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Weekly Contest #318
Rose O’Connell had always been second. Second daughter. Second to be noticed. Second to be chosen. Even her name—Rose—felt like a consolation prize. Her mother had wanted to name her Brigid, after the Irish goddess of fire and inspiration. But her older sister got that name. Rose was the afterthought. Pretty, delicate, safe. But Rose was not safe. She was fire disguised as porcelain. Red hair that fell in sharp angles—long in the front like blades, short in the back like defiance. Blue eyes that didn’t blink when challenged. Fair skin that f...
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