"The Sacred Rose in the Shadows" by Sasha Ravae

She came to paint. The house had other plans.

The Sacred Rose in the Shadows is a Black American gothic fairytale steeped in mystery, memory, and divine timing. When painter Sera Laurent accepts a private commission at the secluded Morrigan Estate, she believes that she’s saying "yes" to a creative reset. But what awaits her isn’t just a job—it’s a threshold. One she’s been walking toward her whole life.

The house is old. Alive. Watching. And its master, Kael Morrigan, carries a secret older than stone and silence.

As Sera begins to paint, unseen doors begin to open. Her art deepens. Her past resurfaces. And what starts as a quiet retreat becomes a spiritual reckoning—one that just might unearth the sacred rose buried within them both.

This isn’t just a love story. It’s a shadow work story. A soul retrieval in disguise.

Welcome to the shadows...

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Chapter One

The air inside the Lamont Gallery shimmered with energy—buzzing with the cadence of curated conversations, clinking champagne flutes, and the underlying thrum of wealth disguised as art appreciation. Sera Laurent stood near the entrance, back straight, chin lifted, dressed in obsidian silk that moved like liquid shadow when she turned. Every hair was in place. Every movement practiced. Her presence, graceful and composed, made her look like a woman born to navigate rooms filled with prestige.

And she was…or at least, she had become one. Years of work had gone into curating not only this gallery, but her image. She had built the Lamont from the floorboards up—restored its bones, rebranded its identity, and recast its entire legacy into the cultural crown jewel of Black high society in the Bay Area. She was not just its director. She was its architect.

Tonight’s event marked another triumph, featuring Simone Banks—a painter barely twenty-five, already causing ripples through collectors’ circles with pieces like "Inheritance" and "Redemption." Her art was raw, daring, and deeply emotional. She was everything Sera had once been—or could’ve been. Watching Simone bask in accolades, listening to her speak freely and confidently about her work, twisted something tight in Sera’s chest.

Sera lingered near the periphery of the crowd, watching the new artist stand before her work, face glowing with the innocent arrogance of someone who had yet to be told no. She laughed too loudly, gestured too broadly, but there was charm in it. Freshness. A kind of creative bravery that Sera remembered, but hadn’t felt in years.

A flashbulb popped. Sera blinked. She returned to the crowd, navigating with ease—offering practiced smiles, impeccable posture, the voice of someone born to manage wealthy egos and guide conversations. Her fingers tightened slightly around her glass as she passed a familiar donor, a minor tic hidden beneath her practiced grace. She spoke in crisp, elegant tones with just enough Frisco grit to make her feel real. She was fluent in both languages: the boardroom and the block.

She stopped for a moment near a sculptural floral installation, sipping from a glass of chilled brut, when she heard her name.

“Sera.”

She turned to see her best friends Maya and Liv making their way through the guests. They were radiant—Maya in a fitted green velvet jumpsuit that demanded attention, Liv in black satin and diamonds, her top knot slick enough to cut glass. These were her people.

“You look like you just sealed a six-figure deal and told a man that he wasn’t enough to break your stride,” Maya grinned, as she leaned in for a hug.

“That’s because she probably did,” Liv added, looping her arm through Sera’s. “Now, where the hell are the oysters?”

Sera chuckled. The sound uncoiled something tight in her chest. Maya and Liv were her grounding force—their friendship forged through years of wild nights, hard truths, and ambitious dreams.

“You good?” Maya asked, dropping her voice to a quieter register. “You’ve been floatin’ through this place like Beyoncé at a private gala.”

“I’m fine,” Sera said, automatically.

“Too fine,” Liv added, eyebrow raised. “Your ‘I’m fine’ voice is like…two decibels above your ‘everything is on fire’ voice.”

Sera smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just work. It’s a big night.”

“Mm-hmm,” Maya said.

“It’s been a big night every week since that fool dipped. When’s the last time you had a drink and a decent orgasm?”

“Liv!”

“What? I’m just trying to help. A little wine and a little whine can fix a lot.”

Sera shook her head, trying not to laugh. “I’m not hiding. I’m focused.”

“You’re focused and hiding,” Maya said, gently. “And that’s okay. Antoine didn’t just break your heart—he tried to break your art. And I hate that you let him.”

Sera’s smile shifted.

“It wasn’t just him,” she said. “Life happened. Bills. Stability. Health insurance. Shit I didn’t have the luxury of ignoring.”

“And I hear that,” Liv said. “But don’t forget—you were an artist before you were a boss. That fire didn’t go out. You just stopped feeding it.”

Sera looked past them to a corner of the gallery where an unassuming painting hung—no nameplate, no label, just a canvas of chaotic beauty in shadow and gold. As she gazed at it, the air around her cooled ever so slightly, as though the piece exhaled in recognition. It was hers. And almost no one knew. She hadn’t touched a brush in years, but the canvas still echoed. Still pulsed. Like it was waiting for her to remember.

“I didn’t forget,” she said, quietly.

Maya followed her gaze. “Then maybe, it’s time to start remembering out loud.”

Before Sera could answer, Everett, her assistant, appeared with impeccable timing.

“Pardon the interruption,” he said. “But there’s a mix-up with the press table. A few names were misprinted, and one guest is…vocal about it.”

“I’ll handle it,” Sera sighed, setting down her glass and squaring her shoulders. Her heels clicked crisply against the polished gallery floor as she strode toward the front reception, a quiet elegance in motion. On the way, she exchanged effortless nods with key collectors, offered a reassuring smile to a nervous gallery intern, and plucked a stray napkin from beneath a display pedestal without batting an eyelash. These were the details she noticed.

These were the invisible threads she wove to keep the illusion pristine.

By the time she reached the press table, she already knew which names had been swapped and what egos would need stroking. The offending guest—a regional style editor with a love of drama—was mid-rant when Sera arrived.

"Ms. Laurent," he said, tone dripping with exaggerated offense. "Imagine my surprise to see myself listed under 'local press' when I've contributed to nationally recognized columns. Columns!"

Sera listened patiently, her smile cool but not condescending. "Mr. Duncan, of course, you’re right. And we’ll correct that immediately."

She knelt gracefully at the table, taking up the calligraphy pen herself. Within seconds, a fresh name card was inked and slipped into place with an air of ceremonial finality. "There we are—Style Visionary and Columnist Extraordinaire. Would you do me the honor of checking the spelling?"

He blinked, disarmed. Then, he laughed. "You always know how to handle a moment, Sera."

"Only with the best guests," she replied, offering a gentle pat to his shoulder.

As he melted back into the crowd, ego soothed, Sera exhaled a small breath of relief. Another fire, extinguished before it could burn too hot. It was a dance she’d learned long ago—one part charm, one part strategy, all woven into the fabric of her role. She didn’t just curate art; she curated experiences. Controlled atmospheres. Impressions.

And yet, beneath that polished surface, something restless still stirred. A tension that no press badge or champagne tray could quiet.

As she turned back toward the gallery, her pulse slowed, but her mind did not. She had handled it. She always did. But the part of her that once created—raw, unfiltered, defiant—was watching from somewhere deep inside, arms crossed, waiting to see how long she could keep pretending that that was enough.

*****

Something had shifted inside the gallery.

Sera noticed it the moment she stepped back into the main room. The sound hadn’t changed—the laughter still hovered, the music still murmured—but something in the atmosphere had…tilted. The energy was heavier now, magnetized, like static before a storm. Guests were subtly clustering to the west end of the room, their movements unconsciously drawn in the same direction.

It wasn’t a disturbance. Not quite. But it was a presence. Something low and potent had stirred the social current, and now everyone was quietly, instinctively attuned to it.

Her gaze followed the pull, scanning the crowd until she saw what they saw—or rather, who.

The man stood near the Simone Banks installation, just off-center. Tall. Unbothered. Dressed in a black tailored suit that didn’t beg attention, but demanded it all the same. He wasn’t flashy; he didn’t need to be. Everything about him was understated, intentional. His frame carried power without arrogance. His stance was deliberate, grounded. His haircut was crispy, his jawline sharp enough to make shadows follow its edge, and his expression? A riddle. Unreadable. Watchful. He looked like someone who saw everything and gave nothing in return.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t gesture. He just simply commanded the rhythm of the room without a single motion. And yet the space around him adjusted—like a magnetic field recalibrating around an anchor.

Maya suddenly materialized beside Sera, her grin blooming wide. “You see him?” she asked, her voice lilting with interest.

Sera’s eyes remained locked on the mystery man. “Who is he?” she asked, adjusting her posture without realizing it. Her tone wasn’t curiosity as much as awe wrapped in caution.

“No one really knows,” Maya murmured, lowering her champagne flute, her voice suddenly conspiratorial. “Some say he’s a patron. Others say he’s a reclusive art purveyor who bankrolls Black-owned galleries across the country. Underground collectives, anonymous installations. Either way, he’s got reach.”

“I heard he’s the silent backer of the Black Renaissance endowment in Harlem,” Liv added, slipping in on Sera’s other side like smoke, her eyes sharp with intrigue. “Or he might be a ghost. A collector with no digital footprint. No photos. Could be a damn vampire for all we know. But honestly? I’d let him.”

Sera blinked once. Twice. “He looks,” she started.

“Intense?” Maya supplied, sipping her drink.

“Unbothered,” Liv corrected, letting her gaze linger. “And fine. Renaissance-oil-painting fine.”

“Untouchable,” Sera whispered, but the words tasted wrong. He didn’t seem untouchable—he seemed…distant by choice. Like someone who chose isolation not because he couldn’t connect, but because he’d long since stopped trying.

Still, she couldn’t look away. The way people curved around him without realizing. The way he stood there and somehow directed the rhythm of the space by doing absolutely nothing. His presence wasn’t loud—it was loudly silent.

Maya leaned in, her voice low but playful. “You’ve been off the market long enough, babe. The Universe might be nudging you. Flirt a little. Breathe near him. Let the ancestors do their job.”

“I came here to work,” Sera replied, but it came out thinner than she intended.

“You came here to heal,” Liv countered. “And healing starts with sensation…or a good slow burn. Look at that man and tell me that he’s not giving you the fanny-flutters right now.”

Before Sera could say something back, Maya’s elbow found her side—subtle but meaningful. A warning and a push all at once.

“Maya, stop—” But it was too late.

Maya shifted her weight, feigning a stumble with all the finesse of a trained actress. The timing was calculated. The aim? Flawless.

Sera pitched forward—not dramatically, but just enough to break the careful choreography of distance. Enough to draw attention.

But just before she would have stepped into him—before skin, fabric, or even breath could cross—he moved.

Not with alarm. Not even with awareness. He just simply adjusted. A step to the left. A half turn. A slide of space, like air parting for water.

The moment passed without contact. Seamless. Effortless. He had seen it coming before she knew that it was happening. Not with his eyes—no, he hadn’t even looked at her. But with some instinct she couldn’t name. A quiet control.

Sera’s pulse hammered. Her cheeks flushed warm. Her heart didn’t skip—it somersaulted.

Did he see her? Did he feel it too? Or was she just another ripple in the air he’d already learned to move through without leaving a trace?

She turned on her heels, brushing imaginary lint from her shoulder with the grace of someone trying desperately not to combust. She didn’t glance back, but she wanted to. Every cell in her body wanted to. It was reckless, ridiculous, and deeply human. But something in her recognized him—like an echo.

Behind her, Maya and Liv whispered like middle schoolers backstage at a school play.

“You see the way he moved?” Liv said, breathless. “Like he anticipated the moment, or something. Like he choreographed it.”

“Like water and velvet had a baby,” Maya added, eyes gleaming. “I thought Sera was about to faint. Girl, you good?”

“Shut up,” Sera hissed, though a smile tugged at her lips despite herself. “You’re both ridiculous.”

“No,” Maya said, “what’s ridiculous is the way he just stood there like the room belonged to him. I want that energy bottled.”

“I want that energy pooooooured,” Liv quipped. “Right into a glass and over ice.”

Sera exhaled, trying to will her thoughts back into order. She didn’t know his name. She didn’t need to. She would remember him anyway.

And somehow, she was sure—he’d remember her too.

*****

The gallery was quiet now.

The last of the guests had gone, leaving only the scent of perfume and champagne clinging to the velvet hush—a silence thick with echoes, shadows, and the residue of moments that mattered. Servers moved in practiced silence, clearing the remnants of the evening with a sort of reverent efficiency, as if unwilling to disrupt whatever magic still lingered in the air.

Lights dimmed overhead in gradual degrees, softening from brilliant exhibition white to a muted amber wash. The gallery had transformed again, no longer a space of curated impressions and performance, but something softer, more intimate—like the pause after a confession, when breath slows and truth settles.

Sera wandered slowly throughout the gallery, her heels a steady metronome against the polished concrete. Her fingers trailed along the backs of chairs and sculpture pedestals, anchoring her in the physical world. Her eyes moved over the artwork she had so carefully curated and arranged—works by others, fragments of other people’s stories—but her mind was elsewhere. The laughter and applause of earlier now felt like echoes in water, rippling outward into a dark, quiet sea.

She didn’t know why her feet carried her there…or maybe she did. She’d known all along this night—this moment—would end with her here.

To the far corner.

To the painting with no nameplate.

Her piece.

It hung there in quiet rebellion—no explanation, no artist bio, no price. Just a storm made visible, shadow and light colliding in fractured harmony. Brushstrokes layered with rage, ache, and longing. Deep indigos bled into charcoals, interrupted only by furious streaks of gold—like lightning stitched across a bruise. It was the only thing she had painted in five-years…and no one knew that it was hers.

It wasn’t supposed to be here. She hadn’t planned to hang it, but Everett had insisted they needed one last piece to anchor the room.

“Something with heart,” he said. “Something honest.”

She hadn’t even signed it.

Sera stepped closer. Her breath caught in her throat as she studied the canvas—not just its composition, but its soul. The texture. The movement. The pain. Every layer was a truth she had buried. Every smear of pigment was a silence she endured.

It was her.

It was the version of her that still screamed in silence behind the polished smiles. The version that bled into sketchbooks she kept hidden in drawers, pages curled from the pressure of secrets. It was the dreamer who once painted barefoot on hardwood floors, music blasting, heart wide open—before compromise, before ambition sharpened her into someone sleek and precise.

She reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of the frame, then the raised ridges of paint. It was dry and cool under her touch, but it pulsed all the same.

And for the first time in years, something stirred.

It wasn’t inspiration. Not quite. It was older than that.

It was memory…and grief. And yearning.

She closed her eyes and leaned in, her forehead nearly touching the canvas.

“Who are you now though?” she whispered to herself. “And who are you without this?”

The question wasn’t rhetorical.

She truly didn’t know.

She had become so many versions of herself to survive—so many masks, so many polished answers. But here, in the hush of her own work, she could hear the question echo back.

She didn’t have the answer…not yet. But the painting did.

It pulsed—not with magic, not with sound, but with something deeper. Something like recognition. As if the art remembered her even when she had stopped looking for herself. As if it had been waiting, patient and silent, for her return.

And in the stillness of the room, she felt something else—an undercurrent of presence. Not visible. Not loud, but undeniable. Like the room had one breath left to give, and it had held it for him.

The mystery man.

She hadn’t seen him leave. Hadn’t heard a goodbye. But still, she felt him. In the air. In the space. In the silence that no longer felt empty.

The gallery had changed. So had she.

Sera opened her eyes. The canvas stared back.

And somewhere beyond the edge of knowing, the echo of the man’s presence lingered—not demanding, not imposing, but just simply…there.

Waiting.

---

Chapter 1 opened the gallery.

What’s inside? Shadows. Secrets. And a man with no mercy.

🔓 Read Chapters 2–5 now with the Shadow Rose Bundle. 🥀Or join The Flame and get instant access to all the drops.

No slow burns here. Just art, obsession, and power that pulls you under.