The intern arrived on time the next morning.

She was young, vibrant, and possessed the kind of wide-eyed curiosity that hadn't yet learned to mask itself. She stared at Violette Ellis for a long beat, lost in thought, before realizing she was being unprofessional. She scratched the back of her head, trying to smooth things over. "Ms. Ellis, your skin is just perfect."

Flattery is the universal currency of entry-level employees.

Violette hadn't intended to pull a power trip anyway, so she cut straight to the chase. "Did you review the materials from yesterday?"

"I did," the intern said. "I’ve practically memorized them."

"Do you have a draft of the interview questions?"

"…Uh, I have some rough notes."

That was a polite way of saying no.

Violette turned her laptop around to face her. "These are some of my past interview scripts. Use them as a reference. Researching a subject’s background is standard, but you have to add depth based on the latest developments—especially with post-match interviews. A lot of the best questions come from reacting to the live action. Study the logic behind these lines."

"I understand."

The intern squinted at the screen, deep in thought. After a moment, she asked, "So... if I draft the questions, does that mean I’m the one on camera?"

Violette nodded. "You write it, you own it. That’s how this works."

The intern looked stunned, as if she hadn't expected to be handed the reins so soon after walking through the front door. "I... I can do that?"

Violette gave her shoulder a firm pat. "Just stay as confident as you were when you said you’d 'memorized it.'"

Bolstered by the pep talk, the intern straightened her posture and hurried off. Violette watched her go and exhaled. Young people were so easy to motivate.

***

The intern’s draft was excellent.

Violette reviewed it and took it to Arthur Campbell. As she was leaving, she added nonchalantly, "Emma Fox has a solid handle on the narrative. If you don’t have any objections, I’d like to have her conduct the on-camera interview this time."

Arthur looked at her, clearly hesitant. After a long silence, he relented. "Everyone has their first time, but you’re the pro here. See that she doesn’t trip."

"Understood."

Violette finally allowed herself a sigh of relief. She tracked down Emma to deliver the news. The intern immediately reverted to the jittery, nervous wreck she’d been on day one.

"Mentor, I’m so nervous."

Over the past few days, Emma had latched onto the title "Mentor," despite Violette’s repeated requests to just use her name. Emma ignored the suggestion, repeating the title so often that Violette had eventually stopped trying to correct her.

Violette encouraged her. "What are you nervous about? Do you plan on never stepping in front of a camera again?"

"But the other interns who started when I did are still stuck fetching coffee and filing papers! They haven't even written a single paragraph of copy."

It was an unspoken rule in the industry: rookies were expected to play the role of glorified servants, catering to the veterans' every whim. Violette hated it.

She shot the girl a sharp look. "Did I hire you to be a barista?"

Emma grinned, knowing she’d landed with a good mentor. But the nerves remained. It was her first time on camera, after all; it required a certain sense of occasion.

"Mentor, let me take you to dinner tonight? Could you walk me through the details? What should I wear? Should I smile, or keep it professional? What if I miss a question? What if I stutter? Oh god, I feel like I’m going to forget the whole script!"

Violette messaged Roman Griffin to let him know she’d be out with a colleague. He replied: *Fine by me. I have a dinner meeting too.*

They went to a new Cantonese-style bistro near the station. Away from the office, Emma was much more talkative. She rattled off all her questions, and once she was satisfied with the answers, the conversation drifted into the personal.

"Mentor, are you really married?"

Violette didn’t answer with words; she simply held up her left hand to show the ring on her finger. It was a simple rose-gold band, a delicate Möbius strip.

Emma had noticed the ring at the station, but she’d assumed it was just a piece of jewelry. The gossip had been that Violette married some mega-wealthy mogul. Surely, the wife of such a man would be sporting a diamond the size of a pigeon egg, right?

Emma stared at the ring for a long time.

"Huh?"

"What's with the 'huh'?" Violette asked.

"It’s just... unexpected," Emma said. "Mentor, is this really all he bought you?"

"..."

Violette suddenly felt a strange urge to defend Roman’s reputation. She offered a bit of sagely, worldly advice: "Flashy displays aren't going to put food on the table."

"Uh... sure..."

*But cheap jewelry doesn't buy you wealth either!* Emma thought, though she kept it to herself. She couldn't help but think of the rumors that had swirled before she even joined the team.

Back then, the internet had been obsessed with the "shipping" of Violette and Blake Pierce. He was the sunny, brilliant puppy; she was the intelligent, gentle older woman. Every frame of them together was treated like a sacred image for their fan base. They’d never officially confirmed anything, but the public knew. The tension between them was palpable.

Fans would obsess over the smallest details—him glancing at her, her smiling when she turned away, a womanly charm on his backpack, identical water bottles, matching locations in their photos. It drove the internet mad. Truth be told, Emma had been one of those people. Her phone was still full of fan fiction about them.

The news of Violette’s sudden marriage to someone other than Blake had left Emma with a lingering sense of disappointment. When she’d found out she was assigned to Violette and would be covering the tennis tour, her secret thought had been: *I’m here to infiltrate the inner circle.*

Now, this cheap band on Violette's finger reignited her fighting spirit. *If it were Blake, he’d never let Violette settle for something like this!*

Emma ducked her head and pulled out her phone under the table, searching for the ring. A picture popped up, followed by the retail price. She started counting the zeros. One, two, three, four, five, six...

Right. Her fighting spirit evaporated instantly.