The phone rang twice before it was answered.

Marilyn Stone’s voice came through on the other end, sharp and impatient. "What? Is the honeymoon so boring that you’re already free to chat?"

"Where are you?" Violette Ellis asked, her voice tight.

"At the station. It’s barely even time to clock out yet—"

Violette cut her off. "People are still waiting for service at the station at this hour?"

It was rare for Violette to sound so sharp.

Marilyn paused. She was currently at a private clinic, surrounded by a peaceful, sterile quiet. There were no background noises of people being called for service. A moment later, it clicked. She had been caught in a lie.

Violette leaned against the restaurant’s floor-to-ceiling glass wall, her heart hammering against her ribs. "Are you alright? Did you call the police? I’m checking the flights now—I’ll try to get back tomorrow. What about the situation there—"

Marilyn pinched the bridge of her nose. "I’m fine. I called the cops. You don't need to come back." She mumbled, "They haven't even finalized the host for that big project yet. Don't come back and make a mess of things. If the sponsors take a shine to you..."

"I’m not interested," Violette interrupted, her patience wearing thin. "I’m not fighting you for it."

The brief moment of calm she had felt earlier had evaporated. When Emma Fox sent her the message about Blake Pierce’s fan staking out the TV station—and mistaking Marilyn for her, dumping an unknown liquid on her—Violette’s heart had nearly stopped.

She had assumed that if she didn't respond to the rumors, they would fade away like any other transient scandal. She never expected it to spill over and hurt someone else in such a violent, unhinged way.

Blake was a man of impulsive action, while she was a turtle, hiding in her shell and pretending the world was safe as long as she couldn't see the danger. She lifted a hand, her thumb pressing against her aching eyes.

"Was it boiling water?"

"Yeah. The lab confirmed it was just tap water. Wasn’t even that hot," Marilyn said, a hint of pride creeping into her tone. "Honestly, what kind of damage can you do with a thermos, anyway? I didn't even know I had it in me—I pulled off this insane dodge—"

"Marilyn, I’m sorry," Violette said.

They weren't close at the station; their rivalry for the anchor chair had always kept a polite, icy distance between them. In the eyes of their colleagues, their friction was well-known. This sudden apology made the air between them feel strange and heavy.

Marilyn stumbled over her words. "S-sorry for what? It... it wasn't you who threw it. What are you talking about? I’m a high-profile anchor; why can't I have a few haters?"

"It’s because I didn't handle my own affairs properly." Violette’s tone hardened, a decision clearly forming in her mind. "We’ll talk about the rest when I’m back tomorrow."

"Seriously, don't rush back. The guy is already in custody. It happened right at the front entrance; the station’s security and legal team will handle it. Just enjoy your honeymoon! You can't just leave your husband behind!"

Violette sighed softly. "I’ll talk to him."

When she hung up, she turned back to the restaurant. During her absence, the waiter had served dessert—a grapefruit mousse. It was a translucent, misty pink, topped with a delicate flamingo sculpted from fruit pulp.

The dish was exquisite, but Violette’s appetite had vanished. She dug a small silver spoon into the mousse, agonizing over how to tell Roman they had to fly back to Deepwater tomorrow. She was the one who had insisted on this honeymoon, and she was the one who was about to cut it short.

In the end, it was Roman who noticed her hesitation. "Something happened in Deepwater?"

"Yes." Violette gripped the handle of her spoon. "An irrational fan chased someone to the station and caused some trouble for a colleague."

*Irrational fan.*

The words immediately linked in Roman’s mind to the name *Blake Pierce*. He asked, "Is it serious?"

"Nobody was hurt, and the police were called." Violette felt the tension bleed out of her as she heard his steady, calm tone. She slumped back into her chair. "But I think it’s better if I go back."

She looked up, searching his face for a flicker of annoyance, but he remained perfectly calm. He showed no frustration at having their plans derailed; instead, he furrowed his brow, thoughtfully considering the logistics.

After a moment, his fingers tapped a steady, rhythmic cadence against the table.

"Flights from here are sparse. The next direct flight to Deepwater isn't until the day after tomorrow. Are you planning to wait, or should we head to the city and fly out from there tomorrow?"

Violette blinked. "We?"

Roman looked at her, then a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. "A honeymoon isn't a honeymoon if you're missing a person. We go together."

Violette’s fingers tightened around the spoon until her knuckles turned white. A hollow, aching sensation spread through her chest, making her nose sting. She couldn't tell if it was purely guilt or something deeper, but her emotions were a tangled knot. She had an overwhelming urge to lean across the table and pull him into a hug.

It wasn't that Roman was playing the victim—it was that she *needed* to. She wanted to hold him, kiss him, and let him see the tears she rarely showed anyone.

Before she could say another word, Roman reached across the table and took her hand. His palm was warm and broad, his fingers interlacing firmly with hers.

"Don't even think about apologizing," he said gently. "As it happens, a mountain of work just landed on my desk. This gives me an excuse to head back early and get it sorted."

Violette sniffled, letting out a small, wet laugh. "If you’re so busy, why didn't you just say no to this trip in the first place? You wasted your time coming out here with me."

"Couldn't say no." Roman shook his head, laughing. "A man who treats his wife well always gets ahead."

Violette brushed it off as just another one of his jokes. Since she was a child, she’d heard the men in her family and their business associates touting that exact phrase. It was a staple of local Deepwater culture—*Treat your wife well, and you’ll find success.*

It wasn't surprising to hear him say it. He was a native of Deepwater, after all; it was in the air he breathed.

That night, back at the suite, Violette started packing. It didn't take long, as she hadn't even fully unpacked. Roman, meanwhile, seemed occupied, spending most of the evening on the terrace taking calls.

The room was kept warm, but the terrace air was sharp and cold. He wore a black sweater, the slim-fit cut emphasizing his broad shoulders and lean back. Silhouetted against the dark night, he looked strangely solitary.

As Violette passed by, she slipped a heavy wool coat through the gap in the door.

Roman caught it. He had his phone on speaker, laying it on the railing. During the few seconds he took to shrug on the coat, Violette heard the person on the other end saying, "...legal team is stepping in... will pursue this to the fullest extent."

Once he had the coat on, he picked up the phone and pressed it back to his ear.

"Tell Miles to speed up the timeline. I’ll be there tomorrow night."

Violette watched him and thought about the sheer weight of running a company like V-Oasis. Roman was far busier than he ever let on.