The darkness descended, sharpening every sense until they were painfully acute.

It was magnified by the way Roman insistently pressed his lips against the unremarkable mole on the side of her breast. He was no longer the gentleman in this arena, grinding against her until she was forced to gasp. He gripped her legs, pulling her flush against him, leaving no space for resistance.

"My wife."

It was the first time Roman had ever called her that.

Violette hadn't registered it at first, staring blankly at a void in the darkness. The waves within her were cresting, one after another, crashing over her with such force that she half-wondered if it was merely tinnitus ringing in her ears.

Until he said it again.

Violette felt like a small boat tossed on an open sea, rising and falling, her voice trembling. "Don't... don't call me that."

His voice was a low, resonant rumble. "Why not?"

It sounded like he was harboring some buried grudge. Why? Because it was unfamiliar, because it felt too intimate. Especially in moments like these, it made her muscles seize up in ways she couldn't control.

Suddenly, she felt weightless as Roman lifted her, her body limp against his chest. As gravity took hold, her head swam, and she couldn't keep her breathing steady. She exhaled in ragged bursts, her fingers curling tight, her nails digging into the hard muscles of his back.

It was intoxicating. A flash of white light exploded in her brain.

Roman pressed his sweat-dampened forehead against hers. "We are married, Violette. In the future, if something is bothering you, you can try telling me."

The post-coital lethargy began to set in, especially after such an intense encounter. Violette huddled against his neck, drowsy and pliable. She’d heard his words, but her brain was too sluggish to process them. She hummed a vague acknowledgment and buried her face in the crook of his shoulder, drifting off.

What was there to say? Did she have anything to share? She didn't know.

In her haze, she felt Roman carry her to the bathroom for a quick rinse. The next time she was conscious, it was the sound of a phone vibrating.

Violette hadn't changed her default ringtone, and neither had Roman. The sharp, rhythmic chiming of the iPhone Marimba cut through the room, making it impossible to tell whose device was screaming.

Violette was deep in a dream, annoyed by the intrusion. She kicked out blindly at the side of the bed. "Your phone."

Roman was a light sleeper; he’d been awake the moment the first chime sounded. But the noise was coming from Violette's nightstand, and he hesitated, debating whether he should intrude on her space. His upbringing forbade him from violating someone's private sphere, and in the modern age, nothing was more private than one’s phone.

He looked down and saw Violette irritably pull the duvet over her head, burying herself in the dark. He sighed, propping himself up to lean over her. He had only intended to silence the notification.

Blake Pierce.

The name jumped out at him in the darkness.

The moment he saw it, his hand froze in mid-air. The flickering light from the screen reflected in Roman's ink-black eyes, as if swallowed by an abyss. After several seconds of absolute silence, Roman did the unthinkable: he pressed answer.

The person on the other end said nothing.

The call timer ticked upward—one second, two seconds. It felt as if both parties were terrified of shattering the midnight stillness, leaving only the sound of ragged, heavy breathing on both ends of the line.

Roman lowered his gaze, catching sight of Violette shifting restlessly under the covers. Her wrist was draped carelessly over the edge of the pillow. She curled her fingers, letting out a soft, barely audible, "Mmm..."

She seemed satisfied that the ringing had stopped.

Roman leaned down. "My wife."

Violette, acting on pure reflex, hummed an acknowledgment in her sleep.

He pressed his hand gently to her hair, stroking it back with a calculated, tender touch, while his eyes remained locked on the phone screen. "It's nothing. Go back to sleep."

He listened intently, but the breathing on the other end had gone deathly quiet. It was as if the call had been nothing more than a late-night pocket dial. Roman waited patiently for a few seconds before reaching out and firmly tapping the hang-up button.

The room returned to darkness.

Roman stared at the woman sleeping beside him. They were husband and wife, having both agreed to play the part with professional commitment. He had given her his passwords—his phone, his bank accounts, his safe—and she had reciprocated, opening her private life to him.

Until tonight, Roman had prided himself on having boundaries. He had never crossed the line.

But those virtues ended tonight.

From the moment he decided to answer her phone, he stepped into a vicious cycle. He knew it was wrong, yet he persisted in his error. After ending the call, he unlocked her phone and deleted the record. When he finished, he sat in the dark, nearly laughing at his own pathetic behavior.

So much for being a refined gentleman. In the face of love, he was nothing more than a petty, small-minded man.

The night bled into the early hours, and the sky began to turn a pale, ghostly grey. Roman's phone buzzed on the nightstand. He didn't bother trying to sleep; he sat up the moment the vibration started. The dim light wasn't enough to illuminate the room, but it was enough to cast deep shadows across his face.

It was a message from an unknown number.

He didn't need to read more than a few words to know who it was. Trying to goad him with these tactics was remarkably amateur.

Roman killed the screen and leaned back against the headboard. He had the woman in his bed; he was the one who had won. Whether it was the ex-lover or something else, the one who was making noise in the middle of the night was the one who had already lost their composure.

...

The snow had piled up deep, and the morning light was brilliant against the glass.

Violette woke up thinking about skiing, and the first thing she did was check the time. Her internal clock was useless; before marriage, she relied on alarms, but since the wedding, she had relied on Roman.

Usually, Roman had a much gentler way of waking her up.

But this morning, Roman was gone, and the space beside her was cold.

Violette sat on the edge of the bed, feeling unusually drained. She picked up her phone to find a few unread messages. A few lines from Chloe Nichols caught her eye immediately.

Chloe: Did he look for you yesterday?

Chloe: He’s lost his mind. He was drinking last night and called me over a dozen times, demanding to know where you were. And that’s not all—he posted on Twitter.

Twitter.

Violette’s eyelid twitched. Once bitten, twice shy; she had a visceral fear of social media platforms now. She had already deactivated her accounts and deleted the apps.

After a long silence, she typed: What did he post?

Chloe replied instantly, sending a screenshot of Blake Pierce’s account. She had cropped out the comments below.

"I appreciate your support for my return to the court, but please keep the disparaging remarks about others off my feed. I was young and arrogant in the past, and I made mistakes. I own them. As for the malicious rumors circulating about Ms. Ellis, I have gathered evidence. See you in court."

Violette took a sharp, jagged breath.

Outside the door, she heard footsteps, followed by the metallic click of the door lock.

Roman pushed the door open, holding a glass of milk. He was dressed entirely in black, standing against the backdrop of the snowy morning like a silent, lonely pine.

His gaze swept downward.

He took in Violette’s panicked expression, her trembling fingers, and the phone she was frantically trying to flip face-down on the bed.

He saw everything.