was running laps on the track. Where were you?" Tristan stared at me, his mouth parting in disbelief. "...Over a morning run?" "Yes." My gaze was unyielding. "If you can't even bother to show up during a probationary period, it tells me you lack commitment. I have no use for a half-hearted, inattentive partner. Now, apologize." Tristan’s Adam’s apple bobbed. For three seconds, his pride fought a war behind his eyes. Then he lowered his head, his voice subdued. "I was wrong, babe. It won't happen again." My face remained cool. "I don't need promises. I need execution." "Understood." The text in my periphery flickered violently: [Is this girl for real?! Blowing up over a morning jog? And why is the male lead groveling?!] [Tristan fell for Sadie because she was sweet and gentle! This girl is the exact opposite!] [I hate to admit it, but her leash training is terrifyingly effective.] 3 Just as I anticipated, after that single, calculated strike, Tristan treated me with meticulous care. He memorized my seminar schedule and lab hours better than his own. Every morning, he secured our favorite table in the reading room. At noon, he was already waiting in line at the dining hall with an iced matcha latte when my lecture let out. At night, he walked me back to my residence hall without fail. Designer leather goods, delicate diamond bracelets, pastries from high-end bakeries, and fresh roses arrived with rhythmic certainty. There were so many roses that even the front desk attendant had a vase of them brightening her lobby counter. Naturally, my demeanor softened. Occasionally, I let him buy me dinner at private clubs downtown, or sat courtside watching him play varsity basketball. Whenever I appeared in the front row, the gym erupted into rowdy cheers from his teammates. When the final buzzer sounded, I’d walk over holding an iced bottle of water, my floral dress catching the summer breeze, carrying the faint, intoxicating scent of damask roses. I’d pull a clean towel from my tote, rise lightly on my tiptoes, and dab the sweat from his brow, my eyes curving into sweet crescents. "You played brilliantly today, babe. I loved watching you." I let my voice dip into a whisper. "What would you like as a reward? A movie tonight?" The guys around him howled with envy. Tristan’s eyes never left my face, burning with an almost blinding intensity. In the cinema that evening, neither of us paid attention to the screen. When the credits rolled and the dim house lights rose, his long arm snaked around my waist, pulling me firmly into his lap. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his breath hot and ragged against my pulse point. "Rose," he muttered, his voice gravelly with restrained hunger, "I swear to God, I want to lock you away where no one else can ever look at you." Resting my chin on his shoulder, I looked past his dark hair at the floating words: [Holy shit, the male lead’s first kiss is gone? What happened to the pure romance arc?!] [He’s completely hooked. He’s down so bad it’s embarrassing.] [The side character’s game is insane. She reeled him in hook, line, and sinker. Poor Sadie.] [It doesn't matter! Once Sadie's identity comes out, all this charm is going to look like cold-blooded manipulation. Tristan will despise her.] [A man has to taste the wrong woman to appreciate the right one. She's just a stepping stone for Sadie! Can't wait until she gets doxxed!] I stroked Tristan's nape, whispering softly against his ear, "Remember, Tristan. You only get one chance with me." 4 The end of our thirty-day trial aligned precisely with my twentieth birthday. Tristan had spent the preceding fortnight orchestrating the evening. He bought out the entire panoramic dining room atop the city’s most coveted skyline tower, lining the marble floors with ten thousand crimson roses from the foyer to the open-air terrace. Two days prior, a bespoke silk evening gown worth five figures was hand-delivered to my dorm room. At six o’clock sharp, an escort of matte-black supercars idled along the curb outside our building, drawing half the dorm to their windows. "That's Tristan Montgomery!" "Is he about to propose to Rosalie?" "He’s ridiculously hot and ridiculously rich. She won the lottery." I smoothed down the tailored silk of my gown and walked down the steps. Tristan was already standing by the passenger door of his coupe. When his eyes caught mine, his breath visibly hitched. He stepped forward to open the door. "Happy birthday, babe." I offered him a radiant smile and slid inside. He had dressed entirely to my specifications: the smoky notes of Tom Ford’s Oud Wood clinging to his collar, his dark hair styled with effortless precision, and a single black obsidian stud glinting in his left earlobe. Noticing my appraisal, a faint flush dusted his jawline. I leaned in close, brushing a thumb over his lapel before trailing my fingertips lightly along the sharp line of his jaw. His breathing grew shallow, his throat working. "You look stunning tonight, babe," he murmured, his voice slightly raw. "Promise me you’ll only dress like this for me." "We'll see," I murmured, tilting my head. I slipped my fingers between his, our hands resting over the leather console, fingers intertwined. I held up my phone, took a single photo of our joined hands against the backdrop of the city lights, and posted it to my private social media. You said you wanted to cultivate a rose with utmost care. So here I am. 5 Once our relationship was officially public, Tristan requested to follow my roommates on social media—with my permission—just in case he ever lost contact with me again. When he reached Sadie's profile, his thumb froze on the screen. He stared at her custom digital avatar, his brow knitting together. He looked up at her across the dorm hallway. "Did Rose draw your profile icon, too?" Sadie kept her head ducked, her small hands clutching her phone so hard her knuckles turned white. Her voice emerged paper-thin. "...No. I commissioned an artist online." Tristan studied her, his gaze lingering with an uneasy, calculating curiosity. I stood beside him, watching the whole exchange in silence. The floating text was hysterical: [HERE IT COMES! The classic identity reveal!] [Hahaha, he finally noticed! Sadie has been an acclaimed digital illustrator since high school! All their matching couple icons, custom chat backgrounds, and sticker packs were drawn by her hand. You can’t fake an art style!] [If Sadie hadn't switched accounts after he confessed to the wrong girl, she’d be unmasked right this second!] [It’s fine, his suspicions are planted. One reverse image search and he’ll know everything.] [The side character is celebrating her little birthday, but once the truth drops, she’s going to scramble to lie, cementing herself as a gold-digging fraud forever.] I watched the final line fade, a faint, amused smile playing on my lips. Scramble to lie? Did I ever claim to be his anonymous digital muse? He came to my lawn. He handed me the flowers. He confessed his devotion. What part of his idiocy was my crime? Why should I inherit the shame while he plays the wounded prince? I turned my head toward Tristan, tapping his arm gently. "Babe, aren't you the primary financial backer for the university’s competitive AI lab? Could you get me a pass to check it out?" Tristan snapped out of his trance. A week ago, he would have agreed without blinking. Today, he hesitated for two distinct beats. "Why the sudden interest in competitive engineering, Rose?" I tapped my chin, looking up at him with unclouded sweetness. "I just think machine learning architecture is fascinating. And... I’d like to understand the things you care about." Tristan’s gaze softened immediately, the tension in his shoulders releasing. He reached out, smoothing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "There are two teams representing the university in the national robotics league. I'm on Team One. The technical vetting is pretty brutal, and the hours are grueling. But Team Two trains in the same facility. It’s a lower barrier to entry—probably much more comfortable for you." My smile widened. "Sounds perfect. Thanks, babe." 6 Following my birthday, Tristan went dark for seventy-two hours. He sent a brief text claiming a sudden venture capital emergency required him to fly to Boston. He maintained his protocol—checking in every morning and evening, sending polite updates. Except I knew he wasn't in Boston reviewing cap tables. The floating comments were broadcasting his real-time itinerary: [He’s been holed up with his prep-school buddies for three days straight, obsessively dissecting why his girlfriend in real life feels like a completely different human being from his online sweetheart.] [He just hired a private investigator to pull Sadie’s background info!] [OH MY GOD, he ran into Sadie volunteering at the animal shelter, and he just asked her about the scrunchie!] The last remnants of my drowsiness vanished. I sat up against my pillows, picked up my phone, and opened our message thread. His last text from an hour ago still sat there: Almost done with the partners, babe. Bringing you back something special from Newbury Street. Without a millisecond of hesitation, my thumbs moved across the keyboard: I know everything. You're in love with someone else. We're done.