The plane touched down in Deepwater at dusk.

As Roman prepared to head to the office, he turned to Violette. "Do you need any help with anything today?"

Violette shook her head. "I'm going to the hospital to check on a colleague first. I'm fine for now."

Roman stared at her for a few seconds, his gaze unreadable.

"Alright. Call me if you need me." He took a few steps away, then paused, unable to help himself. He glanced back over his shoulder. "I'm always here."

Roman was an almost perfect partner.

It was something Violette had only realized after living with him. She had expected their marriage to be sterile and mind-numbingly dull, given that Roman was the type of man who seemed to thrive on routine—a man whose very intimacy felt like it followed a scheduled calendar. Beneath his polished, gentlemanly exterior, she had imagined a heart made of clockwork: precise, regular, and utterly predictable.

Back when she was still with Blake Pierce, she had been convinced she wanted a love that burned like gasoline—intense, volatile, consuming. Things like mutual respect and quiet harmony had seemed, in her eyes, like synonyms for a boring existence.

And yet, here she was, living the very life she once despised, just like the vast majority of people in this world.

But experience had proven the theory wrong; the so-called "dullness" felt like a private joke. When she thought of Roman, her mind didn't jump to the predictable. It flickered through flashes: him in the kitchen, checking a stove while talking on the phone; his profile, silhouetted against the car window as he waited quietly downstairs at the station; the way his neck would glisten with a sheen of sweat as he moved steadily above her.

There were so many snapshots, and they had already crowded her mind in just over two months of marriage. The freshest one was the way he’d stopped just now, looking her in the eyes, promising, "I'm always here."

***

After dropping her bags at home and freshening up, Violette stopped at a local market to grab some fresh fruit and an acai bowl before driving to the hospital.

Marilyn Stone was actually fine; she should have been discharged days ago. But for some reason, a parade of doctors had descended upon her room today, running every test imaginable and insisting she stay for observation.

When Violette arrived, Marilyn was lying in bed, peeling an orange with agonizing boredom.

"No way, you actually came back?" Marilyn said, eyes widening.

"You thought the location pin I sent was fake?"

Violette set her bag down and instinctively took the orange from Marilyn, peeling it in neat strips along the knife cuts.

Marilyn squinted at her. "Did you wash your hands?"

"Oh, forgot."

"Then you eat it yourself."

The two of them locked eyes for a second, then burst into laughter.

Violette asked, "Aren't you worried about appearances? You’re not trying to avoid rumors at the station anymore?"

"I wasn't trying to avoid rumors at the station, okay!" Marilyn rolled her eyes. "I just have a cold, professional exterior."

Violette leaned in, popping a slice of orange into Marilyn’s mouth. Her eyes crinkled. "You look like you've got your energy back. I'm relieved."

"You didn't wash your hands!" Marilyn shrieked, though she dutifully swallowed every bit of the orange.

Once the banter died down, Violette cut to the chase. "Is he still at the police station?"

"He's still there," Marilyn said, turning serious. "What are you planning to do this time?"

For an act of malice like this, there was no choice but to pursue it to the end. They could use the station's influence to shift the narrative, but given the sheer size of Blake Pierce’s fan base, Violette hadn't figured out the endgame. How many more crazies were hiding in that crowd? How many more incidents like this would happen? Nobody knew.

Violette just wanted to handle the immediate fallout.

Marilyn studied her. "Are you still refusing to use social media?"

"I don't really use it."

"Well, why don't you use my phone to take a look?"

Marilyn didn't hesitate; she pulled up the relevant threads and thrust the screen into Violette’s hand. Because the case had gone to the police, the internet was already in an uproar.

Someone with an inside track had leaked the entire event, and the comment section was a battlefield.

"I knew Blake's fans were crazy, but I didn't know they were *this* crazy. They're actually pulling off-screen ambushes now?"

"The poor woman who got splashed is the real victim. Someone get her a lucky charm to ward off the bad juju!"

"His fans are actually insane, I'm dying. He just posted about gathering evidence, and his own fans are handing over the proof that puts them in handcuffs. Is this a new brand of fan culture or what?"

"Am I the only one who finds this terrifying? If that hadn't been water, if it had been acid, she would have been permanently disfigured."

"Exactly what the person above said. This is a violent assault, plain and simple! I hope they punish them severely. It’s a good wake-up call to certain fan groups: the internet isn't a lawless void, and real life definitely isn't!"

While there were still a few fans desperately trying to argue, the general tide of public opinion was surprisingly in their favor. Violette, long accustomed to being the target of vitriol, felt a bit dizzy seeing the wind blow in her direction. She blinked, rereading the comments just to be sure.

"What's with that look?" Marilyn teased. "Are you getting Stockholm syndrome from being abused for so long?"

"…No. Stop it."

"The current public opinion is demanding a strict investigation. I don't know what kind of influence got involved last night, but the attention just exploded. Even the national news network weighed in on it. We're officially on the—" Marilyn gestured with her thumb, "—moral high ground."

From the moral high ground, everything became easier to manage. As long as this incident was kept in the spotlight, the fan base would inevitably fracture. The ones who stayed would be forced to police each other, which, at the very least, meant no more off-screen incidents for a while.

Violette nodded. "I see."

She reached out with her foot to hook the trash can under the bed, intending to throw away the orange peels, when a knock came at the door.

"I’m perfectly fine, the nurses check in every two hours anyway," Marilyn grumbled. She raised her voice, "Come in!"

The door swung open.

Violette picked up a clean orange slice, ready to hand it to Marilyn, but the other woman didn't take it. Violette glanced up, catching the look of pure shock on Marilyn's face.

"What's wrong?" Violette asked, turning around.

A few steps away, standing in the backlit frame of the doorway, was Blake Pierce, holding a gift basket.

He was standing closer than he had been during the interview. She could feel his heavy, silent presence, and she could feel the heat of his gaze—the most intense she had ever felt—burning through the brim of his cap.

"..."

Only when she felt the citrus juice trickling down her wrist did Violette realize what she had done. The orange slice in her hand had been crushed under the pressure of her grip. Her expression didn't flicker. She calmly pulled a few tissues, wiped her hand clean, and tossed everything into the trash.

"I'm going to the restroom."

Violette stood up. Marilyn, naturally, didn't try to stop her, though her eyes were darting back and forth between them, burning with curiosity.

To everyone’s surprise, Blake didn't try to stop her either.

He simply stood there, watching in silence as she turned and walked into the bathroom. A moment later, the light flickered behind the frosted glass of the door.

He turned his focus back to Marilyn on the hospital bed, offering a sincere apology. "I am truly sorry about what happened."

The door wasn't soundproof. Every word of the conversation outside drifted clearly into the small, tiled room.

Marilyn spoke with an edge in her voice. "Honestly, I'm fine. But other people—the ones who keep getting targeted by your fans—it's really exhausting."

"I know," Blake replied.

"Even if this wasn't directly your fault, can't you do something about it?"

"The legal papers have already been prepared. Whether it's this incident or the ones before, I keep my word." Blake paused for a beat. "I’ve already ordered the fan groups my agent was managing to be disbanded. I'm an athlete; there’s no need to maintain that kind of circus. I've already convinced the club, too."

No fans meant no endorsements. No endorsements meant pure out-of-pocket costs.

Training a professional tennis player was ruinously expensive. Would the club actually agree to that?

Violette leaned against the vanity, listening, quietly processing the information.

Outside, Marilyn clearly didn't care about the business logistics. She just replied flatly, "Oh. Well, good."