"Are You Scared I’ll Run Into Him?"

Roman Griffin finished signing a stack of documents, finally letting his restless heart settle. He glanced up at the man still lounging on his office sofa.

"Is there something else?"

"You’re heading out to the project site with the lead team next week, right? How about I take that off your plate?"

Bradley Harper wasn’t just a drinking buddy; he held a stake in V-Oasis. Like Roman, he had a sharp grasp of the technical side of their business. Roman always prioritized core technology, insisting on overseeing the raw data collection himself. When he couldn't clone himself, Bradley was the only one he trusted to step in.

"I’m wide open next week," Bradley added, leaning back. "Nothing but time on my hands."

If not for what happened yesterday, Roman wouldn’t have thought twice about the request.

But now...

"Are you scared I’ll run into Blake Pierce?" Roman asked, his voice steady and cool.

Silence hung in the room.

V-Oasis’s biggest current project was the VR integration for live sports. The selling point was immersion—giving the audience a front-row seat to the action without them having to leave their living rooms. It was a gold mine for introverts and homebodies alike.

Their real-time online concert streams had been a massive success, but sports were different. Capturing high-speed, multi-directional motion for a tournament like The Tour required a much higher frame rate than a singer standing on a stage.

Roman had been attending every match himself. After dozens of trials, he had a clear vision for the next round of adjustments.

At a moment like this, he wasn't about to hand the reins to anyone else. Besides, what was Blake Pierce to him? These days, the name mentioned alongside Violette Ellis’s was Roman Griffin.

Seeing Roman’s unshakable resolve, Bradley let it drop.

It occurred to him that even though they’d only been married for a few months, Roman had been trying to move in on Violette for the better part of three years. A thousand days of relentless focus—if that wasn't a match made in heaven, Bradley didn't know what was.

He remembered the first time he saw Violette. She’d been at V-Oasis for an interview, and the subject was none other than the man every major network was fighting to book: Roman Griffin.

Violette had worn a beige turtleneck and a camel-colored coat, looking effortlessly poised. She sat across from Roman, her legs crossed at the knee, posture as elegant as a marble statue from a museum. It was impossible for any man not to stare.

Roman, on the other hand, had remained utterly unmoved, his expression so detached it was almost insulting.

If only Bradley hadn't caught him staring at her long after she left the room.

"What are you looking at?" Bradley had asked back then.

"I’m bringing you back to reality," Bradley had laughed. "You don't know who she is?"

"Should I?"

"The goddess of the broadcast world! She has more male fans than followers on social media. My first time seeing her in person, and I’ve got to say—she’s stunning." Bradley paused, then added a warning, "She has a boyfriend, though."

Roman had just leaned back in his chair and laughed. "And what does that have to do with me?"

If Bradley had known they would eventually get married, he would have realized that "what does that have to do with me" wasn't a dismissal. It was a statement of intent—Roman simply didn't care whose territory she was currently in.

Bradley cursed his own poor reading comprehension.

"My mistake," Bradley said, finally breaking the silence. "If anyone’s the victim here, it’s Blake Pierce when he runs into you."

***

Blake Pierce.

The name had been looping through Violette’s head all morning.

She was so distracted that she nearly clipped the rear door of her car while pulling into the parking garage. She got out to inspect the damage, saw it was minor, and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

She killed the engine, turned off the headlights, and reached for her phone. Before she could stop herself, the search results had already pulled up a string of news regarding Blake.

Eight months ago, he was at his peak, fresh off his first tournament win. Then, he’d crashed, exiting the quarterfinals of an open tournament in a massive upset. The official statement blamed a leg injury, which had his fans calling it a tragedy. But eagle-eyed observers noted he’d taken a short, secret flight to Deepwater just days before the loss.

The schedule between the two matches was tight, and Blake wasn't from Deepwater. Why had he come? After that trip, his form had spiraled, followed immediately by the injury.

Internet detectives had done the math, and the conclusion was unanimous: they laid the blame entirely on the woman rumored to be his girlfriend at the time—Violette Ellis.

Reading those old comments, Violette could still feel the cold, suffocating sensation of drowning in ice water. Even after all this time, and despite Roman’s efforts to bury the past, those words still surfaced: "Jinx," "Doesn't deserve to be with Blake," "Why doesn't she just disappear?"

She slammed the browser shut and tossed her phone onto the passenger seat.

She didn't arrive at the studio until well past lunch. In the hallway, Marilyn Stone, who had been pale and sickly just yesterday, cornered her.

"Thank you so much for last night. If you hadn't stepped in to cover for me, I would’ve been a disaster."

Violette gave a faint smile. "Feeling better?"

"Still a bit drained, but I can handle the pre-recorded segments."

"That’s good."

Violette tried to slip away, but Marilyn caught her arm. "Are you really not planning on going back in front of the camera? The station is desperate, and the new recruits can’t carry the load yet. Look at last night—what would we have done without you?"

Local news wasn't like national broadcasting. The daily cycle was limited, and between Marilyn, Violette, and two male anchors, the 8:00 PM news block was well-covered. People used to joke that the two women were rivals for the top spot, but since Violette had stepped into the background, the title of "Channel Queen" had naturally defaulted to Marilyn.

They weren't close, but their professional rivalry was never vicious.

"I didn't run away yesterday, did I? I filled in," Violette replied.

"I mean coming back full-time. Rotating shifts."

"Spare me," Violette joked, her tone earnest. "I’m done with the sleepless nights and the round-the-clock grinding."

Marilyn tilted her head, her gaze shifting. "Right, you’re married now. Is Roman the one holding you back?"

"No," Violette said, her voice softening involuntarily. "He wouldn't do that."

"Showing off already?" Marilyn leaned in, her eyes narrowing as she spotted a faint, crimson mark near the edge of Violette’s collar. "Tsk, you should cover that up."

Violette had checked herself before leaving the house. Roman usually had impeccable restraint, never leaving anything visible. But this morning, he’d been different—rougher, hungrier. He’d kissed her repeatedly, leaving one mark hidden beneath her clothing and another near her earlobe that she hadn't even noticed until now.

She took down her ponytail, ducked into the restroom to hide the mark with a dab of foundation, and walked back out.

She wasn't ten paces down the hall before Arthur Campbell, the station manager, flagged her down.

They ducked into a nearby conference room. Arthur didn't waste time. "What do you think about the new station rotation?"

The updated schedule had been posted to the group chat that morning, and everyone had dutifully replied "received." Violette had done the same. Having the station head pull her aside felt ominous.

"I’m fine with whatever the station decides," Violette said.

"As long as you're on board, we'll finalize it. Let me know if you run into any trouble."

The new directive involved her mentoring the interns to fill the gaps in the reporting team. The most pressing assignment was the upcoming stop of The Tour in Deepwater. They needed someone on the ground for interviews.

Her history with Blake Pierce was an open secret.

It was the reason every job involving him had been untouchable. If they weren't genuinely short-staffed, they never would have put her name on the list.

But the leadership had worded it as her supervising an intern, not personally taking the lead.

Violette identified the loophole, and for the first time all day, her heart rate finally began to steady.