Roman knew.

When Violette had first agreed to marry him, it was because he’d told her, "Let’s try this. I don’t mind if he’s still in your heart."

He was like a parasite in her emotional life, playing the part of the devoted underdog until his goal was reached. But the claim that he didn’t mind? It was a lie.

He minded like hell.

But a man who sneaks into someone’s life when they’re at their most vulnerable has to shed his pride. He’d prepared himself for that moment, and for every subsequent concession he’d have to make.

He still remembered the confusion in Violette’s eyes when he’d first said it. "Mr. Griffin, do you even like me?"

"I apologize," he had replied. "I’ve never truly fallen for anyone before, so I can’t put a name to this feeling. But I can say one thing for certain: I admire you."

*Admire.*

It was the perfect word—a strategic retreat that allowed for a tactical advance.

Violette had asked, "Admire what, exactly?"

Was it the effortless grace she held at her studio? Her meticulous, razor-sharp work ethic? Her hidden, spirited wit? Or was it that single, fleeting glimpse of her the first time they met?

Roman wasn’t sure.

He was a man who prided himself on honesty, and constructing a lie had already cost him enough effort. So he’d laid it out plainly: "Whether it’s admiration or something deeper, it doesn’t matter. Compatibility is the hardest part of any relationship."

He admitted, even now, that there had been a bitter edge of resentment toward Blake Pierce in that statement.

Violette had lowered her gaze. "You sound like you’ve had plenty of experience."

"The rules of engagement between people are essentially the same," Roman had said.

"And what if we aren't compatible?"

Roman had paused, then spoken with chilling certainty. "My judgment has never failed me. Ms. Ellis, I’ll be waiting for your answer."

...

His marriage to Violette had been built on a foundation of his own deception.

Roman wasn’t nearly as patient or as noble as he had claimed to be. And now, he was reaping the bitter harvest of his own seeds. He had staged the performance of a magnanimous husband, and now, even if his teeth were shattered, he had to swallow the pain in silence. It was the one situation in his otherwise flawless life where he felt utterly powerless.

After Dax Murphy finished speaking, Roman could only offer a hollow, mirthless smile. He pressed a thumb against his temple; the throbbing in his skull was relentless, and his nerves were firing like a drum kit. The two cups of coffee he’d downed earlier were accelerating his heart rate to a frantic, sickening rhythm—he could hear his own blood rushing in his ears like a rising tide.

Dax looked concerned. "Are you alright, boss?"

Roman surged to his feet, losing his usual, composed veneer. "I’m leaving."

"I... I’ll walk you out."

This time, Roman stopped him at the office door. He didn’t want company.

As he watched Roman’s silhouette disappear, Dax pulled out his phone and opened a group chat that had been dormant for days: *Anyone up for cards later?*

The others replied: *This is a gossip thread, Dax. You’re in the wrong place.*

Dax: *Asking you lot anyway. Roman won't be coming.*

Others: *Why?*

Dax: *Intuition. He looks like he’s ready to kill someone.*

The others were free, so they made plans for after work.

The golf course at The Azure Club was already covered in fresh turf. With the holiday season approaching, the club was dripping in opulence, the course lit up at night as brightly as high noon.

Dax leaned against the window, lighting a cigarette. "So, they’re actually turning this into a real course?"

"What else? Roman paid for it. If he wanted to turn it into a pig farm, he could."

"A pig farm would be a bit much." Dax flicked the ash, his tone shifting. "Is that tennis player still in Deepwater?"

Because of Roman, the guys had been keeping an eye on The Tour. A few of them were tennis enthusiasts—or at least, they liked to pretend. Tennis was seen as a "high-society" sport, and even if they didn’t care for the game, they’d occasionally book a court just for the photos to look the part. They were keeping tabs on the star players, trying to network.

"He’s still around! But I heard he’s heading out for his next match soon."

Dax smiled, extinguishing his cigarette. "Stubborn bastard."

...

"Stubborn bastard."

As Violette finished organizing her files to head home, Marilyn Stone walked by and muttered the words.

Violette turned to see Marilyn standing by the window, peering down at the parking garage.

"What was that?"

Marilyn pulled the blinds, leaving a thin slit to look through. She pointed down toward the parking lot. "See that car? It’s been parked down there every few days. Tinted windows, no lights on—it’s like a ghost."

Marilyn had been hyper-vigilant ever since she’d been accosted. She lowered her voice. "You don't think it's another one of those trolls, do you?"

"That seems unlikely," Violette said. "We’re in the middle of a media storm right now."

"Exactly. Because it's a storm, everyone assumes no one would be stupid enough to stir up trouble. That’s when they strike, and that’s when we get complacent." Marilyn looked like a woman who had cracked a secret code. "Look, you’re already being complacent, aren't you?"

Violette tucked her files into her bag and walked to the window to take a look.

It was a black sedan. In the front seat, a man’s brawny arm rested on the steering wheel, his fingers drumming against the dashboard with a restless, impatient energy.

There was someone in the car, waiting, motionless for a long time.

Violette checked the station’s internal group chat. Aside from the night-shift crew, everyone had clocked out. Only a few floors in the building were still lit.

Was the person they were waiting for still inside?

Violette reached over and pulled Marilyn’s hand back, letting the blinds snap shut.

"Which way are you heading?"

Marilyn shrugged. "My car is parked right next to his, which is why I’ve been keeping such a close eye on him."

"I'll walk down with you." Violette picked up the desk phone to call security, then patted her bag. "I’ve got pepper spray in here."

By the time they reached the elevator, a security guard was already waiting for them. The three of them crossed the lobby toward the exit.

"I’ll see you to your car first," Violette said, her hand resting on the zipper of her tote bag, her index finger hooked around the canister of pepper spray inside.

She wasn't going to lie—she was terrified. Her fingers trembled as she took those steps toward the black sedan. The arm resting on the dashboard looked powerful, the man attached to it likely large and dangerous. If this was a real threat, the three of them might not be enough to stop him.

The security guard felt it too; he was gripping his baton so hard his knuckles had gone white.

The last few steps felt like an eternity. Just as Marilyn was about to hit the unlock button on her key fob, the sedan beside them let out a sharp *chirp*. Marilyn jumped back toward her own hood.

The back door of the sedan slid open automatically, the harsh glare of the streetlights cutting into the dark interior.

They saw a flash of black athletic fabric, a pair of limited-edition sneakers. A foot stepped onto the pavement.

A young man in a bucket hat emerged, his face half-hidden in shadow, save for a thin line of lips and a sharp, angular jawline.

He stood well over six feet, towering over them, yet as he looked at Violette, his posture seemed to shrink. He stood there with a strange, aimless vulnerability—as if he were trying to please her.

Violette exhaled sharply, her hand falling away from the bag.

"Why are you here?"

The security guard didn't know him, but the tone of her voice told him this was a familiar face. He waved a hand and let out a long breath. "If you don't need me, I'm heading back."

Marilyn’s car was right there, but she couldn't just walk away—she had to pass right between them. She was dying for the drama.

"Oh, look at that. A big-time star," Marilyn said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

Blake Pierce glanced between Violette and Marilyn. It was clear that Violette didn't care to hide from her colleague. If there was something to be said, she didn't mind an audience.

"I sent you a message, but you didn't reply. So I thought I’d wait and see if you came out."

Blake’s voice was low, his throat still raspy from training. His current demeanor was like a courtier waiting in the cold for a shred of royal attention.

"I brought a complete copy of the legal documents; I need your signature. I’m leaving Deepwater, and I haven't found a proper agent to handle this yet, so I thought..."

He looked up, his eyes stark and clear in the streetlight.

"You don't mind, do you?"