There wasn't a journalist in the media zone who didn't know Violette Ellis. And those who hadn't heard the rumors about her and Blake Pierce were in the minority.

The atmosphere turned icy the moment she appeared.

The reporter currently conducting the interview forced himself to snap out of his stupor, struggling to finish his questions. Once done, he didn't even bother with peripheral glances; he turned, along with everyone else, to unabashedly stare at the legendary ex-couple who had supposedly ended in a messy wreckage.

In a standard situation, the local station would have priority for interviews during tournaments held in Deepwater. Because the reporter had been swapped at the last minute, Violette was a few minutes behind schedule.

As she approached, the other media members fell silent, instinctively parting to clear a path. Violette offered a polite, apologetic nod, her rose-gold ring catching the harsh stadium light with a cold, metallic glint.

Blake’s gaze locked onto her finger.

His heart skipped a beat, and he remained frozen until Violette’s voice finally cut through the silence.

"First of all, congratulations on an easy win. After a six-month hiatus, your performance today was nothing short of brilliant. Looking back at the match, what was the moment that stood out the most to you?"

Violette remained uncannily composed, as if completely oblivious to the hundreds of eyes fixed on her. Her tone was clinical—so objective that it sounded like she was interviewing a complete stranger.

The spectators' thrill of the gossip was quickly replaced by something else: genuine surprise.

A fellow journalist nearby wiped the sweat from his forehead. That right there—that was pure professionalism.

After a brief, jarring pause, Blake found his voice.

"No matter how many times I play, the most profound moment is always the victory itself."

"We noticed a change in your form today—you’ve shifted to left-handed play. Is this a result of your recent specialized training?"

"The left hand offers a technical advantage. I don't believe in making excuses. I’m the type of person who corrects a weakness the moment I identify it. I was wrong, so I changed."

Violette tightened her grip on the microphone, unwilling to engage with the subtext. "After your last match, the official statement mentioned a leg injury. Do you feel this injury will impact your upcoming matches?"

"That was a minor issue," Blake said, his eyes never leaving her face. "It wasn't even an injury, really. Just media speculation blown out of proportion."

"Your training seems to have paid off. Given the number of tournaments you could have chosen, why select The Tour for your comeback?"

Blake stared directly into her eyes. "Because I like to get back up exactly where I fell."

If her memory served her right, the match where Blake had faced his major defeat half a year ago wasn't even at The Tour. It was hard not to read between the lines.

Defeat?

A loss on the court was one thing. A loss in life was another.

Within minutes, the live stream was blowing up. Then, her phone buzzed—Arthur Campbell, the station chief.

"Why wasn't Emma Fox there?"

Violette explained with a weary sigh, "It was her first time in the field; she was too nervous. She ended up with an upset stomach. Like you said, I'm the veteran—I had to cover for her."

There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"You've had a rough day."

Violette offered a dry smile. "How about a bonus for the trouble?"

Seeing Blake again after their breakup hadn't been as devastating as she’d feared. Violette realized that if she had known she’d be in the headspace to crack jokes, she wouldn't have spent the last few days spiraling into a pit of anxiety.

As she hung up and turned around, she spotted a man in a sharp suit standing at the end of the corridor. He was waiting for someone, his gaze dark and unreadable as he watched her.

The smile on her face stiffened. She instinctively stood up straighter.

The man seemed to sense her reaction; he began walking toward her with long, purposeful strides.

"I’ll get back to you with the report later, I have things to handle," Violette said into the phone.

"You’re getting bolder by the day," the Station Chief grumbled.

She ended the call, thinking that she wasn't getting bolder—her life was just becoming a series of widening cracks. She exhaled silently and braced herself, walking a few steps to meet him.

"What are you doing here?"

Roman Griffin took her heavy equipment bag from her, his expression unreadable. "Gathering data. You were here for the interviews?"

"Yes."

"Are you finished?" he asked gently.

He had been at the arena, so he had to have known who was on the court today. Had he missed the media zone? Or did he know, and simply chose not to mention it?

Violette pondered this. "Just wrapped up."

Roman glanced at his watch. "I’m finished as well. Lunch?"

Violette hesitated, then nodded.

They walked through the corridor, one after the other. Violette lagged behind a few steps, firing off messages to her colleagues. She kept her ears tuned to his footsteps; no matter how slowly she walked, Roman maintained a precise, measured distance. His silent back felt like a wall—a hard, impenetrable barrier.

She realized she had never truly seen behind Roman’s mask. He was always elegant, always composed.

What was he like underneath?

Was he rigid or yielding? Warm or indifferent? Or was he truly a gentleman, the same through and through?

While she was lost in thought, the footsteps in front of her stopped. Violette, caught off guard, nearly collided with him. She reflexively grabbed his arm to steady herself, and Roman instantly flipped his hand, locking his fingers firmly over hers.

He tightened his grip, with no intention of letting go.

"We’re still in public," she whispered.

They weren't hiding their marriage, but they had never been this intimate in public. Their arrangement had been a matter of convenience from day one. She needed to escape her crumbling past, and he needed to secure a marriage before his grandfather issued an ultimatum to wed a woman he didn't love.

Violette still remembered what Roman had said when he proposed—*Let's just try it. I don't mind that your heart is with him.*

Thinking of that, surely Roman wouldn't be overly bothered by her interviewing Blake, right?

The tension in her chest began to ease, though a strange, inexplicable unease lingered. She tried to pull her hand away, but couldn't.

"Why are you resisting?" Roman asked suddenly.

Violette finally snapped back to reality. She wasn't resisting.

"I’m not resisting, it’s just here—"

Roman’s grip remained firm, his attitude uncharacteristically stubborn. "What about here?"

Before she could answer, a figure rounded the corner from the dim, backlighted end of the corridor.

Silhouetted against the light, his face was obscured. He had a sports bag slung over one shoulder, one hand shoved into his pocket, standing there with a familiar, lazy posture.

The scene was so painfully familiar that it felt like a recurring memory. Outside the station, in front of her old apartment, in the gym lounge...

Blake used to wait for her exactly like this.

Sometimes, if she kept him waiting too long, he’d purposely check his watch and call out to her, "Sis, I'm starving. Come over and give me a hug."

Violette never understood the logic of connecting hunger to a hug, but that didn't stop her from hurrying toward him every single time.

Her feet started to move on autopilot, but she was suddenly jerked backward. She collided into a chest that felt like a furnace.

The veins in Roman’s forearm stood out as he gripped her, pulling her close and staring down at the corridor.

"Where do you think you're going?"