The Black Rose By Frances Paul
Genres: Adult, Psychological Thriller
Some weapons are born. Others are made.
She is the perfect operative.
A discarded orphan, remade by the very hands that broke her.
Trained to seduce. Conditioned to kill. Reborn as Elara Everhart.
They gave her new names. New faces. New identities, whichever the mission required.
Now, they call her Raina.
And they’ve sent her into the lion’s den.
Her target: Axel Voss. Billionaire. Powerbroker. Threat.
He’s everything she was trained to dismantle.
But he sees too much. Speaks too little.
And when he touches her, he wakes something she was never meant to feel.
She is the weapon they created.
But he’s the variable they never planned for.
What begins as a mission spirals into obsession.
And survival will cost more than her cover.
Because the most dangerous thing isn’t failing the mission,
It’s forgetting who the real enemy is.
If you love psychological thrillers with espionage, romantic suspense, and heart‑stopping twists, The Black Rose will keep you breathless until the very last page.
Excerpt:
I stepped out of the cab and into the gallery, the air instantly changing around me. Heads
turned. Eyes followed. The black Dolce & Gabbana dress I wore fit like it had been sewn onto
my skin, elegant without trying, powerful without needing to speak. My hair, sleek and black,
fell in glossy waves down my back, every strand precisely where it belonged. I walked with
purpose, each step measured, as I took in the room.
It didn’t take long to find him.
Axel Voss stood in a more secluded wing of the gallery where the crowd had thinned. I spotted
him across the space. His back was to me, dressed in a tailored dark gray suit that fit too
perfectly to be anything but custom. His frame was lean and strong, his posture relaxed,
hands tucked in his pockets as he studied a painting. He wasn’t just looking. He was dissecting
it.
My attention moved to the guards. Two of them. Strategically placed in opposite corners of
the room, trying not to look like security. They blended in well enough with the other patrons,
but their eyes told the truth. Constantly scanning.
I inhaled and adjusted the strap of my dress. I ran my hands over my curves, making sure
everything looked in place. My cue had come.
Each step felt burdened, as if what I was about to do had sunk deep into my limbs.
The rhythm of my heels against the marble echoed faintly. I moved closer, slipping into his
orbit. I was near enough now for him to catch the light scent of my perfume, floral, soft, meant
to linger without announcing itself.
I stopped beside him, eyes landing on the painting he was analyzing. It was abstract, wild
with motion. Crimson slashed across the canvas, tangled with violent blues and fractured
gold. The brushwork oscillated between jagged bursts and smooth sweeps, an unsettling mix
of control and chaos.
I spoke, keeping my voice soft and level. Close enough to feel intimate, just loud enough to be
heard.
“The intensity of the strokes is remarkable,” I said. “The way the colors collide feels almost
violent, yet there’s a strange harmony in the chaos.”
He didn’t respond. Not verbally. But I felt it. His attention was on me now as much as the art.
I let the silence stretch a second longer, then continued, my tone calm, analytical. “It’s as if
the artist was fighting an inner battle. Conflict and catharsis, all bleeding onto the canvas. The
jagged strokes speak of anger or defiance, but the way the hues blend reveals a deep
vulnerability… like they couldn’t commit to full destruction.”
I leaned in just slightly, examining the layers of the painting, voice dropping.
“It’s the tension that makes it work. The pull between restraint and abandon. It feels… raw.”
The silence settled again, delicate but dense.
Then I allowed a smirk to touch my lips.
“Or maybe they just threw paint at the canvas after a bad day and decided to call it art.”
That broke it. He turned toward me, finally.
His eyes met mine.
Heat flashed between us. The force of his gaze hit harder than I expected.
My breath caught, not out of fear but from the pressure of it. He was already trying to read
me.
I knew that look. He was hunting for the truth inside my performance.
I didn’t flinch.
Even when my pulse started to climb beneath my skin, I held my ground.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. The gallery around us faded. It was just him. Just
me.
Then I stepped back, breaking the moment on my terms.
I turned without hesitation and walked away, slipping into the flow of bodies beyond the
archway. My retreat was smooth.
Behind me, I felt his gaze linger, and so did the eyes of his guards.
I didn’t need to look back to know he was still watching the space I had just walked away
from.
Back in the main gallery, I finally exhaled. The encounter had gone as planned. I had said what
I needed to. Played the part.
But the crackle between us wasn’t part of the plan.
And I felt it. Still pulsing through me.
This was only the beginning. One step into a game layered with risk, manipulation, and
consequences I wasn’t sure I fully understood.
But I had just stepped onto the board.
And Axel Voss had noticed.
Excerpt from The Black Rose
(© Frances Paul – All Rights Reserved)
About the Author
Frances Paul is an author of emotionally charged, high-stakes fiction that captivates readers with its mix of psychological suspense, romance, and intricate plotting. Her work explores the fine line between love and survival, delving into themes of resilience, sacrifice, and the secrets we keep.
She is the author of Sea of Scars, a moving story of loss and redemption, and The Black Rose, a gripping psychological thriller that draws readers into a world where trust is dangerous and every choice carries lasting consequences.
With a distinctive voice and a cinematic style, Frances creates unforgettable characters and layered narratives that linger long after the final page. Her passion for storytelling comes from a lifelong fascination with the human heart and its capacity to endure even in the darkest of circumstances.
Links To The Black Rose
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