The idea of a honeymoon had only just occurred to her.

Violette and Roman had married in early October, and per the Griffin family’s insistence, they had held a massive, high-profile ceremony. Afterward, V-Oasis’s VR competition system had hit a critical development phase, leaving Roman swamped and unable to step away. Naturally, the honeymoon had been pushed to the back burner.

When Violette suddenly brought it up, she had two motives: to create some distance from Blake, and perhaps, to take a tentative step closer to Roman.

She didn't know why. She was playing the role of his wife to the best of her ability, yet their dynamic remained stubbornly stiff. To the outside world, they were a couple in sync, but Violette knew the truth: there was an invisible wall between them. Roman was like a flower viewed through a thick mist—perpetually out of reach.

She didn't truly understand him.

Their daily life was more like a polite business arrangement than a marriage. For instance, when she wanted to know if he had any downtime, asking him felt like negotiating with a superior.

What were other marriages like? Were they like hers? Or did they just pout and coax their way through life? Violette wasn't sure. She could only gaze at him, waiting for an answer. She rarely asked for anything, especially after the wedding, which only made her look all the more vulnerable and endearing in Roman’s eyes.

Whether it was the request itself or the woman standing before him, Roman found he couldn't refuse. Even though he knew his schedule was packed, he began to seriously calculate the possibilities.

He could hand off the project updates to Bradley; he could handle the rest remotely. As for the board meetings, economic forums, and summits? His vice president could stand in. And the high-stakes meeting with the city officials...

Roman tapped his fingers against the counter, thinking.

"It’s alright if you can’t make the time," Violette said, noticing his hesitation. She offered an understanding smile. "It was just a random thought. I haven't even decided where I’d want to go."

"You mentioned wanting to see snow," Roman replied. "It's the perfect season for it."

Wanting to see snow?

Violette blinked, confused. It was true that as a lifelong resident of Deepwater, she had always wanted to see snow, but she had never mentioned it to Roman.

How did he know that?

"You’re a local yourself," Violette said, her tone light and teasing. "Why are you buying into the stereotype that we southerners are obsessed with snow?"

Roman looked at her, his voice even and steady.

"The street interview on Christmas Eve two years ago. Have you forgotten?"

Ah, that.

As soon as he mentioned it, a memory clicked. She had been an on-location reporter that day. Because it never snowed in Deepwater, Lakeside Plaza had staged a massive, artificial snowfall. It had drawn such a crushing, unmanageable crowd that it almost triggered a stampede. They hadn’t held an event like that in the city since.

Violette couldn't remember the specifics of the interview, but she recalled saying something about how much she looked forward to seeing real snow.

That was two full years ago.

Even she, the person who had said it, had wiped the detail from her memory. How did Roman remember?

"Your memory is terrifying," Violette said, a genuine compliment slipping out.

The water in the clay pot began to boil, the lid rattling with a rhythmic *thump-thump-thump*. The kitchen grew thick with steam, shrouding the man standing by the counter in a hazy, dreamlike blur.

"You interviewed me a week before Christmas that year," Roman said, his voice smooth and measured. "I saw it on the news, so it stuck. Besides, the plaza was a disaster that day. Hard to forget."

That made sense.

The human brain instinctively filters out the mundane and clings to the erratic or the exceptional. If you stopped a dozen people on the street, many of them would likely remember that Christmas, the plaza, and the fake snow.

Roman made his decision.

"Switzerland," he asked, looking at her. "How does that sound?"

Violette was still reeling from the previous conversation. She paused, surprised to realize he was already planning the details.

He wasn't busy? He could actually find the time?

"A trip to Switzerland might be too much," she hesitated. "Things get hectic at the station toward the end of the year. Getting extended leave won't be easy."

Roman nodded. "Then we’ll stay domestic. Switzerland next time."

As he spoke, the kitchen timer began to beep.

Roman leaned down to turn off the heat, keeping his focus on her. "I’m keeping the chicken tender. Does that work for you?"

"Yes."

Violette’s voice rose on an upbeat note, answering both his questions at once.

***

The honeymoon was set.

The station approved her five days of leave without a second thought. Charles and Catherine were thrilled, and the Griffin family, satisfied that Roman had finally married, loosened their grip on him for the time being.

The only person left suffering was Bradley.

"Why do you get to go on vacation while I’m stuck here acting as your slave?"

Roman replied coldly, "Because you aren't married."

"..."

"And you don't have leave to burn."

"..."

Bradley posted his grievances in their private group chat, but his friends offered no sympathy, instead howling with laughter. One of them even went so far as to post about it on social media.

The world was small enough that by that afternoon, Blake Pierce had seen the post through a friend of a friend.

He hadn't seen Violette since that one encounter at the tournament. He knew she didn't want to see him, but he hadn't expected her to deny him even the chance to apologize. Now, she was planning to leave the city entirely just to avoid him.

To be dodged to this extent...

Blake stared down, a bitter, hollow laugh escaping him. His chest felt like it had been scoured by a freezing, barren wind. The sensation was sharper, more biting, than when he’d first heard she was married. Back then, he’d been stunned, caught in a daze, frantically scouring the V-Oasis website, desperate for any shred of evidence that it wasn't true.

But Roman was far too low-key. Aside from a few old press releases, there was nothing on the site. Not a whisper of his private life.

In the end, all Blake had found were the wedding photos shared by acquaintances. Under a sprawling wall of flowers, Violette had looked more beautiful than he had ever imagined, dressed in white, clutching a bouquet of lilies. But the man holding her hand wasn't him.

That moment had been the final nail in his coffin.

The gears of his world had ground to a halt.

Blake remembered that night. He had stormed out of the training camp in a fit of impulse, his phone ringing incessantly with his coach’s reprimands.

His head had cooled amidst the barrage of insults. He loosened his grip on his phone, but his fingers, white from the tension, refused to stop trembling.

The coach accused him of being emotionally unstable; he nodded.

The coach told him he’d never win a major international title with a hot head; he agreed.

The coach said if he walked away today, he was destined to be a loser; that was when his eyes finally burned with tears.

Finally, the coach gave him an ultimatum: back in the camp in an hour, or never come back at all.

His rationality had returned then. He apologized to the phone, then dialed a familiar number in the country. The dial tone rang and rang, but she didn't pick up. He had even tried to convince himself then that Violette was just busy, that she hadn't done it on purpose. He told himself that her marriage was just a fleeting fit of pique, and as long as he came back, they would go back to how they were.

It was just a marriage, Blake told himself. He didn't care.

He had been so confident he could take her back.

But now, having returned and witnessed the reality for himself, the solid ground beneath his feet was crumbling like sand.

Every move Violette made only stripped him of more leverage.

He finally realized, with a jarring clarity, that the trait carved into Violette’s very soul—that relentless drive to move forward—might never change for anyone.

For anyone at all, including him.