It was a bit of dark humor—that period of my life really was the absolute peak.

The relationship was solid, the career was thriving, and everything was going my way.

None of the messy garbage that followed had happened yet.

"I don't think I've ever really heard you talk about your past," Roman suddenly said.

The smile lingering on Violette’s lips faltered for a fraction of a second. She lowered her lashes, her gaze drifting away. "The past is just the past. There’s nothing to tell. School, weekend tutoring, parents obsessing over my hobbies, sneaking around on my phone, buying cute stationery, trying to learn how to wear makeup like the other girls, and secretly signing up for the broadcasting program behind my parents' backs. After that, it was just work—grinding away like a corporate drone."

Violette forced a light laugh. "It’s all very mundane."

She kept her answers broad and superficial, carefully sidestepping the sensitive ground. Roman, however, acted as if he hadn't noticed the evasion. He pulled her closer, guiding her toward the exit.

"In that case, we have something in common. My upbringing was much the same."

The same? Violette had been to the Griffin estate. She knew full well that the deep-rooted pedigree of the Griffin family was leagues beyond the comfortable, middle-class existence she grew up in. When children from families like hers were clawing their way through the cracks just to find a foothold, those from the upper echelons appeared with effortless grace, looming over everyone like mountains, dictating their labor and harvesting the rewards.

"You were forced to learn all that stuff too?" Violette asked, skeptical.

"Of course," Roman said, his tone carrying a playful edge. "You can't abandon the core pillars of a traditional upbringing."

The only difference was that his "traditional" subjects included fine arts, high-level networking, connoisseurship, philosophy, logic, and even metaphysics.

Violette’s interest was clearly piqued. She tilted her head. "So, what’s the most rebellious thing you’ve ever done?"

"I earned degrees in computer science and electrical engineering while living abroad."

"..."

That checked out. It was a very Roman version of rebellion.

Violette sighed. "Is that really the most rebellious thing you've got?"

In their social strata, choosing to study something that promised a fast, tangible return was, in itself, an act of defiance. Roman still remembered his grandfather’s reaction when the family found out. The old man had just shaken his head and said, "If people outside find out, they’ll think the Griffin family is in decline. If you really like that sort of thing, you can just hire someone to do it for you."

Hiring others to do the heavy lifting while reaping the profits was the standard operating procedure for families of inherited wealth. Getting one's own hands dirty was considered a drop in status.

Roman had responded with cool indifference: "Grandfather, you shouldn't be engaging in extreme sports, either. You’re at that age—just hire someone to do the stunts for you and watch from the sidelines."

Violette didn’t grasp the nuances of that logic, and she clearly didn't see that as a true act of rebellion. Roman pondered for a few seconds, then thought of something else.

His marriage.

A man in his position didn't have the luxury of marital freedom. You enjoyed the benefits of the family name, and in return, you prepared to be sacrificed on the altar of a strategic alliance. But instead of playing along, he’d decided to stage a massive, calculated act of defiance.

Why sacrifice? And who said he had to? It wasn’t as if he couldn't maintain the Griffin family’s dominance on his own terms.

He’d spent months seducing Violette, keeping everything under wraps. The moment they stepped out of the marriage registry office, he’d laid Violette’s credentials out on his grandfather’s desk.

"You said it yourself," Roman had told the old man, "the most important requirement for a granddaughter-in-law is that she be refined and well-bred."

"When did I ever say that?" the old man had barked, baffled.

The original requirement had actually been: a sharp mind, a stunning face, and long legs—the baseline requirements for high-quality genetic succession.

Roman had replied calmly, "I was just refining your original sentiment for you."

He’d produced the vibrant red marriage certificate from his tailored suit jacket and laid it on the dark mahogany desk—a splash of crimson that looked glaringly out of place. "She meets all the criteria. As for that young socialite you had in mind for me, I don't think she’s particularly interested, so there’s no need to force the issue."

He still remembered the way his grandfather had sputtered, purple with rage. The old man had raised an antique glass paperweight in his hand, glared at the photo on the marriage certificate, set the paperweight down, and finally hurled a heavy brass fountain pen at him.

"You little devil," the man had cursed.

The old man was so furious that he’d left for a world tour the very next day, not even bothering to return for the wedding.

That counted as rebellious, right?

But as he looked into Violette’s clear, unsuspecting eyes, Roman fell silent again. What kind of rebellion was that? It was nothing more than the calculated fulfillment of his own desire.

"You’re so well-behaved," Violette commented.

Roman raised an eyebrow. In his thirty years, he’d never heard that description applied to him. He immediately thought of Blake Pierce.

"You don't like 'well-behaved'?"

Violette was caught off guard. "Huh?"

"Nothing."

Roman’s hand drifted down, resting lightly on the small of her back. His lips formed a thin, straight line. He wasn't as broad-minded as he pretended to be; right now, he didn't want the answer, especially if it wasn't the one he wanted to hear.

They returned to the hotel via a private shuttle, where a sumptuous dinner was already waiting. To cater to their tastes, the hotel had commissioned their executive chef to handle the cooking. Roman changed into a fresh outfit, carrying the subtle scent of cold pine and cedar. When Violette leaned in, she couldn't help but inhale deeply.

"I don't think I've ever asked—what cologne are you wearing?"

He was surprised she was interested in his scent. Roman paused for a moment as he pulled out her chair, then replied, "It's not a brand. If you like it, I can have a perfumer send you the formula later."

"The formula is public?"

"I can buy the rights to it," Roman said, without a second’s hesitation.

"..."

Conversations with the ultra-wealthy were always so remarkably straightforward.

Violette slowly began to let go of the distraction that had plagued her all day, caught up in the calm, rhythmic flow of their meal. The waiter poured her a glass of sparkling wine. She took a small sip, then, without a second thought, pulled her phone from her pocket and set it on the table.

"This one has a hint of fruit—like citrus—but it smells like flowers."

"You like it?" Roman asked.

"Mmhmm!"

The hotel had pulled out their reserve stock to impress their high-profile guests, though it still fell short compared to the vintages in the Griffin wine cellar. Roman had better. He said, with a perfectly straight face, "I have the exact same one at home. I’ll bring a bottle back for you."

The atmosphere over dinner was pleasant, and Violette’s appetite was far better than it had been during the day. As they reached the end of the meal, her phone buzzed on the table.

She glanced at it, swiped to unlock, and her brow furrowed. She immediately rose from her seat. "I have to take this call."

"Of course," Roman said, nodding.

His gaze followed her hurried back. At that moment, he almost hated that his eyesight was so damn good. He had caught a glimpse of a long message on her screen, and the name "Blake Pierce" had registered instantly. He couldn't even lie to himself.

Watching her stride toward the door, her head down, thumbs flying across the screen, he felt his chest tighten, as if he were struggling to breathe. Just before she reached the exit, she lifted her right hand to her ear, clearly trying to keep the conversation private.

Roman counted to three, then pulled out his own phone and found the number from the previous night.

He dialed.

*Ring—ring—ring—*

It was ringing.

Realizing the line was active, Roman hung up immediately.

*Nothing.*

He told himself to calm down. As long as she wasn't calling Blake Pierce, it was fine.