Violette made a quick excuse and slipped away.

The hospital corridor was bathed in a harsh, sterile light that made her head spin. She walked at a measured pace, tapping out a reply on her phone.

Roman: Pick you up in a bit?

Violette: I drove myself. See you at home.

Roman: Understood.

He knew she was at the hospital, so she added a follow-up: My colleague is fine. No need to worry.

She reached the elevator just as the doors were about to close. She stepped inside, took her position, and continued typing.

Then, she heard footsteps outside. "Hold the door!"

A bystander caught the metal frame, and a man slipped inside. He offered a polite word of thanks. He wore a bucket hat pulled low and a black face mask, his eyes buried deep in the shadows of the brim, impossible to read.

Violette shifted toward the back of the elevator.

The moment he entered, she felt it. After all, they had once been in love; how could she not recognize the scent of him?

They stood at opposite ends of the car. Silence stretched between them.

It was a busy hour at the hospital, and the elevator stopped at almost every floor. As more people surged in, the distance between them vanished until they were pressed side-by-side.

Blake propped his right arm against the wall, silently shielding her, carving out a small, private sanctuary in the suffocating crowd.

If this were the past, his other hand would have pulled her by the nape of her neck into his chest. Violette had always hated crowded, stuffy spaces, and back then, she would have happily buried her face in his jacket just to escape the world. They had been the typical, inseparable couple.

But Blake had no right to do that now. His hand twitched, drifting upward by muscle memory before he forced it back down, his spine rigid.

The elevator finally reached the lobby.

The crowd poured out, leaving only the two of them.

The stagnant air between them swirled as she moved toward the exit, hugging the wall. She still needed to reach the parking garage.

Blake didn’t leave. Once the doors slid shut, he spoke. "Are you... doing alright?"

Violette had never heard his voice sound so ragged. She looked up and noticed that, despite his disguise, the eyes visible above the mask were bloodshot, revealing a depth of exhaustion and bitterness.

"I'm doing just fine," she said truthfully.

She was happy—a good thing, in theory—but the realization that her happiness only began after she left him for Roman Griffin felt like a sledgehammer to Blake’s chest. He felt like a festering, open wound, leaking blood and rot.

He took an involuntary step forward, then caught himself.

"I... I came to apologize."

Violette looked at him. "Marilyn Stone was the one who was scared. Why are you apologizing to me?"

"For everything that happened before," Blake said. "It wasn't until after the training camp that I realized you’d been targeted like that. I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry."

Regret was a heavy, suffocating thing. Every word that crawled out of his throat tasted like copper, thick and swollen, clogging his windpipe. He had a million things he wanted to say, but only a fraction made it past his lips. For all his silver-tongued wit on the court, he was utterly bankrupt of language now.

A soft ding signaled the basement level.

Violette gave a curt nod and headed for the exit. Blake reached out, his hand desperate to catch her arm, but he pulled back just as he caught sight of a passerby waiting for the elevator. He was already drowning in scandal; he wouldn't be the reason she took a hit to her reputation.

So, Violette led the way, and he followed, a shadow separated by a safe, suffocating distance, like two total strangers.

Her car was parked in the corner. She walked to the driver’s side, the sound of his footsteps tailing her the entire way. Just as she pulled the door open, before sliding inside, she asked, "Did you not drive yourself?"

"No." Blake tilted his chin toward the car. "Can I talk to you for a moment?"

Violette had already planned on having a conversation with him once she returned to Deepwater. Avoiding him wasn't a long-term strategy, and she had initially thought of bringing Chloe Nichols or someone else along as a buffer. Blake had shown up solo, which wasn't part of the plan, but it was manageable.

"Fine," Violette said, sliding into the driver's seat.

Blake looked startled, as if he hadn't expected her to say yes so easily. He composed himself and opened the passenger door. When their eyes met, he saw no resistance in her, so he climbed in.

The car was a sealed, airless box. With both doors shut, the thick, heavy tension returned. Blake felt like he couldn't breathe, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on his nose. He tugged at his mask and gripped the armrest until his knuckles turned white.

"Here? Or somewhere else?"

Violette ignored his question and asked, "Where are you headed?"

He was in Deepwater for a tournament, so he gave her the name of his hotel.

As the car pulled out of the garage, Violette kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead. Blake couldn't stop himself from stealing glances at her.

As they emerged from the underground darkness into the fading sunset, the light played across her face. For a moment, he felt a phantom rush of nostalgia, as if they were back in their prime. His gaze dipped, and he caught the flash of a simple, silver band on her left ring finger.

In just a few months, their entire worlds had been turned upside down.

A bitter lump rose in his throat, and he turned away, descending into a fit of hacking coughs.

Violette wasn't heartless. While waiting at a red light, she pulled a few tissues from the console and handed them over. "Are you sick?"

"No." Blake took the tissues. They crumpled in his palm, crushed just as thoroughly as his heart.

"You go first," Violette said, her tone clinical, all business. "What do you want to talk about?"

Blake struggled to organize his thoughts.

She cut him off: "If this is about my private life, don't bother. I’m sure Chloe passed the message along—I am truly doing well."

She emphasized the word *truly*.

Blake felt the air vanish from his lungs. In the middle of a warm Deepwater afternoon, he felt like he’d been dumped in a snowbank. He inhaled sharply and repeated the same words he’d told Marilyn at the hospital.

"I should have been tougher," Blake said eventually. "I shouldn't have let the club management dictate everything. My indecision gave people the opening they needed to hurt you."

"I never blamed you, Blake."

Violette pulled the car over to the shoulder and turned to look at him, her gaze steady.

"We broke up because we had fundamental disagreements on how to handle the world. I’m not saying I was right, either. Looking back, we were both too stubborn in our own ways. There was no right or wrong, just the outcome."

Her eyes held a cold, autumnal mist. "I faced the consequences of my choices, and that isn't on you."

Blake felt his chest loosen for a fraction of a second.

Then she added, "But after everything that happened, we have our answer. We just aren't compatible."

Blake’s mouth opened, the words dragging out of him with immense effort. "Is that why you married him so quickly? To kill any hope I had, or because you actually think you're compatible?"

His eyes went bright red. "It's been so little time. How could you possibly know?"

"What if you realize you're not compatible with him, either? Do you just get a divorce?" He let out a shaky, jagged laugh. "Since when did you become so damn carefree, Violette?"

Marrying Roman had been an accident of timing. She had craved the quiet, immovable security he provided—like the scent of cedar—and Roman had his own reasons for the union. They were a perfect match of convenience.

How could she explain it? The moment she decided to marry him, she had envisioned a life of mutual, distant respect until they eventually moved on. Roman was a man who knew how to let go; surely, he would walk away even faster than she would.

But none of that was for Blake to know.

Violette clicked the turn signal and merged back into traffic.

"I said we wouldn't talk about him," she said coldly. "As for us, that’s history. The only reason I agreed to talk to you today is that you promised to respect my current life. If you can't do that, there's nothing left to say."

Her words hit him like a physical blow. Blake pressed a hand to his brow, his fingers trembling uncontrollably.

"Fine," he said, a hollow, bitter smile on his lips. "I’ll respect it."

He looked at her, his voice barely a whisper. "But... could you at least pretend to care? Just for a second? About how I've been doing all this time?"