It was nearly noon when Roman called.

He was likely grabbing lunch at the office; Violette could hear the overlapping hum of voices in the background and the sharp clatter of cutlery hitting porcelain. Despite the noise surrounding him, she could distinctly hear the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. It traveled through the line, vibrating directly against her ear.

It immediately triggered a memory of the previous night—the sound of his breath ragged and forced against her skin, barely held in check. Roman’s voice was typically as steady as the man himself. That was precisely why, whenever it wavered or deepened, the effect was so devastating.

Violette’s ear grew hot, her hand tightening around the phone as she stood frozen. In the kitchen, the rhythmic, efficient thud of a knife against a cutting board snapped her back to reality.

"What are you calling for?" she asked, steadying her voice.

"Don't you want to talk to me anymore?" Roman countered.

It was a follow-up to the text message she had sent that morning. After she had replied saying she wanted to talk, he had gone silent. Violette hadn't thought much of it; Roman’s company was demanding, and a few exchanges were usually the best one could hope for.

"Are you eating?" she asked.

"I am," Roman replied.

The conversation felt stiff. "Isn't it rude to make business calls while you're eating?"

On the other end, Roman seemed to chuckle. "No one dares to tell me otherwise."

Violette’s senses sharpened. "So, you really are with people?"

The ambient noise grew louder—snatches of conversation about contract renewals, equipment upgrades, and technical jargon she barely understood.

"It’s fine," Roman said, dismissive. "Don't worry about them."

Their relationship had always been transactional, defined by clear boundaries. They never had moments of aimless, awkward chatter. So why this call? Was it really just because of her offhand comment about wanting to talk?

She had said it so casually. It hadn't meant anything.

Violette leaned back against the sofa, her gaze fixed on a tiny, unremarkable speck on the track lighting above. "Roman?"

"Hm?"

She didn't know what possessed her, but even knowing he had an audience, she murmured, "Be gentler next time. You... it hurt a little."

A loud, jarring crash echoed through the phone.

In the background, voices scrambled in alarm. "Mr. Griffin, are you alright?" "Don't move, sir—let me clean that up, let me!"

Violette heard the tension spike, then shift into a frantic scramble as the background noise faded, suggesting he had stepped away. She bit her lip, a small, triumphant smile blooming. "So nervous, are we?"

Roman coughed dryly. "My hand slipped."

"I was just—"

"You—"

They both paused, then spoke at once.

"You go first," Roman said.

"I was just joking," Violette confessed.

In truth, Violette was a vibrant person by nature. Roman had known her for more than a year and a half; he had watched her fold herself away, bit by bit, like a rose kept in a crystal vase, methodically plucking out her own thorns. Especially since the marriage, she had been so harmless—so unassuming that anyone else might have mistaken it for her natural disposition.

He had expected her to maintain this polite, distant facade forever.

Roman fought to suppress the heat rising in his chest. It wouldn't settle, so he reached up and loosened his tie. Why was Deepwater so sweltering in late December? Was there no winter in this godforsaken city? He felt an inexplicable, jagged irritability.

When she waited and heard nothing, Violette asked, "What about you? What were you going to say?"

"You want to hear it?" Roman tore the tie off completely and tossed it aside.

Why hide it? She had played her little game, after all.

Violette blinked, hearing his low voice drift through the speaker.

"I wanted to ask if you were hurt badly."

"..."

"If it’s serious, there’s an ointment in the nightstand. I’ll apply it for you when I get home."

She really should have kept her mouth shut. Violette curled her lip. "The housekeeper is calling me for lunch. Goodbye. I’m hanging up."

***

That afternoon, Violette caught up on sleep.

Roman was buried in work. With The Tour underway, he had to be on-site to monitor the data. This competition served as the final stress test for their company's VR arena system. If not for the fact that he was married—that there was a light waiting for him at home—he would have been sleeping at the office for the duration of the tournament.

Knowing he was heading to the arena, Bradley Harper dropped by, stepping away from the project team.

"God, I'm dying of boredom," Bradley said. "I'm heading to the site to get some air."

Roman didn't bother looking at him. "Do as you please."

"I heard you shattered a glass in the cafeteria today? What’s the deal? Our cafeteria is top-tier; we have world-class chefs fighting for slots every year, and you’re still not satisfied?"

Roman offered a lazy, unimpressed assessment: "You’re well-informed."

Bradley pressed on, undeterred. "So, who pissed you off?"

Roman ignored him, refusing to take the bait or give Bradley another chance to probe. Bradley felt foolish and rubbed his nose. Turning his head, he noticed the tie tossed carelessly on the sofa arm, then looked at Roman. His friend’s collar, usually meticulously fastened, was open and empty. The fabric was wrinkled, as if it had been handled—or ravaged—by someone else.

Bradley’s eyes widened, his gaze darting back and forth. So, someone really had provoked him.

With that assumption firmly in place, Bradley spent the entire ride watching Roman. Usually, Roman was either working or glued to his tablet, staring at columns of dry data. Bradley had always labeled him a workaholic with zero interest in life. But today, the machine wasn't running at full capacity.

Roman spent ten minutes of a conference call staring at a blank screen, lost in thought. Furthermore, during the thirty-minute drive, he closed his eyes and frowned deeply twice.

Bradley opened a private group chat and typed: *What’s wrong with Roman lately?*

The other betting buddies, confused, chimed in, *What do you mean, 'what’s wrong'?*

Bradley: *I don't know. Just a hunch, but he seems... agitated.*

The group exploded into a thread of over a hundred messages debating his "agitation," but with Roman sitting right beside him, Bradley didn't dare open them. Those vultures—they usually took hours to respond, but the second gossip was on the table, they sent endless voice notes.

Bradley tucked his phone away and stared out the window.

They were only one turn away from the stadium.

It was a match day, and traffic around the arena was snarled. The car rounded a corner and pulled up to the side of the plaza. Right behind them, a black business van came to a halt. The electric door slid open with a hiss.

Bradley glanced over as he stepped out of the car, and he froze.

"...Holy shit."

Roman looked up at the sound. His eyes locked onto the figure stepping out of the van—the same attire from yesterday. A baseball cap, a track jacket, and a pair of thin, long headphone wires trailing from under the brim, hanging loosely against a white t-shirt.

It was Blake Pierce.

After yesterday, even if they hadn't known each other before, they had deduced each other’s identities based on the circumstances. Besides, Roman had seen plenty of Blake's photos plastered all over the internet, and Blake had spent plenty of time dissecting the V-Oasis website to track Roman’s movements.

The two men stood in front of their respective cars, motionless, as if whoever moved first would be signaling their surrender.

The warm December breeze was replaced by a biting chill, raking across the terrazzo pavement that stretched between them like a scarred, desolate divide.

Finally, it was Blake who broke the tension.

The stadium staffer, noticing him lingering, prompted, "The match is starting soon. Is everything alright?"

"Just looking at the weather," Blake said, slowly pulling his gaze away. He stepped forward. "It's disgusting."