The Azure Club: a playground where the city's elite burned through money like it was going out of style.

Everyone who frequented this place was either filthy rich or absurdly well-connected. In one of the private suites, the usual routine was simple: a few men, a deck of cards, and business deals whispered over scotch. As they played, a message pinged on their phones. In perfect synchronization, every man at the table dismissed the female companions lounging by their sides.

One of them sighed, shaking his head. "Good thing we got the heads-up. If Roman saw us like this, he’d lecture us on 'husbandly conduct' for the rest of the night."

Another laughed. "Yeah, he’s basically the president of the 'Perfect Husband' support group. Expects us all to be his star pupils."

"Don't act like you don't get it," the third guy quipped. "That’s exactly why Roman has a wife and we don’t."

At eight o'clock sharp, the wall-mounted television in the corner switched to the evening news. Someone caught a glimpse and paused.

"Wait, isn't that Roman’s wife?"

On the screen, the woman spoke with effortless elegance. She didn’t have the typical, soft-around-the-edges look of a standard news anchor; there was something sharper, more ethereal about her. To land a spot in the prime-time chair, you had to be one in a million, and she was exactly that. Every expression, every smile—it was magnetic.

"I thought she stepped back from the front line?"

"Maybe the station shifted things around? Who knows. Anchors are hard to come by; she’s probably just covering a shift."

The men continued their game, though their eyes kept drifting back to the screen.

"Speaking of which, did you guys hear?"

"Yeah, I heard."

"Something like that."

The one guy out of the loop scratched his head. "What are you all whispering about? When did you start a group chat without me?"

The three of them exchanged hesitant glances. Under the weight of his pestering, someone finally cracked. "It’s about Violette’s ex-boyfriend. Word is, he’s moving back to the country."

The words had barely left his lips when the door to the suite swung open.

The man who had been out for a drink five minutes ago stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a dark, high-neck sweater that emphasized the sharp line of his throat. His expression was ice-cold. He stepped inside, his voice clipped and freezing: "Who’s coming back?"

"Nobody, nobody. We were just gossiping."

Roman’s gaze sharpened, and the man immediately caved. "Fine. It’s… the tennis pro."

In Roman’s world, "the tennis pro" was a special designation. His friends had learned long ago to avoid the guy’s actual name, and eventually, the title became his permanent, derogatory nickname.

Roman tossed his coat onto the sofa, showing no outward reaction to the name. He sat down. "How many rounds have you played?"

"Third one is almost up. You want to watch the news? It’s your wife. I doubt you’re interested in cards right now anyway."

"Not playing today." Roman checked his watch. "I have to pick her up later."

The Azure Club was only a five-minute drive from the TV station. That was the real reason Roman was here tonight. Picking up his wife was the priority; the drinks were just a way to kill time.

The guys at the table shared a knowing, suggestive laugh, telling him not to show off in front of the single men.

Roman didn't respond. He and Violette had only been married for a few months—the "honeymoon phase," as everyone called it. When Violette worked late or overslept, he was the one making breakfast. When she wanted to browse art galleries on the weekend, he was the one tagging along, despite his usual preference for cold, hard economic data.

Looking at it that way, they were definitely still in the honeymoon phase.

His gaze returned to the television. He could hear Violette practicing the script at the breakfast table that morning. There was a segment he hadn't heard before—breaking news—but she handled it with the same cool, unflappable grace. It had been a while since he’d seen her like this: vibrant and commanding.

He reached up to adjust his tie, only to realize he was dressed casually. His hand dropped, and he felt a sudden, inexplicable itch of irritation, fueled by the gossip he’d heard at the door.

Before he knew what he was doing, he’d lit a cigarette.

The men at the table stared at the rising blue smoke, stunned. "Since when do you smoke?"

Roman pressed two fingers to his temples, his pulse thumping behind his eyes. He stubbed the cigarette out. "Just deal the cards."

At 9:45 PM, Roman left the club.

The roads were empty, and the drive took barely three minutes. He cut the engine in the parking lot and reached for his pack of cigarettes, but after a moment of hesitation, he tossed them into the glove box instead.

Violette had told him she had two segments to review; she wouldn't be out until after ten. He’d said it was fine, but found himself checking his phone every few minutes, hoping for a message.

At 10:25 PM, her notification finally popped up. She said she was finishing up but that it was too late, so he didn’t need to come. She would catch a cab.

Roman typed back: No. I’m already downstairs.

She sent a surprised emoji, then followed it up with a quick: Okay.

Ten minutes later, Violette appeared. She was walking with a group of colleagues, but under the harsh streetlights, Roman only had eyes for her. She looked a little thin in the night air, her hair falling naturally over her shoulders. She’d wiped off her makeup, making her look entirely different from the woman on screen—less aggressive, more like a spring of clear water.

Roman liked her this way, clean and unadorned. It was the same way she looked when she was sleeping beside him, or when she was struggling to catch her breath beneath him.

Perhaps even more beautiful.

He pushed the stray thoughts aside and waved her over.

Violette said a quick goodbye to her colleagues and hurried over. A few strands of hair were stuck to her face by the wind, and she impatiently tied them back into a messy ponytail.

Roman reached out, smoothing the hair at the base of her neck. "Ready to go home?"

"Yeah. Have you been waiting long?"

"Just got here," he lied, his voice warm.

They climbed into the car together. As soon as the door clicked shut, Roman frowned. He hadn't noticed while sitting in the club, but the faint, lingering scent of cigarette smoke clung to his wool coat.

Violette was sensitive to smells. She turned, eyeing him.

"Did you smoke?"

Roman let out a soft sound of acknowledgment. "Couldn't help it during the business meeting," he said, his tone unruffled.