Violette Ellis meticulously organized the athlete dossiers, preparing for the upcoming interviews. Her gaze lingered on the page dedicated to Blake Pierce.

For the past six months, his competition record had been hauntingly blank. In the life of a professional athlete, the countdown begins the moment the career starts; a six-month void was, in most eyes, unthinkable. The official narrative was that he had been in Australia for an intensive, closed-door training camp. As for the reality? Violette suspected that, ultimately, no one was truly at fault.

She set the files aside and sent the digital copy to her intern, Emma Fox. Her composure was slipping. The more she stared at his name, the more she regretted agreeing to Arthur Campbell’s request. Interviewing Blake? Any passerby on the street could see the potential for disaster. Her life had finally found its footing; she had no desire to see it descend back into chaos.

By the time she returned home that evening, the weight of the assignment still hung over her. A storm of frustration brewing, she opened WhatsApp, typing out a resignation from the interview more times than she could count, only to delete the draft each time.

Then, a ping. Arthur, as if reading her mind, struck first.

Arthur: "Your press pass is on your desk."

The elaborate list of excuses she had drafted vanished into the ether. Defeated, she slumped over her desk, burying her face in her arms, and drifted into an exhausted sleep.

In her dream, it was early May. Blake had flown into Deepwater just to see her.

When she realized the dream was a mirror of reality, her subconscious braced for the nightmare. As expected, Blake cornered her in a narrow stairwell, looking as anxious as a child whose favorite toy had been snatched away. "Is there some guy named Griffin pursuing you lately?" he demanded.

Violette was stunned. She knew his schedule was grueling; she hadn't expected him to fly across the country over a baseless rumor.

"Shouldn't you be focusing on your training right now?"

Blake’s young face was etched with gloom. "I couldn't help it. I couldn't focus on a single drill. I need to hear the truth from you."

A guy named Griffin? Violette’s mind jumped straight to Roman. He was a former interview subject—nothing more. Aside from the occasional professional courtesy, or that one time he’d driven her home after a dinner, they were strangers. Oh, wait. They had crossed paths at the studio a few days ago. He had been a guest on a talk show and asked if she had time to catch up. She hadn't even sent the reply before she ran into him in the lobby.

Roman had given her a bouquet of flowers. He claimed other audience members had gifted them to him after the show, and since he had a pollen allergy, he felt bad just tossing them. "I can't take them into the car, and you’re the only person I know at the station," he’d said, looking sheepish. "It would be a waste to throw them out. My apologies."

The flowers were exactly what Violette liked: beautiful white roses with hearts of pale champagne-yellow, wrapped in vintage English newspapers. They were sophisticated. She had laughed and accepted them with a smile. "I’d be honored."

Was that, in his mind, "pursuing" her? Violette dismissed the thought, warning her young boyfriend, "You’re reading into things. Why not just say I’m getting married to him, while you’re at it?"

Blake covered her mouth with his hand. "Don't you dare."

Her muffled protests hummed against his palm, which felt slightly calloused. Blake glared at her like a feral animal. "Just you wait. The second I’m of legal age, I’m marrying you."

She had narrowed her eyes, laughing at him with her gaze. *How old are you again, kid?*

Because of that trip to Deepwater, Blake hadn't adjusted to the time zone and hadn't competed at his peak. In professional sports, even a minor lapse in form could dictate the entire match. He was young, hot-blooded, and fueled by an impulsive, raw energy. Violette had tried her best not to interfere with his focus, and even when he’d sent messages looking for comfort, she had kept her responses brief, urging him to train.

She realized something was wrong only when he suffered a shocking defeat. She deeply regretted not having offered him more support.

That regret bled into her nightmare, spiraling into the familiar, suffocating sensation of being canceled by the public. She had once written a thesis on cyber-bullying; ironically, when she became the target, even her sharpest arguments became the very blades used to cut her down. She was forced into silence. The waves of complaint letters that flooded the station had been so vast she had eventually been moved from in-front-of-the-camera to behind-the-scenes. She had opened some of those letters. Aside from the vicious insults, strangers had even taken the time to write her funeral elegies. She had become numb to the sheer creativity of the hatred directed at her.

The dream ended with a photograph of her and Blake, her face crossed out with a violent, jagged red 'X'. The sender had pressed so hard with their pen that the paper had torn, a single word scrawled in the center: "DIE."

She woke up drenched in a cold sweat. Violette took a moment to steady her racing heart, a routine she had mastered. Once she felt composed, she moved to get a glass of water.

Turning the corner, she stopped dead. Someone was in the living room.

Roman had only just returned; he was still dressed in his sharp business attire. He stood by the kitchen island, unclasping a tourbillon watch. His dark clothes accentuated his cool, porcelain skin. He stood there, his brow furrowed with the chill of a long night, but the moment he locked eyes with her, his expression softened into his usual composure.

"Why were you sleeping out here? I was about to carry you to the bedroom."

Still reeling from the nightmare, Violette shook her head, feeling a sudden pang of guilt at the sight of her messy desk. She quickly gathered the scattered papers.

The file on Blake was buried at the very bottom.

Roman looked away. "I’ll head to the study then. I won't keep you."

Her mind was too restless to focus. Ten minutes later, she gave up and gathered the documents. As she knocked on the study door, a sudden crash of shattering glass echoed from within. She didn't wait for an invitation; she pushed the door open.

The air was heavy with the faint scent of tobacco. A window was cracked open, and a crystal ashtray lay in shards on the floor.

"Smoking again?" Violette asked softly. "Is the pressure that intense lately?"

"I'm fine. Business just gets complicated when the scale grows," Roman said, his voice pausing. "Don't come in. You might cut yourself."

He crouched down to clean the mess. The movement pulled his dress pants taut, revealing a sliver of his ankle—the bone sharp and sleek, vanishing into the fabric of his socks. He looked like an austere knight, disciplined and impossibly restrained.

When she had agreed to marry him, it hadn't just been a desire to escape her crumbling life. It was because Roman himself was a force she couldn't resist. He was capable, meticulous, and devastatingly composed—traits that were the antithesis of Blake’s volatility. For a drowning woman like her, Roman had been the solid, unshakeable fortress she needed to cling to.

While she stood there, lost in thought, Roman stood up. He had wrapped the glass shards in old newspaper, scrawling "Careful: Glass" on the paper with a marker before setting it aside.

"Finished with your files?" he asked.

For some reason, the calm, steady cadence of his voice anchored her once more. A sudden, desperate need for his embrace washed over her—a desire to be hidden away within his protection. She obeyed the impulse and opened her arms.

"Roman, hold me."