The tournament staff had been waiting at the entrance long before the V-Oasis team arrived. The young girl, Macy, led the way, her ponytail bouncing with every step; her eyes couldn’t help but drift toward the man at the front of the group.

He was undeniably different from everyone else in the bustling arena. He possessed a commanding presence that few could replicate, and a face that could withstand the harshest scrutiny. Macy had greeted her fair share of VIPs, but this man was, by far, the most captivating.

As she walked, she rattled off the facility’s amenities, pointing out the designated VIP zones as instructed by the organizers. The group wove through the crowded venue. As they neared the inner concourse, Macy stopped and gestured to a set of prime, unoccupied seats.

"These are reserved for you. Management insisted on making sure you had a perfect view," she said.

The seats were ideal, providing a dead-center view of the court. Under normal circumstances, Bradley would have nudged Roman to take them without a second thought. Today, however, he didn’t dare overstep, merely watching Roman with a cautious eye.

Roman didn't seem particularly bothered, his chin lifting almost imperceptibly. "Sit."

No sooner had they settled than a roar erupted from the stands. People began filtering out of the adjacent tunnel. The last one to emerge was a young man in professional gear, a baseball cap pulled low, shading most of his face. Only a sharp, angular jaw and a body defined by lean, corded muscle were visible.

The moment he appeared, the arena erupted in whistles.

Fearing the guests might be out of the loop, Macy leaned in. "That’s Blake Pierce. He’s a former champion with a massive fan base. I’d bet half the people here today only came to see him."

Bradley offered a stiff, awkward grin. "Oh, really? Is that right?"

Whether he sensed the intensity of the gazes directed at him from the crowd or just felt a sudden compulsion, Blake suddenly looked up.

"Oh! He looked this way!" Macy squealed.

With the cap tilted back, his face finally came into full view. Roman wasn't a stranger to that face; it popped up on the news and social media often enough. Roman had never cared for the man, mostly due to those lazy, womanizing eyes. Their gazes locked for a split second, but Roman’s expression remained as cold and static as a frozen lake.

The contact broke as quickly as it had begun.

Roman lost interest, his gaze drifting back to the court. He crossed his long legs, listening distractedly to the chatter around him.

"He hasn't played a tournament in over six months. Rumor has it he’s been training in isolation in Australia. Everyone expected him to aim for a higher-profile international event for his return, so seeing him at The Tour’s Deepwater stop is a real surprise. But look at that turnout—he really does draw a crowd," Macy continued, still buzzing with excitement.

"Right," Bradley muttered, his smile becoming increasingly strained.

"The match wasn't supposed to get much attention, but since Blake announced he was playing, even the TV stations sent a full crew," Macy noted.

"Oh? Where are they?" Bradley asked.

"The broadcast and press sections are on the opposite side. You’re welcome to walk over if you’re interested later."

Bradley took the bait. "Who did Deepwater News send?"

"I'm not sure... I could ask for you, though."

"No, no need. Just curious," Bradley waved her off.

Roman kept his eyes fixed forward, his right hand resting habitually over the wedding band on his left ring finger. He watched the young man on the court with the detachment of a stranger. Blake had pulled off his cap and was bending down to organize his gear, checking his rackets and adjusting his wristbands. Throughout the entire process, Blake kept his eyes downcast, as if he were oblivious to the roaring crowd, locked away in his own world.

"He’s incredibly focused when he plays," Macy said with a smile. "This is going to be a great match."

She was right. The match was spectacular, though it was a one-sided dismantling by Blake. Macy started out enthusiastic, but as she noticed the lack of engagement from the men next to her, her chatter faded into silence. They clearly weren't tennis fans. They wouldn’t notice the detail that had everyone else in a frenzy: Blake had returned, but he’d completely overhauled his technique, switching from a right-handed serve to a left-handed, two-handed backhand. He wasn't a natural lefty.

Across the arena, the press section was abuzz with the same discovery.

Emma was scribbling furiously, frantically re-editing her interview questions. When she looked up, she caught a glimpse of Violette.

"Boss!" Emma shouted.

The ambient noise in the press section died down as Violette approached. She greeted a few fellow reporters and ducked through the seating. "What’s wrong?"

Emma’s face was pale. "Boss, can you look at my draft?"

Violette took the script, but before she could finish reading, Emma clutched her lower abdomen, grimacing. "Boss, I'm so nervous."

"You’ve got the notes memorized. What’s there to be nervous about?"

"It’s not my head, it’s my stomach," Emma whimpered. "I think I have food poisoning."

Violette frowned. "Is it bad?"

"I’m just... holding it in," Emma gasped, looking like she might pass away on the spot.

"Holding it in" lasted exactly three minutes. After that, Emma was sprinting between the press box and the restroom. While Emma was busy making back-and-forth trips, Violette snatched the wrinkled notes and began speed-reading.

The outcome was inevitable. A few minutes later, Emma clasped her hands together, looking at Violette as if she were a savior. "Boss, I’ll be better next time! I owe you my life!"

Violette had already anticipated this. She pulled out a mirror, touched up her lipstick, and faced the camera. Her heart was racing, but her expression remained cool. "Save the dramatics. Just buy me a coffee later."

She took a deep breath and headed toward the interview zone.

The interview prep was already underway. Through the dozens of reporters, Violette spotted a familiar face. He looked a bit more tanned than she remembered, his frame thicker, more muscular. He was drenched in sweat from the match, his muscles pulsing with every breath. He was listening to a question from the press, a faint, barely visible smirk on his lips, his eyes sharp and clear.

Violette remembered the first time she’d met Blake. It had been at a similar event. He’d just won a qualifier, his young face full of arrogance and fire. She had stared for a second too long, and he’d met her look with a genuine, lopsided grin.

After that interview, he had caught up with her in the hallway.

"Excuse me, are you Miss Ellis from the news station?"

Violette had stopped, turning back in surprise.

"You dropped your press pass," he said, holding the plastic card between his fingers. "Even a reporter can be this careless?"

Violette thanked him and took the pass.

The young man had leaned in, one hand in his pocket, towering over her. "So, reporter, what did you think of my game today?"

He had stayed quiet, his black-and-white eyes fixed on her. It was strange—in that moment, she felt like she was looking at a puppy waiting for its owner’s praise.

"Very impressive," she’d told him.

He had smiled then, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I thought so, too."

All that time had passed in the blink of an eye. Violette let out a long breath and kept walking.

On the massive stadium screen, the live interview feed flickered to life. From the perspective of the audience, there was a split second where Blake’s gaze froze. He paused, blinked, and then reached up to wipe his damp hair with a towel. He stared at a point in the empty air—or someone—and flashed a smile. It was subtle, but it was enough to let everyone watching know that he wasn't looking at the crowd. He was looking at someone special.

"Why the hell is he acting like a love-struck fool?" Bradley whispered in Roman’s ear.

Roman’s brow furrowed.

A second later, he saw Violette on the screen.