Violette Ellis ended up footing the bill.

Emma Fox had tried to contest it, but one glance at her meager intern paycheck—followed by a mental tally of the ring Violette wore, which cost more than Emma would earn in a lifetime—made her rethink her priorities.

"So much for the 'gentle mentor and the sunshine intern' dynamic," Emma muttered to herself, abandoning the fantasy. "I think the 'domineering CEO and his wife' trope is far more accurate."

She was still busy grumbling when she looked up and froze. Parked by the curb was a black Bentley. Its sleek lines and aggressive, high-end engineering made it look like a predator idling in the wild. You’d go miles out of your way just to avoid accidentally brushing against its pristine paint.

She was just about to ask Violette about it when she saw the woman heading straight for the car.

The back door swung open, and a tall man stepped out. A three-piece bespoke suit clung to his frame, the kind of tailoring that made a standard office ensemble look like a costume. A platinum chain glinted from beneath his Windsor knot, catching the light with a cold, metallic sharpness.

In this mundane city street, he looked like a glitch in the simulation. He leaned casually against the Bentley, radiating an aura of effortless authority that silenced the chaos of the sidewalk.

As Violette approached, he stepped aside, bowing his head slightly as he listened to her speak.

A moment later, his gaze shifted toward Emma.

Her scalp tingled. The boss? Here?

Emma stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed, until the two of them walked over to her. The man’s features were handsome and refined, but he possessed a chilling, untouchable distance. He stopped a respectful arm's length away and gave her a curt, polite nod.

His opening line was calm, yet all Emma heard were the words: "Thank you for looking after her."

*Her?* Who, exactly, was looking after whom?

It took a second for it to click. It was the exclusive privilege of a partner—that possessive, subtle flex of, "Nice to meet you, thanks for making sure my wife doesn't overwork herself."

"N-no, no, no," Emma stammered. "It's the other way around. Violette is the one taking care of me."

"Violette?"

The man savored the name, his voice dropping an octave. As he spoke, his eyes softened—a transformation he clearly saved only for her.

Violette, oblivious to the shift in his tone, countered dryly, "You’re allowed to manage an entire empire, but I’m not allowed to have an intern?"

"Of course you are."

He smiled, his hand twitching toward her hair. He stopped midway, remembering the audience, and tucked his hand into his pocket with a smooth, practiced motion.

Emma had reached her limit for public displays of affection. She bowed sharply, nearly snapping at the waist. "I’m going to head out now! See you tomorrow, Violette! Goodbye, sir!"

Inside the car.

Roman Griffin was still ruminating on his new, unsolicited title. Violette turned to look at his sharp, thoughtful profile.

"Are you going to hold a grudge?" she asked.

Roman maintained a straight face. "About what?"

"For making you sound old?"

There was a long silence before Roman finally shook his head. "I suppose I’m not exactly young."

Not young? Violette blinked.

He was in his early thirties and holding a position that most people wouldn't reach until they were gray-haired and surrounded by grandchildren. Who was he even comparing himself to?

She leaned in, examining him with genuine curiosity, and asked in a deadpan tone, "Are you having a mid-life crisis already?"

Roman’s eyes narrowed. The playful mockery in her voice was not lost on him. "Hmm?"

Violette threw her hands up. "I didn't mean anything by it."

Roman pressed a button on the console, and the partition between the front and back seats glided upward with a soft hiss. He spoke with agonizing slowness. "Since you brought it up, I can only assume you’re dissatisfied. Does this mean I haven’t been working hard enough?"

"Wait, don't—"

"What are you thinking?" Roman laughed, reaching out. "You’ve got a button loose."

When they arrived home, Violette climbed out of the car, her face flushed a deep, embarrassed red. Roman followed close behind, his suit jacket slung over one arm.

Halfway to the house, Violette stopped dead in her tracks.

"Is the soundproofing in your car actually any good?"

Roman thought back to the last time she’d changed clothes in the back seat. After that incident, he’d sent the car back to the manufacturer specifically to upgrade the partition.

He decided to play along. "What if it isn't?"

Violette held her breath. Inside that car, he had claimed her button was "loose," yet when she looked down, her silk blouse was fastened perfectly. It was only under his relentless, teasing touch that the buttons had actually given way. His firm, nimble fingers had left her breathless.

Seeing the flicker of irritation in her eyes, Roman caught her hand. "The soundproofing is excellent. I was lying."

"Jerk," she whispered.

The price for his teasing was that Roman spent the night barred from the master bedroom.

He turned the knob, but the door was locked tight. He tried again. From inside, a muffled, annoyed voice called out: "The soundproofing works too well! You're keeping me awake!"

Roman chuckled, leaning his weight against the door. "What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?"

Silence. Then, she couldn't help herself. "Dim sum. Rice rolls."

He hummed, switching to a local dialect, his voice dropping into a playful, regional lilt. "How about some siu mai?"

"I'm on a diet! No!"

The next morning, the table was loaded—not just with rice rolls, but with siu mai and shrimp dumplings.

Violette couldn't help but slide a siu mai onto her plate. Roman acted as if she hadn't said a word about dieting, casually sliding the steamer basket directly in front of her.

Violette tried to maintain her composure. "Did you sleep well?"

Roman frowned. "No."

"Why not?"

His heavy gaze locked onto hers. He didn't say a word, but Violette knew exactly why. She bit her lip, purposefully teasing, "Well, I slept perfectly."

It was the truth. She had expected to be kept awake by the stress of the day’s work, thoughts of the upcoming broadcast swirling in her head like they had before her first on-camera appearance. But after Roman’s distraction last night, she had fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

Now, as she chewed on the dumpling, the fragmented anxieties of the day began to creep back in. Should she tell him she was heading to the stadium? Would he overthink it? Was he even the type to get jealous?

Violette set her chopsticks down, sighing. They weren't even at the stage where jealousy was a factor. Telling him would just make it seem like a big deal.

Roman glanced over. "What’s on your mind?"

"Nothing," she lied, shaking her head. "Don't bother driving me later. I have a location shoot; I won't be heading to the station first."

"Understood," Roman replied.

They parted ways after leaving the house. Roman watched her white Mercedes disappear down the ramp before signaling his driver to pull out.

Bradley Harper climbed into the car halfway through the commute. His motivation for tagging along had shifted from a genuine desire to hang out to a morbid curiosity—he couldn't pass up the chance to witness the train wreck that would be Roman running into Blake Pierce.

The moment Bradley stepped in, Roman knew he was up to no good.

"So," Bradley chirped, unable to help himself. "Does the wife know you're heading to the stadium to 'collect data'?"

Roman didn't bother to dignify that with a response.

"Does she know that *he's* back in town?"

Roman shot him a look that could kill, and Bradley immediately sat up straight.

Ten seconds of silence ticked by.

"Look, man," Bradley said quietly. "You know how it is. There are so many network crews at the tournament, it’s only a matter of time before she finds out. But don't worry, she's mostly doing logistics work lately. She probably won't even be near the courts."

If he hadn't said anything, it would have been fine. But as soon as the words left his mouth, Roman remembered Violette saying, *I won't be heading to the station today.*

He twisted the wedding band on his finger, his expression darkening. "What other major events are happening in the city today?"

"Tons!" Bradley rattled off. "The Tour is opening, the Young Entrepreneurs' Summit is on, there's a ribbon-cutting for that new CBD high-rise, and they're breaking ground on the old district renovations. As for the news cycle—there’s a gas leak in a local shop, some professor got food poisoning from wild mushrooms, and a delivery guy saved someone from the river. I’m a big fan of the news, you know."

Bradley patted his chest. "The station heads aren't idiots. With all that going on, they aren't going to waste her time at a tennis court. You can rest easy!"