The sun was brutal today.

For an outdoor tennis match, the glare on the court side was enough to make anyone squint. Macy, the tournament staffer, didn't think much of the comment at first. But then he remembered: Blake Pierce was here as a spectator today, not a player.

He opened his mouth to ask for clarification, then thought better of it. Why overanalyze a casual remark?

He led the group toward the tunnel entrance. A few trailing footsteps caught up, merging with theirs at the stadium gate. As they drew closer, the chatter from the group behind became impossible to ignore.

"I’m telling you, the missus is a gem. She’s not just supportive of your career; she’s elegant, gentle, and kind. Remember that time you had a bit too much to drink? She came all the way out to pick you up. Incredible, man!"

The person next to the speaker didn't reply.

The talkative one kept going, "You really hit the jackpot with that marriage, Roman. You could search for years and never find another woman like her. Beautiful, poised, gentle—and she treats you like royalty—"

The gate opened. A figure flashed past Macy—Blake Pierce, moving with the speed of a storm, not once looking back. Macy watched his retreating back, a chill suddenly creeping into the air.

Behind them, Bradley Harper let out a mocking laugh. "Had enough already?"

Roman Griffin kept his eyes fixed ahead. After a long beat, he offered a single word: "Childish."

"..."

*Right, and you didn't stop him, did you?* Bradley thought. "So, how were things when you got home last night?"

"How do you think?" Roman countered.

"She interviewed the tennis pro. You mean to tell me you weren't the slightest bit jealous?"

"Not at all."

Bradley clapped his hands. "The composure of a true head of house. Classy."

Roman shot him a sidelong glance. Bradley quickly corrected himself. "My mistake! Not 'a' house—the only house!"

The banter broke the tension. A moment later, the young staffer who had helped them the day before came jogging over to lead them to the seats directly below the commentary box. "You mentioned yesterday that you wanted to compare the data collection from this angle? We’ve cleared it out for you today."

Roman signaled to his team, and within seconds, equipment was being hauled into place. They tapped into the live feed, syncing it with the main server. Bradley leaned in, handling the secondary checks and relaying info to the guys back at the office.

"Environment generated."

"Real-time data synced."

"Signal conversion complete."

"Image transmission active."

"Image processing... wait, why is it flickering?"

Roman leaned over. "Push the feed to my phone."

The project team didn't dare question the boss. With a product launch on the line, everyone held their breath, waiting for the next command. No one noticed the man who had quietly taken a seat just a few rows away.

Blake Pierce pulled off his headphones, his gaze sharpening on the court. Through the noise, he caught snippets of technical jargon—"frame rate," "module coefficients." He looked at the man in the center: Roman Griffin. He wasn't wearing his usual crisp, corporate suit; his sleeves were rolled back, revealing lean, steady forearms. He had the build of someone who trained religiously.

Roman was hunched over the equipment, his shoulders broad and steady, exuding an air of infuriating, calm confidence.

It was a look that defined "dashing."

But the moment the label "Violette’s husband" was attached to him, every admirable trait curdled into something loathsome. Blake leaned back in his seat, confirming once again that he couldn't find a single redeeming quality in the man.

He remembered his time living in Deepwater.

Back then, Violette had curated his entire wardrobe. She loved clean, monochromatic looks but occasionally insisted on a pop of color. No matter what she chose, it always felt like it had been made for him.

He remembered how he used to wrap his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on the crown of her head, rubbing against her hair like a golden retriever.

"Sister," he’d murmur. "I think I’ve started loving everything that belongs to you."

"Hm?"

"I love you, so I love your taste, too. In my eyes, everything you pick is perfect."

"And which part is the best?"

She had been talking about his clothes, but he’d purposefully misinterpreted it, pressing kisses to her ear. "The best part is definitely the eye you have for picking a husband."

A piercing whistle from the court cut through the memory.

Blake’s eyelid twitched. *I’d like to take that statement back,* he thought. Violette was perfect in every way—except for her taste in men.

He threw his head back against the seat. The afternoon sun hit him dead-on, forcing him to squint. Through the shimmering halo of light, the man still tinkering with his gear came into view.

*Like a ghost that won’t fade away.*

Blake pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

The roar of the crowd grew louder, masking the world around him. When he opened his eyes again, the team next to him had settled into a steady rhythm. Bradley, seeing that the real-time VR feed was stable, finally exhaled. He grabbed a bottle of water and tossed it toward his side, then handed one to Roman.

Roman took it, unscrewed the cap, and paused. He handed the bottle to the busy staffer instead, then began passing out water to the rest of the team.

The employees, who rarely interacted with the big boss, had been sweating bullets over the tech glitch. They hadn't expected him to be so composed, much less to be the one handing out water. A chorus of nervous, grateful "thank yous" rippled through the small group.

Roman, never one for small talk, offered a curt "don't mention it" and returned to his seat.

It was the second day of the tournament. Even though he knew Violette was off-duty and at home, his habit drew his gaze to the press box.

And there he was. Again.

Twice in two days. And sitting right by the media section, no less—a top-tier athlete watching a match that didn't involve his own bracket.

His intentions were as clear as day.

Roman’s eyes turned cold. The man on the receiving end was young and hot-headed, staring right back with none of the groveling deference expected of a man in his position.

They were only three or four rows apart. They didn't even need to raise their voices to be heard.

Roman turned his gaze back to the court, then pulled out his phone. He’d made this call at noon, but his fingers moved with practiced familiarity. As he waited for the ringtone to fade, he checked his watch.

Just past three. He wouldn't be waking her up.

The line clicked open. Violette didn't speak for a few seconds, only the sound of her heavy, tired breathing coming through the receiver.

Roman’s voice softened instantly.

"Sleeping?"

"...Mm."

"You'll get a headache if you sleep too long."

"But I'm so sleepy," Violette murmured, her voice sluggish. "You didn't keep your promise yesterday."

She was blaming him. She must have been half-dreaming to be so brazen, to push all the responsibility onto him like that. If she were fully awake, she would have dodged a topic like that with practiced professional distance.

The irritation from being near the court vanished. Roman didn't know his mood could swing this wildly in such a short time. He didn't show it on his face, but his tense spine finally slumped, relaxing against the seat.

"My apologies. My fault. If you're tired, keep sleeping. I’ll try to get home early tonight. What do you want to eat? Should I cook, or do you want to go out?"

Violette, still half-asleep, mumbled a non-committal, "Whatever."

"Then wait for me."

They say a gentleman shouldn't be found in the kitchen, but Roman wasn't some helpless amateur. Since they’d married, he’d cooked often, slowly weaning her off her haphazard eating habits. Work had been hectic lately, so it had been a while.

Violette suddenly found herself craving his cooking.

"...Can I order?"

"Of course," Roman said, his tone smooth and coaxing. "It's you. You can have anything you want."

"Then—"

"Coconut chicken, sweet and sour pork, steamed sea bass, and a side of sautéed greens. Right?"

There was a reason they called Roman a master of the domestic arts. Before she could even ask, he’d listed exactly what she loved, exactly what she’d been craving. Violette nodded like a bobblehead, her attention entirely consumed by the menu. She didn't notice a thing—not the oddity of the call, not the fact that he’d called her twice in one day, or the significance of these "trivial" things.

The call ended. Roman stood up.

His gaze swept over the spectator section with cold indifference. He saw it—the way the man in the seats had bitten his thin lips until his knuckles turned white. He didn't engage this time. The man looked like a broken branch, his soul drained, his eyes hollowly fixed on the court.

Roman walked past him, hands deep in his pockets.

He’d dropped enough hints. Looks like the kid had finally figured out who was on the other end of that phone call.