[{"data":1,"prerenderedAt":10},["ShallowReactive",2],{"viewer-data-2603220ECDF1-593":3},{"id":4,"number":5,"name":6,"content":7,"isLocked":8,"price":9,"hasRead":8},593,35,"Chapter 35: A Collision at the Threshold","\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Emotionally, Violette preferred to keep her distance, but when a face-to-face was necessary, she didn't believe in stalling.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"The files are in the car. Want to go through them now, or take them home?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Taking them home meant a repeat performance of this exchange later. Violette preferred to cut through the noise like a blade. \"Now is fine.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">His expression softened. \"It’ll take some effort.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Bathed in the warm glow of the car’s reading light, Violette flipped through the pages.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"I’ll text you the lawyer’s contact info,\" Blake said, his voice low. \"If you’re unhappy with anything, let him know.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"There’s nothing to complain about,\" Violette replied.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Marilyn had already left. The driver was Blake’s man.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">The drumming stopped. The last bridge between them vanished.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Violette looked up at the perfect moment. \"Do I sign here?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"Right there.\" Blake took the cap off the pen and handed it to her. \"I’ll keep you posted on the progress.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"I don't really care about the rest,\" Violette said plainly. \"As long as it doesn't hurt the people around me.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"But I care.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">He drew a shaky breath, burying the bitterness. He wanted to repent for his past mistakes.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">...\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">It was nearly eleven when Violette reached home.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Roman hadn’t liked it at first—not after the attempt on Marilyn’s life—but he couldn't argue with her persistence.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"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.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"I can handle my business from the car.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"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.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Roman: *What time are you thinking?*\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Roman: *I’m home. What kind of fruit do you want?*\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Roman: *I made a fruit salad. Let me know when you're close so I can take the yogurt out of the fridge.*\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Roman: *It’s too late. I’m heading out to get you.*\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">She walked through the house, searching for Roman. Finding nothing, she unlocked her phone. A tidal wave of unread messages greeted her.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">She dialed his number. He picked up instantly. His voice was steady, resonant against the backdrop of the night.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"You’re home?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"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?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">\"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?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">He ended the sentence with a soft, dry chuckle, as if amused by their mutual near-miss.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Why was Roman like this? No temper. No demands.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Was he a saint? Someone sent from above just to play savior to her mess of a life?\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Violette waited by the door for him to return.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">He looked up, stunned. \"Were you heading out?\"\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">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.\u003C/p>\u003Cp class=\"chapter-paragraph\">Before Roman could even process her presence, she lunged forward and slammed into his chest, burying herself in his arms.\u003C/p>",false,0,1774272918170]