Violette Ellis was never one to meddle in affairs that didn't concern her.

Besides, she understood the nature of Roman Griffin’s work. Since founding V-Oasis, Roman had quickly carved out a niche among the tech giants. In recent years, V-Oasis had focused on real-time 3D VR generation, overcoming technical hurdles that now allowed them to apply the technology to large-scale events like concerts and sporting matches.

Six months ago, the tickets for their pilot online opening ceremony had sold out in seconds, achieving a level of immersion that truly felt like standing in the front row of a stadium.

Because of this, the line of companies desperate to partner with V-Oasis stretched around the block. Even though Roman detested the typical corporate schmoozing, some meetings were simply unavoidable.

Violette didn’t press for details. She simply smoothed out the lapels of his coat and hung it back up.

The car glided out of the parking structure.

A news bulletin was playing on the radio. Given her professional background, Roman always kept the station on news or talk radio whenever they were in the car. The segment shifted to sports, and the host’s playful voice crackled through the speakers. "Speed and precision are no longer the exclusive domain of Western athletes. Over the last few years, we’ve seen plenty of domestic prodigies rising to the top."

"Indeed. Look at swimming, track, skiing..."

"And even in sports dominated by Western mainstream, our own are making headlines."

"Are you referring to equestrianism and tennis? Speaking of tennis, does anyone remember the kid who snatched the ATP Newcomer of the Year award at seventeen? He rose through the ranks faster than anyone, clawing his way into the Top 50 and the tournament semifinals within a single year. He was on a trajectory for greatness before he suddenly vanished from the circuit..."

Blake Pierce.

The moment the name surfaced, Roman’s phone rang. He was behind the wheel, so he gestured for Violette to take the call.

Violette picked up the phone, swiping to answer while silently calculating whether Roman had heard the broadcast. She didn't hesitate; she reached over and turned the volume knob all the way to zero.

It was one of Roman’s associates on the other end.

"Oh, hey, Mrs. Griffin."

"Hello," Violette replied, her voice smooth and measured.

"Sorry to bother you, but could you let Roman know he left his wallet at The Azure Club?"

Violette had been to The Azure Club before; she knew it was where Roman retreated to unwind with his inner circle—the kind of place he never took business contacts. She knew the men he spent his time with; they were sycophants who followed his lead in everything. If Roman didn't smoke, they certainly wouldn't pressure him to.

So, when Roman came home smelling of tobacco, she knew it wasn't because of an "unavoidable business meeting."

She didn't call him out on it.

Back home, she retreated to the kitchen to stir a glass of honey water for him.

Roman looked surprised.

She met his gaze, opened her arms, and wrapped them loosely around his waist. "They say a little something sweet helps when you're in a bad mood, don't they?"

He had heard the name Blake Pierce twice in one night. The agitation that had been fraying his composure suddenly felt cocooned by her warmth. Roman pulled her flush against his chest. "I'm not in a bad mood."

Violette tilted her head back, her eyes locked onto his. "A news anchor’s eyes are trained to notice everything, you know."

"It... it was just work stuff," he muttered, his voice strained.

"How about this, then?"

She stood on her tiptoes, pressing her lips against his jawline before inching closer to his mouth. "Does this make it better?"

He had once told her that a healthy, intimate relationship was the fastest way to navigate through a crisis. She had remembered his words, and now, she was clumsily trying to put them into practice.

Roman looked down at her.

The restless energy he’d been suppressing all evening suddenly flared to life. He gripped her wrists and pinned her back against the kitchen island.

"A good night's sleep is the only thing that will make it better."

***

By 6:00 AM, Roman was already up for his run. The apartment complex hugged the edge of a private lake, and he finished two full laps. The lean, defined muscles of his frame were flushed from the exertion, beads of sweat rolling down his throat and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

He hadn't been fully spent the night before, choosing to be considerate of Violette’s exhaustion. But after a morning sprint, he finally felt the tension bleed out of his system.

When he stepped inside, Violette was just waking up.

She sat at the dining table, nursing a glass of warm water, her posture loose and languid—the look of a woman who had been well-tended to. "Out for a run again?"

"Yeah."

As Roman walked past, he leaned down, brushing his lips against hers in a brief, clean kiss. "I’m going to shower."

He was a man of meticulous habits. Perhaps he didn't want to soil her with the salt of his sweat, so the kiss was shallow, fleeting. Before founding V-Oasis, he had been raised as the heir to a top-tier dynasty. He was always composed, always in control—even when it came to his sudden role as a husband, a part he played with terrifying excellence.

Most importantly, Roman respected her boundaries, Violette thought. She’d told him once that she didn't like the smell of sweat, and he had never made that mistake twice.

In truth, she didn't mind a man working up a sweat—provided he was someone as refined as Roman. He never allowed himself to look disheveled. Even the clothes in his closet held a subtle, crisp scent, and even after an intense workout, he remained a man who wouldn't dream of being repulsive.

She hated the other kind—the ones who couldn't keep their hands off you, who leaned in way too close, reeking of arrogance and bad cologne while they droned on about things they didn't understand.

There was a world of difference between the two.

As she finished her water, she began to check her notifications. The anchor who had been on shift last night sent a thank-you note, the station manager had pushed out the new weekly schedule, and her assistant had submitted the proofs for the upcoming segment.

Buried in the flood of work messages was a private text from Chloe.

"Did you hear?" Chloe wrote. "Blake Pierce is back. He’s finished his hiatus and is returning to the tour."