Violette stepped away midway through dinner to take a call from the station.

It lasted about eight minutes. When she turned back, she found a man standing just a few paces away, his gaze fixed on her with unabashed intensity. A diamond brooch on his lapel caught the light of the crystal chandelier, shimmering coldly.

"Mrs. Griffin, what a coincidence."

"Is it?" Violette tucked her phone away, her tone polite but distant. "I believe Mr. Hayes has been waiting for quite some time."

A beautiful woman’s every shift in expression was enough to stir a man’s pulse. Roland Hayes dropped his abrasive facade. "It wasn’t convenient to speak in the private room earlier, but I had a hunch we’d met before. I just wanted to ask."

"I don't think so," Violette said. "Mr. Hayes is so striking—if we had met, I’d certainly remember."

"..."

Damn. Beautiful, and with a tongue like honey.

Why did she have to be Roman Griffin's wife?

Roland couldn't help but dwell on that thought. In a city like Deepwater, if it were anyone else, he would have already been finding a way to slide into the cracks of her marriage. His eyes drifted to the curve of her lips as he unconsciously shifted his approach. "I have a few acquaintances at the television station. Perhaps Miss Ellis knows them."

In the private room earlier, Violette hadn’t introduced herself. The fact that he knew her surname and was waiting here like a predator in the brush meant he’d likely seen her at the station before and had already been digging into her relationship with Marilyn Stone.

"Who are you referring to?" Violette asked.

"Marilyn Stone. Do you know her, Miss Ellis?"

"How could I not?" Violette affected a look of surprise. "We work in the same department. She’s the lead anchor, and the rest of us handle the production side. We work together every single day."

Usually, that statement would pass without a second thought, but in the context of the earlier dinner, someone had used those exact words to butter her up.

*Lead anchor.*

The term hung in the air, sounding like two people fighting over the same scrap of food. She performed the line so naturally that Roland frowned, doubting his own judgment.

Could it be that beautiful people just shared similar features? Or similar voices? She certainly didn't look like the type of person who would stick her neck out for Marilyn Stone.

Full of suspicion, Roland decided to keep his doubts under wraps for now. "Since we’re all acquaintances, let me play host next time. I’ll invite the two of you for dinner."

"That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hayes."

Before she could finish, a voice cut through the air.

Violette turned to see Roman standing a few steps away, his suit jacket draped over his arm, looking like the epitome of a polished gentleman. He strolled forward until he was right beside her. "If Mr. Hayes wanted to invite my wife to dinner, he should have asked while we were still in the private room. Saving it for now—could it be that you didn't want to invite me, too?"

His speed was languid, his tone breezy and warm. He didn't look angry in the slightest.

Yet, everyone in the room felt an involuntary shiver run down their spines. His presence was overwhelming—not because he was intimidating, but because a single gesture or a simple shift in tone was enough to remind them of his pedigree and his untouchable status. He stood in the clouds, distant and ethereal. To even stand in his shadow felt like a transgression.

Roland, feeling the weight of multiple social blunders, shook his head quickly. "No, no—not at all. We were just talking about mutual friends at the station, nothing more. Mr. Griffin, please, don't misunderstand."

Roman extended a hand toward Violette.

She looped her arm through his. "That friend of Mr. Hayes’s does work at our station, but I prefer not to mix my personal life with my colleagues."

Roman nodded. "My wife is quite private. I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive her for declining."

Whether it was her or not, Roland didn't dare push it further. Roman looked far too protective of his wife to be trifled with, and as for that unsolved mystery from a few years ago... Roland figured it would have to stay a mystery.

He offered a hurried goodbye.

As soon as he vanished, Violette let out a soft sigh.

"Things have wrapped up inside. I saw you hadn't come back, so I came to find you."

Roman explained his sudden appearance, but Violette wasn't really listening. She glanced behind him. "Where’s Emma?"

"I had the driver take her back to the station. She's already in the car."

"What about you? Don't you need the car?"

"I’m going to stay here with Martin for a bit," Roman replied.

His dark eyes lingered on her. They were quiet, devoid of any prying intent. Yet, that very quietness made Violette feel like she couldn't see through him. He had obviously realized she and Roland had a history—did he not want to ask? Or did he simply not care?

Violette thought her patience was usually ironclad, but she couldn't help herself. "Why don't you ask me who that man was?"

"Roland Hayes from SkySea Cosmetics, isn't it?"

His answer was far too professional. Violette hesitated. She still wasn't accustomed to sharing every detail of her life with someone. In the past, with Blake, he had been the one who demanded reports on every move, while she had been content to just listen.

But here, she was the one who had brought up the topic, and deep down, she realized she actually *wanted* to tell Roman.

The only thing stopping her was wondering if she should reveal just how volatile she could be. She still didn't know exactly how Roman perceived her.

As she wavered, Roman’s fingers slid between hers, interlocking tightly. "Don't force yourself. Only tell me what you want to share."

"I..." Violette bit her lip. "I once splashed a bowl of spicy beef chili all over him."

Clearly not expecting that, Roman raised an eyebrow.

"Did he cross you?"

*Wait.*

If she had told this story to Charles or Catherine, they would have frowned immediately: *How could you throw food at someone? It’s improper and ruins your reputation.*

But with Roman, he instinctively blamed the other guy.

Violette felt a rush of satisfaction. She forced a look of cautious uncertainty. "Now that I've told you, does it make me look like a hothead who throws chili at anyone who offends her?"

Roman pondered this for a moment, then concluded with absolute certainty, "He must have been guilty of some grave offense."

"Exactly."

Violette’s eyes sparkled, her expression more vibrant than he had ever seen.

"I’m the type who holds a grudge. He insulted a friend of mine, so I hit him with a bowl of chili. I was even wearing a mask at the time; he still hasn't figured out it was me. He clearly realized something just now and wanted to test the waters. If he knew that the person who drenched him in grease and then shook him down for three hundred dollars was actually me, his face would have turned green."

"Shook him down?" Roman looked stunned.

He was a hundred percent curious about the act of extortion itself, but the fact that the extortion was worth exactly three hundred dollars? His curiosity level was at ten thousand percent.

"It’s a long story." The curve of Violette’s lips remained steady, and she added dramatically, "We’re short on time, but I’ll tell you all about it when we get home. You have no idea what his face looked like—"

They had agreed to talk about it later.

As they walked down the hallway, Violette couldn't stop whispering about it the entire way. She was so vivid, so alive. Roman looked down at her, his mood lifting, feeling as if he were soaring through the clouds. He was happy she was willing to share her past with him—he had told her she could talk to him about anything. But the moment the topic touched on Blake, she would dodge it like a plague.

At that thought, Roman’s lips thinned into a straight line.

The fall from the clouds took less than a second.