Emotionally, Violette preferred to keep her distance, but when a face-to-face was necessary, she didn't believe in stalling.

Logically, she knew these legal documents were drafted with her best interests in mind; to act aloof now would be unnecessarily cruel. She gave a small nod, earning a look of profound relief from Blake. He tugged at the brim of his hat, pulling it lower to shroud half his face in shadow.

"The files are in the car. Want to go through them now, or take them home?"

Taking them home meant a repeat performance of this exchange later. Violette preferred to cut through the noise like a blade. "Now is fine."

Marilyn, hovering in the wings, finally caught the drift. She crossed her arms, leaning against the hood of her sedan. "About time. You’ve been swallowing insults for so long, even I’m exhausted watching you. But there are so many of them—can you really sue them all?"

It was a casual remark, but the word "you" gave Blake a sudden, irrational surge of hope. It had been an eternity since anyone had grouped him and Violette together like that. For a fleeting second, it felt as though their destinies were still intertwined.

His expression softened. "It’ll take some effort."

"Some" was an understatement. As Violette had suspected, this wasn’t a task for a small team; what she held now was merely a drop in the bucket. Blake had steeled himself for a long, grinding legal battle, starting with the accounts that had spewed the most toxic filth.

Bathed in the warm glow of the car’s reading light, Violette flipped through the pages.

"I’ll text you the lawyer’s contact info," Blake said, his voice low. "If you’re unhappy with anything, let him know."

"There’s nothing to complain about," Violette replied.

The amber light highlighted the fine, soft fuzz along her jawline. The atmosphere was so serene, so intimate, that even the air felt hesitant to disturb it. Blake stood by silently, acting as a human shield against the cool night breeze.

Before getting out of the car, he’d been wearing his earbuds. A punchy, rhythmic track had been playing—a band Violette used to love. Now, the silence amplified the faint, muffled thrum of the drums still leaking from the cord draped against his neck, a phantom wall between them.

Marilyn had already left. The driver was Blake’s man.

For the short time she spent under that light, it felt like the final moment of solitude he’d get before leaving Deepwater. He wanted to say something, anything, but the memory of her earlier coldness caught in his throat. Frustrated, he yanked the earbuds off and tossed them aside.

The drumming stopped. The last bridge between them vanished.

Violette looked up at the perfect moment. "Do I sign here?"

"Right there." Blake took the cap off the pen and handed it to her. "I’ll keep you posted on the progress."

"I don't really care about the rest," Violette said plainly. "As long as it doesn't hurt the people around me."

"But I care."

Blake reached out as if to touch her, but his hand hung suspended in the night air. A sharp, stinging ache hit the back of his throat. Terrified she’d notice, he turned away to stare at the streetlamp. It was late December in Deepwater, but the air remained stiflingly mild. Insects circled the bulb in a monotonous, dizzying loop—over and over, like moths to a flame, like a man trying to stop a charging train with his bare hands.

He drew a shaky breath, burying the bitterness. He wanted to repent for his past mistakes.

...

It was nearly eleven when Violette reached home.

The foyer was lit, and the glow spilled into the living room, a warm, golden path that followed her inside. There wasn't a single dark corner to be found.

Usually, Roman would be there to meet her if she was out this late. But since her schedule had been so erratic lately, they had reached an agreement: she would drive herself, and if anything changed, she would notify him immediately.

Roman hadn’t liked it at first—not after the attempt on Marilyn’s life—but he couldn't argue with her persistence.

"Your company is launching that new system," she’d reasoned. "I don’t know when I’ll be off. Sometimes I leave on a whim. I can't have you waiting around in the parking garage forever."

"I can handle my business from the car."

"But I don't like being waited on," Violette had said, batting her eyelashes. "Once or twice is fine, but if it happens every night, it’ll weigh on me."

It was a phantom burden, yet it successfully held Roman at bay. He went home as planned, though his texts were a constant, rhythmic pulse throughout her evening.

Roman: *What time are you thinking?*

Roman: *I’m home. What kind of fruit do you want?*

Roman: *I made a fruit salad. Let me know when you're close so I can take the yogurt out of the fridge.*

Roman: *It’s too late. I’m heading out to get you.*

She couldn't blame Blake for noting she didn't reply—Violette hadn't seen a single one of these until she stepped through her own front door.

She walked through the house, searching for Roman. Finding nothing, she unlocked her phone. A tidal wave of unread messages greeted her.

The last one was from twenty-five minutes ago, saying he was leaving to pick her up. If he’d left immediately, he would have arrived at the studio just as she was pulling away. She hadn't seen his car, so they must have missed each other by a matter of seconds.

She dialed his number. He picked up instantly. His voice was steady, resonant against the backdrop of the night.

"You’re home?"

"Yeah, just got in," Violette said. "I didn't reply to your texts—why didn't you just call? You really went all the way to the studio? Where are you now?"

"Already on my way back. The security guard said you’d just left when I pulled up." He sounded completely unfazed, as if he were just stating the weather. "I figured you were in the recording booth and couldn't check your phone. Calling would have just been a bother, wouldn't it?"

He ended the sentence with a soft, dry chuckle, as if amused by their mutual near-miss.

Violette felt a sharp, heavy tug in her chest. She had never imagined someone could be this patient, this accommodating. When she was in school, her father, Charles, would wait for half an hour before snapping, "Didn't I tell you to have your things ready? You’re slow as a snail. I’m not picking you up next time."

Even in her last relationship, she’d been spoiled—she’d dump all her shopping bags on Blake, and he’d end up carrying them, laughing and grumbling, "Am I your boyfriend or your butler?"

Why was Roman like this? No temper. No demands.

Violette wondered: If she had waited for someone all night only for them to ignore her texts, she would have long ago given up and gone about her own business. And that’s not even mentioning the fact that he’d driven out to get her, turned up empty-handed, and was now driving home without a single word of complaint.

Was he a saint? Someone sent from above just to play savior to her mess of a life?

Violette waited by the door for him to return.

The electronic lock chimed with a crisp melody. Before the sequence could finish, she yanked the door open from the inside. Roman was still reaching for the handle, his hand hanging in mid-air.

He looked up, stunned. "Were you heading out?"

Violette didn't know what had come over her. The frantic, impatient pounding in her heart, which had been silent since the moment she realized he wasn't home, suddenly surged again the second she heard his key in the lock. She didn't understand it. She couldn't explain it.

Before Roman could even process her presence, she lunged forward and slammed into his chest, burying herself in his arms.