Violette washed up in a hurry and stepped out of the bathroom.

She still had no idea what kind of fallout Blake’s recent post would trigger, and a cold anxiety gnawed at her. She had checked her call logs after Chloe brought it up, but the last entry remained the check-in call she’d made home after arriving at The White Peaks. Blake hadn't spiraled into the frantic, obsessive contact that Chloe had predicted.

As for what he’d posted on Twitter: "See you in court."

He was still just as impulsive as he’d always been. Litigation might have its uses, but the internet was a cesspool of chaos. Just the process of gathering evidence and dredging up someone’s personal identity would drain every ounce of her energy. It wasn't something you could just muscle through; it required a massive legal team working around the clock. Blake’s management team didn't have the stomach for that kind of war.

In the end, it would just be a hollow "kill the chicken to scare the monkey" display. A few days of peace, then the monkeys would be back to wreaking havoc.

Violette rubbed her temples, her shoulders sagging into a weary slump. She knew Blake meant well, but…

Her finger hovered over her phone screen, tempted to open that long-dormant chat thread.

"Is the breakfast not to your liking?"

Roman’s voice sliced through the silence, as cold and sharp as the wind whipping across the snow outside. Violette shook her head, quickly masking her expression. "I was just thinking about whether we should hit the slopes today. I saw a resort nearby last night."

She was blatantly changing the subject. Roman didn't call her out on it, simply leaning into the shift. "Can you ski?"

"A little," Violette said, biting her lip. "I’m not exactly an expert."

Roman’s gaze tightened on her. It was clear his advice from the night before—that she could try leaning on him—hadn't really landed. He pushed the breakfast cart toward her with casual grace. "Skiing burns a lot of calories. Make sure you eat up."

...

For the rest of the day, Violette was miles away.

Anyone with eyes could see it. The only difference was that Violette was busy papering over the cracks, and Roman wasn't interested in shattering the fragile balance she was trying so hard to maintain. He didn't know what his actual weight was in her heart, and until he got a real answer, everything between them felt like a reflection in the water—something he could reach for but never quite touch. Even when she slipped away to check her phone, he pretended not to see.

He only reappeared the moment she tucked the device away and scanned the area for him.

He had ditched his ski jacket, his thermal base layer wicking away the sweat, yet he still kept a respectful distance. He didn't want the biting chill to transfer his heat to her; he remembered well enough that Violette hated the smell of a man drenched in sweat.

Violette, however, seemed to have forgotten, reaching out to hook her arm through his. She had stashed her phone in her right pocket—the side furthest away from him. In psychological terms, it was a dead giveaway of her guilt.

Roman leaned down, his lips brushing her ear. "Struggling to keep up?"

His breath made her earlobe tingle, and she instinctively leaned into his shoulder, her cheeks flushing with warmth. He was referring to her clumsy performance on the slopes, but Violette was indeed struggling—partly from the physical exertion, and partly from the weight in her head.

"I told you I wasn't good," she murmured. "The first time I ever went outdoor skiing, I actually..."

She trailed off, sinking into the memory.

"You what?" Roman asked.

Her first time skiing hadn't been with him. It had been with Blake.

Blake was one of those people who could master any sport in an afternoon. He played tennis like a professional, and he skied with the same aggressive, effortless grace. Violette had seen the photos on his phone back then—azure skies, perfectly carved tracks through the pines, every shot looking like a magazine spread.

Eventually, she went from viewing the photos to being in them.

Surrounded by a sea of ancient pines and snow, they were with a group of Blake’s friends—all of them impossibly young and full of life. While the others headed for the advanced trails to show off, Blake had stayed behind to help her pose for a photo at a landmark sitting at 12,247 feet. Even through the goggles and the thick, padded suits, she could feel his restless, youthful energy.

She had placed both hands on the sides of his goggles. "Stop hanging back for me. Go have fun with them."

"Not going."

"If you keep hovering, I’m too embarrassed to even move."

"Want me to teach you?" Blake reached for his skis, ready to demonstrate.

"No." Violette didn't want to wipe out and make a fool of herself in front of him. "A woman has her pride."

She’d finally gotten him to leave, and for the first time, she had some breathing room. She wasn't a good skier, so she stuck to the mid-mountain slopes. It had snowed shortly before they arrived, and the air was crisp and piercing. She skied until she reached the safety fencing, staring down at a steep drop. Too terrified to go down, she started inching her way along the fence.

That was when she caught a flash of neon-colored fabric through the mesh, nearly a hundred yards away.

Nobody had passed by for at least ten minutes.

Without thinking, Violette acted.

That day, she ended up on the local news—not as a journalist, but as a local hero. She spent the next week in a hospital bed, apologizing profusely while staring into Blake’s icy, furious glare.

"I won't do it again! I promise!"

Blake’s face was like thunder. "I must be insane if I ever let you out on your own again."

"I calculated the risk," Violette defended herself. "It wasn't more than a hundred yards from the slope."

"One hundred and forty-five yards," Blake snapped.

"Fine. One hundred and forty-five. But I hung my bright red ski jacket on the fence. Anyone passing by would’ve seen it."

"Brilliant," Blake said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Is that why you nearly died of hypothermia and shredded your leg on some dead branches?"

"..."

"You’re going to be the death of me."

Violette shut her mouth, behaving. But a few seconds later, she couldn't help but add, "I saved a life, though."

And she had. Her first time skiing, she’d saved a man. Under the neon-bright ski gear, the stranger had been an elderly man of undeniable elegance. It was hard to imagine, even with his silver hair and the goggles removed, just how refined he looked. He’d suffered a leg injury and mild hypothermia after drifting off the trail due to altitude sickness hours earlier.

When she found him, he was shivering violently. She hadn't bothered to think about what kind of negligent family would let an old man ski alone; she’d just stripped off her own jacket to cover him. She’d been so frantic she hadn't noticed the branches tearing into her leg until she was already crawling toward him.

Everything turned out fine in the end. The man hadn't been sent to her hospital, but his family had sent a representative—an elderly man in a bespoke British suit who’d appeared in her room and tried to hand her a blank check. Even then, she’d realized that such an aura of authority didn't just come from anywhere.

But a blank check? That felt a bit too much like a movie script.

"If you really want to thank me," she’d joked, "just keep supporting Deepwater News."

She was still a green, hot-blooded cub reporter then. Two months later, she was flooded with high-level training opportunities, busy as a spinning top. After that, her performance in the field propelled her straight to the top, turning her into the lead anchor.

It was a life-altering six months.

Come to think of it, it all started with that day on the slopes.

Violette was sharp; she’d long suspected that the person she’d saved was someone of immense influence, and that the trajectory of her entire life since then might have been a ripple effect from that single moment.

Now, Roman asked what happened after she stopped moving on the slopes that first time.

"It was life-changing," Violette said softly. "It was the start of everything."