The corridor was long and oppressive, a narrow throat that seemed to stretch through time.

Violette pressed herself into Roman’s firm, possessive embrace, finding a strange sense of grounding in his proximity. She wrapped her arms around his waist, forcing her gaze away from the far end of the hallway where the shadow of her past loomed.

"Let’s just grab a quick bite for lunch," she murmured, her voice steady. "I still have to head back to the studio to review the footage."

"Fine," Roman replied, his tone clipped but agreeable. "Whatever you want."

He held her hand with a suffocating tightness, his fingers woven firmly through hers. The closer they got to the figure waiting ahead, the louder Violette’s heart drummed against her ribs. She wanted to suggest a detour—a dozen times over—but the words died in her throat. Doing so would only make them look guilty, so she let Roman lead her forward.

Just as they were about to brush past him, a voice cut through the air.

"Excuse me, reporter."

Violette’s spine stiffened. She turned, her movements slow and deliberate.

Blake stood there, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. Aside from the raw, predatory intensity in his eyes, his tone and posture were perfectly composed. He tilted his lips into a faint, challenging smirk. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

Violette reflexively looked up at Roman. His eyes were as dark and unreadable as ever, his grip on her hand not loosening by a fraction.

"I can wait in the car if you need the time," Roman said, his voice smooth as oil.

Even though it was all happening right under Roman’s nose, Violette felt the prickle of a secret betrayal. Her heart hammered against her chest; her palms were damp. But then, she looked at Roman. His gaze was strangely, unnervingly gentle—a sharp contrast to the chaotic pulse in her veins. It reminded her of their marriage: mundane, quiet, and surprisingly consistent. She had already said her goodbyes to the past. There was nothing left to say.

Violette shook her head. "Let’s go."

To her surprise, Blake didn't try to stop them. He just leaned against the wall, his head bowed, seemingly indifferent. But the moment the hallway was empty, he slumped forward, his palm pressed hard against his chest. He didn't know why—he hadn't felt this sharp, suffocating agony when he’d heard she was married, but seeing it with his own eyes felt like a knife to the gut.

He gasped for air, his lungs burning like a dying fish on a deck.

***

Violette had intended to explain everything to Roman over lunch, but fate had other plans; a sudden crisis at V-Oasis pulled him away.

The meal was scrapped.

Back at the broadcasting station, Marilyn stopped by her desk and dropped a cup of coffee off for her—a silent gesture, sitting right next to the one Emma owed her from the morning.

"What's this?" Violette asked, bemused. "Need a favor?"

Marilyn just patted her shoulder, her expression unreadable.

Violette sensed the shift in the air. During the lunch break, with the office largely empty, she pulled out her phone. The interview from The Tour that morning had already been sliced, diced, and scattered across the internet like confetti.

She had asked every question in that video herself, but the comments were a venomous sludge.

*This woman is so manipulative! She purposely brought up his leg injury. Blake is so kind—he probably didn't want the fans attacking her, so he played along on camera to downplay the injury. He’s just protecting her from the fallout. Stay away from him, you heartless witch.*

*Funny, I never heard about their history before. She only pops up to cause drama when he wins, then vanishes when he loses. What kind of fan is she? I've been with him through his lowest lows.*

*Fan? She’s a parasite. He hasn't played well since he started seeing her. Just disappear already.*

*Wait… did anyone else watch the video? It looks like Blake is the one still begging for a second chance…*

*Yeah, right. Her PR team is working overtime today. Just wait, the narrative will flip to 'Blake desperately wants her back' by tonight. (Rolling eyes).*

*Some women just don't know how to stay faithful after they're married.*

Having survived a public scandal a few months ago, Violette had developed a callous layer against the noise. She tossed her phone aside and rubbed her temples.

A few seconds later, her phone began to buzz incessantly.

She glanced at the screen, groaned, and picked up. "Hi, Mom."

"I'm at the station. We can talk tonight."

Because of Blake’s reappearance, the ripples she had worked so hard to smooth over were beginning to churn again.

When she arrived at Bauhinia Bay that night, the television in the living room was on, playing something other than the local news. Charles looked up as she walked in, peering past her. "Where's Roman?"

"Something came up at the office," Violette said.

Catherine poked her head out from the kitchen, her brow furrowed. "Is it really work, or did you two have a fight?"

"We didn't fight," Violette sighed.

Catherine clearly didn't believe her. She’d prepared a full dinner and even called Roman earlier, but he hadn't picked up, and he hadn't shown up. If that wasn't a fight, what was?

Catherine shot a look at Charles. After a long hesitation, he cleared his throat. "We saw that interview from the arena today."

Violette hummed, heading to the bathroom to wash up.

Charles was the type of father who felt ill-equipped to handle such delicate topics, but under Catherine’s stern, glass-reflected glare, he braced himself. "What’s going on with you and that boy?"

"It was an assignment from the station director. It just happened to be me."

"He has international matches to play, why would he—"

"You'll have to ask him that."

Charles frowned. "Does Roman know?"

"He was there," Violette replied.

"..."

The conversation hit a dead end.

The sliding glass door to the kitchen wasn't exactly soundproof, and the pair’s dialogue had drifted right into the kitchen. Catherine emerged with the final dish, her face set. "Let's eat."

Violette tried to lighten the mood. "Don't be so gloomy, Mom. What's the matter?"

"Gloomy?" Catherine snapped. "I'm lucky I didn't have a heart attack this morning."

"I know, I know! I have nothing to do with him anymore."

The words had barely left her lips when her phone began to vibrate on the table.

Violette hadn't received a call from Blake in ages, and he’d changed his number after leaving for Australia. When the name "Blake Pierce" lit up the screen, the look on her face was more dramatic than anything her parents could have staged.

"Nothing to do with him, huh?" Catherine said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"..."

Up until this exact second, that had been true.

The phone rang and rang, finally falling silent.

Catherine set her chopsticks down, a look of grim determination on her face. She was about to speak when her own phone began to ring. She glanced down. The name on the screen was clear as day: *Roman*.

The moment she picked up, Violette noticed her mother's expression soften significantly. She spoke gently, asking if he’d had dinner, then said, "Yes, Violette is here. Oh, you're coming to pick her up? Alright, alright, drive safely."

She was a different person entirely compared to the woman who had been lecturing her just moments before.

Violette looked down at her own phone.

Aside from the missed call from Blake, there were no new notifications. No texts.

If Roman had something to ask her, why wouldn't he just message her? Why go through the trouble of calling her mother?

It couldn't be…

Violette stared at the screen, a chilling realization dawning on her.

Was he actually jealous?