Violette Ellis did not often initiate an embrace.

But tonight, she was raw, clumsy, and frantic. There was no gentle spring breeze in her touch, nor any lingering sweetness; instead, there was a jagged, desperate edge that effectively silenced the words Roman Griffin had been holding back.

By the time he snapped out of his reverie, his hand had already clamped onto her lower back to keep her from slipping. Under his palm, the thin cashmere felt deceptively soft, but he knew exactly what lay beneath that layer. She had hollows at the base of her spine—two shallow, haunting indentations that appeared whenever she leaned back. They were exactly where his hand rested now.

To him, they were a fatal whirlpool.

Roman lowered his head, pressing his lips to her forehead. Violette tilted her head up, meeting him halfway and intercepting the kiss before it could land on her brow. A butterfly kiss, light and fleeting, brushed against the corner of his mouth.

Her eyes were bright.

"I saw the fruit platter you left in the kitchen."

So, that was the reason for this fervent display.

Roman laughed softly. "Is this my reward?"

"What reward?" Violette looked genuinely bewildered for a moment before the realization dawned on her. "Do you think a reward like this is too cheap?"

Roman hoisted her up and turned, his free hand reaching behind him to click the door shut. The lock engaged with a heavy, final *thud*. He pressed her against the wood, his nose brushing against her cheek as he left a heavy, lingering kiss there. "I’ll just have to collect a little extra interest to make it worth my while."

A businessman always prioritizes his returns.

Strictly speaking, Roman wasn't a bottom-feeding merchant; he was an investor at the very apex of the food chain, far removed from the stench of copper coins. But a shark is a shark, regardless of the water. He collected his interest in full.

Compared to the heat of the moment, a tray of sliced fruit and a missed evening suddenly felt entirely insignificant.

Once he confirmed that Violette was truly exhausted and fast asleep, Roman pulled on his robe and returned to the entryway.

Two pairs of shoes lay scattered on the floor: his leather loafers and her slippers. Her moonlight-white slippers rested atop his shoes, as if she were stepping on him. He remembered her earlier—barefoot, her toes tracing the line of his calves. He felt a sudden, addictive pull, a craving for more.

Roman crouched down. He straightened her slippers, then began to pick up the items that had fallen when his elbow knocked into them—or perhaps when she had brushed against them.

Car keys, a cardholder, pepper spray, a pack of wet wipes, sanitary pads, lipstick...

His movement froze.

A tangled, knotted mess of a wired earphone cord sat in his palm.

He glanced up, catching sight of the tote bag sitting open on the console table. Inside lay another pair of wireless earbuds—the ones he knew Violette usually used. The mess of white cords in his hand curled around his fingers like a spiderweb, capturing him in its center.

Roman began to despise his own impeccable memory.

He had seen these earphones before. In an era where wireless technology reigned supreme, these thin, white, dangling cords had become a relic of the past, a symbol of inconvenience that had all but vanished from his social circle.

The memory hit him with the force of a physical blow: the stadium. The time seemed to freeze. He remembered Blake Pierce, with these exact wires trailing from his ears.

The air in the room suddenly turned thin, impossible to breathe.

He braced his hands against his knees and stood up, forcing himself to take deep, measured breaths. Violette had been with Blake tonight.

The realization left Roman’s expression hollow for a split second. His temple throbbed, a sharp, needle-like pain digging into his scalp. He suddenly recalled the black sedan he had passed on his way to the station to pick her up. A fleeting glance—he had thought it looked familiar. Now, in the cold light of this discovery, he knew: it was the same nondescript car he had seen Blake riding in once before.

The scenes wove together in his mind, suffocating and precise, confirming every suspicion.

The earphone cord in his palm felt like it was growing thorns, piercing deep into his skin, sharp enough to make his grip falter. Every nerve ending beneath his skin felt raw, as if he were bleeding out.

After a long silence, Roman looked down again.

It was just a pair of headphones.

Where were the thorns? Where was the blood he felt spilling everywhere? Everything was painfully, stubbornly mundane.

He squeezed his hand shut, then forced his fingers to uncurl. With mechanical, calm movements, he straightened the tangled wires, coiled them neatly, and tucked them back into the depths of Violette’s bag.

Next went the keys, the cardholder, the pepper spray.

He noticed the pack of wet wipes was nearly empty. He pulled open the drawer, grabbed a fresh pack, and replaced the old one.

When he finished, the clock struck one.

There were no clocks in the house, yet he could hear the heavy *clang* of a bell echoing in his chest. He stood in the entryway for a long time before finally turning back toward the bedroom.

Violette hadn't moved. She was curled into a ball under the duvet, her breathing slow and steady. Her left hand lay exposed on the pillow, just inches from her face.

In the dim light, Roman’s gaze locked onto the wedding ring on her finger.

It was only then that the lessons from his childhood finally came full circle. He understood, with agonizing clarity, what it meant to lie to oneself.

Seeing the ring, the churning storm of his emotions flattened into a cold, quiet sea.

Roman climbed into bed and lay down beside her. He remembered the first time he’d heard she had a boyfriend—he had dismissed it with a careless, "What does that have to do with me?" while internally, he had thought, with petty malice, *So what if she has a boyfriend? She isn't married to him, is she?*

***

The next morning, before leaving, Violette stood in the entryway, trying to piece together the blur of the previous night.

It had started right here. They hadn't been able to stop kissing. Roman’s kisses were always so forceful, his breath shallow, a far cry from his usual cool, collected demeanor. She remembered being swept away by his rhythm, her lungs burning for air until her head spun.

She had heard a muffled *thud* last night. A sound of something hitting the floor.

In the heat of the moment, she’d only caught a glimpse of white out of the corner of her eye. She’d assumed it was her tote bag on the console.

Now, the bag sat perfectly in place. She unzipped it, finding everything arranged with unnatural neatness. It was as if the noise she’d heard had been a hallucination.

But Violette knew better.

The pack of wet wipes, which had been nearly empty, was brand new. She remembered thinking she needed to replace them, but she hadn't gotten around to it yet. Someone had done it for her.

It was undoubtedly Roman.

Violette combed through the bag with patient curiosity, searching for other "surprises."

Her memory was sharp. Aside from the replaced wipes, the only other thing that caught her eye was the pair of wired earphones. They didn't look new; there was a slight scratch on the right earpiece.

Had he accidentally dropped them into her bag?

Violette thought hard, but she couldn't recall a single moment Roman had ever used wired earphones. But then again, her understanding of Roman was mostly surface-level. What he owned, what he thought about, what he did when he was alone—she knew very little of any of it.

She took the earphones out and set them on the console table.

It was a small thing.

She didn't feel it was necessary to text Roman about it. He was a busy man; he didn't have time for these trivialities.

Besides, when he came home tonight, he would find his "lost and found" sitting right there on the table.