Dax Murphy was genuinely stunned to see Roman Griffin return to the office so soon after dropping off Violette.

He shooed the rest of the staff out and propped his boots up on the edge of his desk. "What’s the occasion? How did you find the time to keep me company this afternoon?"

Roman was not a man who knew how to slack off, even in private.

He remained perfectly upright, sitting on the sofa with his eyes half-closed, as if he were trying to meditate. When he heard Dax speak, he only tipped his chin back, resting his neck against the headrest, staring up at a corner of the ceiling.

"The driver took her to her shoot."

"You’ve got more than one driver, Roman," Dax noted.

Of course he did. But today, for once, Roman didn't want to go back to the office. He wanted to sit with a friend.

They had known each other since they were boys. Back then, Roman was the "golden child" everyone compared their own sons to, while Dax was the one who wore his heart on his sleeve. While everyone else danced around Roman with polite, hollow flattery, Dax was the only one who would pull a face and tell him straight to his face, "You’re being a bit of a prick today, aren't you?"

Somehow, through the years of bickering, they had become best friends.

Dax smirked, his tone shifting. "I finally realized the perk of being your friend. Whenever I want to get out of an obligation, I just tell my family I’m going out with Roman Griffin, and suddenly, nobody asks any questions."

"Using me?" Roman asked.

Dax clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Pal, I’m being completely transparent about it."

People with simple motives were hard to hate.

For all these years, Roman had maintained this friendship. They stayed linked through work and spent their downtime playing cards or trading industry gossip. Compared to Bradley Harper, Dax had one major advantage: he wasn't a blabbermouth.

When Roman didn't want to talk, Dax could sit in silence just as easily. Even when a conversation hit a wall, he didn't feel the need to scramble for a bridge.

Roman remained on the couch, eyes closed, his glass of iced coffee hitting the bottom in seconds. Dax didn't say a word; he simply signaled his assistant to bring in another round before returning to his laptop to scroll through a project proposal.

Forty pages in, Roman finally stirred.

He stretched his neck, his shoulders rolling back—a simple movement that he executed with an effortless, aristocratic grace.

Dax closed his tab. "Done resting?"

"Yeah. I’m heading out."

"So you really just came over here to take a nap?" Dax teased. "And you drank two of my Blue Mountain coffees."

Roman glanced at him. "I'll pay you back?"

"Don't be such a stiff."

Dax stood up to walk him out. They strolled down the hallway—Dax in his casual wear, Roman carrying his suit jacket over his arm. Both looked at ease, yet worlds apart in style.

It wasn't until they reached the elevator lobby that Dax asked, "Is V-Oasis running you ragged these days?"

"When aren't they?" Roman countered.

"Fair point," Dax laughed. "Look, man, try to lower the pressure. You’re always wound so tight. You really don't know how to enjoy the finer things."

Roman misheard him.

"You think I’m boring, too?"

"Too?"

Dax felt a chill run down his spine. Who on earth was bold enough to say that to Roman?

Roman was introspective, his expression cool. "It’s how I categorize myself."

"...Right."

The air went still. Dax finally said, "I think you’re fine. As a friend, I think you’re solid. Everyone has their own personality. I like that you’re grounded. There’s a lot to be said for being grounded."

"Since when did you start talking in circles?"

"It’s just... today," Dax paused. "You’re acting off, Roman."

The elevator dinged at their floor. Because of that one word—*off*—neither of them stepped inside. The doors slid open, lingered for a moment, and shut, leaving the polished metal to reflect Roman’s furrowed brow.

He didn't move. He tilted his head, watching Dax with an unblinking intensity.

Dax touched his nose and scratched his head. "Did... did I say something wrong?"

Roman picked up his jacket, turned, and started walking back the way they came.

Baffled, Dax hurried to catch up.

Back in the office, Roman sank into the wide armchair again. He leaned forward, tossing his jacket aside. He braced his elbows on his knees, fingers interlaced, watching Dax with a cold, focused patience.

"Tell me," Roman said. "Exactly how am I acting off?"

Dax’s mind raced, but he kept his face neutral.

"I get it. The new system launch is a nightmare, and the pressure is mounting. We’re friends, so if you need a hand, just say the word. Stop carrying it all yourself. Dump some of the workload on Bradley—that kid has too much free time anyway. If there’s something else—"

"It’s not about the company," Roman cut him off.

Dax froze. Not the company?

The sense of him being "off" doubled. He ran through the possibilities. It wasn't money—Roman was drowning in it. That left interpersonal stuff. Family? No rumors of trouble at the Griffin estate. Friendship? He hadn't fought with anyone.

That left...

Dax tried to keep his voice steady. "Did you and Violette have a fight?"

"No."

Dax was completely lost. "Then what—"

Roman’s fingers tapped rhythmically against his knuckles, his voice betraying the calm he was trying to project. "Where is Blake Pierce right now?"

Dax blinked, realization washing over him. So that was it.

He remembered a discussion Bradley had started in their group chat a few days ago. They had all agreed that Roman and Violette were a perfect match, a power couple of the highest order. Who cared about some old flame? They were happy. What was there to worry about?

Dax repeated this logic, trying to soothe him. "Roman, you’re just worrying over nothing."

Without warning, Roman stopped tapping.

He let his hands drop, his shoulders slumping slightly into the back of the sofa. He kept his head down, so Dax couldn't see his face. A few stray locks of his perfectly groomed hair fell across his forehead, and for the first time, the "elite" veneer shattered, revealing a raw, jagged vulnerability underneath.

Dax realized he had been wrong. Roman wasn't impenetrable.

"Roman," Dax said softly, "Blake Pierce is no threat to you."

*Is he?*

Roman lowered his gaze to the wedding band on his left hand.

If Blake Pierce hadn't been a threat, he never would have been the catalyst for their marriage. Contrary to what Dax believed, that name was carved into Violette's heart—deeply, significantly. So deeply that she had been willing to pin the rest of her life on a marriage just to escape the weight of it.

Roman remembered that day in the quiet study.

Violette had sat on the other side of the desk, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Her gaze had been distant, haunted, as if she were mentally miles away.

He had brewed her tea.

The lotus hearts were boiled down to nothing; the lily and chamomile were meant to soothe, to clear the mind.

Violette took a slow, quiet sip.

"Have you decided?" Roman had asked, his voice trembling in a way he couldn't quite control.

Violette whispered, "I have."

She had come for the most important decision of her life. Her eyelids fluttered with nerves, but she looked at him and said, "Mr. Griffin, I’ll do it. I want to try. I’ll marry you."