Blood Rose is a study in contrast — fire and fragility, bloom and burn. A single rose clings to her cheek like a wound and a crown. The shadows wrap her body like velvet dusk, but her eyes pierce through with light. She is the kind of woman who wears her pain as power.
Here, Gabrielle leans into the summer heat — the kind that scorches, not softens. This is not the girl who picks flowers, but the woman who grows through cracked ground. A fiery homage to every woman who rises uninvited and unbothered, despite the thorns
