The headphones lay on the foyer console table until Roman returned the following evening.

The moment he walked through the door, he noticed them.

The cord was coiled with clinical precision—a venomous snake waiting for the signal to strike. Just last night, he had tucked them neatly back into the specific compartment of Violette’s bag reserved for her loose odds and ends. They wouldn't have tumbled out on their own. Someone had taken them out.

He stared at the coil of wire, his gaze hardening.

Suddenly, the rhythmic sound of footsteps from the kitchen cut through his thoughts.

Violette poked her head out, a disposable glove on each hand. Her long hair was swept up, though a few stray, silky strands had escaped, clinging to the curve of her neck like soft, dark tendrils. Her eyes were bright and clear, crinkling at the corners as she smiled.

"You're home?"

His military-grade conditioning as an heir kicked in instantly. Before his brain could formulate a genuine reaction, Roman had already plastered on his public mask. Gentle, warm, and impossible to fault.

"What are you up to?"

"I bought a massive durian," Violette said, her voice brimming with excitement. "There were seven cloves just in the first section! It was a steal! I must have a secret talent for this—the durian gods are definitely smiling on me. There’s one more section left—want to try opening it?"

The air was heavy with it. A thick, cloying, tropical funk that clung to the back of the throat.

Roman felt a wave of physiological disgust. He had always detested the fruit, but he had been raised on a diet of stoicism and performative politeness. He didn't like it, but he wouldn't force his preferences on others.

Besides, he had never told Violette what he actually liked.

The only time the subject had come up was before they visited her parents’ home at Bauhinia Bay. Violette had asked what he preferred to eat so Charles could prepare. He’d said he wasn't picky about home-cooked meals.

When she asked if he preferred light or heavy flavors, he’d simply replied, "Whatever your parents enjoy."

"They like things on the sweeter side," she had told him. "They love doing honey-glazed everything."

Roman had nodded. "Me too."

It wasn't Violette’s fault. He had never given her the right information.

With that thought, he unbuckled his watch, set it aside, and rolled up his sleeves as he walked into the kitchen. "How many more cloves do you think are in there?"

"Hmm... probably just one," Violette said. "This part doesn't look very big."

The scent intensified as he entered the kitchen. Roman slowed his breathing, trying to filter the pungent fruit out of the air, searching for the faint, lingering scent of Violette. She wore a delicate orchid-based perfume, but after a full day, it had faded into a faint whisper, nearly impossible to track.

But he found it.

The knot of tension in his chest unspooled. He donned a pair of spare gloves without a word, his expression entirely unreadable. As he pressed his fingers against the jagged thorns of the shell, a sharp pain bit into his palm. He didn't flinch; he just moved more methodically.

He hated durian, yes. But letting Violette handle such sharp, jagged work was worse. It was beneath a husband's station.

Roman pried the final section open with surgical efficiency. He was a quick study; one glance was all he needed to understand the mechanics of the thing. When he placed the two cloves of golden fruit on the serving plate, Violette’s eyes lit up.

"You really are the god of durians! How did you get two cloves out of such a tiny section?"

Roman didn't answer; he just offered a faint, thin-lipped smile.

Violette had already peeled off her gloves. She stood half-crouched, leaning over the counter, peering down at the crowded heap of fruit with intense focus. A second later, her excitement vanished, replaced by a look of distress.

"Nine cloves in total. How are we supposed to finish all this?"

*We?*

Roman felt a flicker in his temple.

"If you like it, you can just take your time with it."

"It won't last long in the fridge—two, maybe three days max. And the calorie count is insane! If I want to finish it by then, I’d have to eat three chunks every single day. I’ll break out in hives!"

Roman tossed his gloves into the bin and bent over to tie up the bag of trash.

"If you don't mind, I’ll take some to the office tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good," Violette said, nodding.

She didn't suspect a thing, only thinking that it must be nice to be an heir who could do whatever he wanted, even eat stinking fruit in a corporate boardroom. She remembered an intern at the station who had bought a durian pastry for lunch. In the open-plan office, someone had started whispering in a pinched, mocking tone.

"Who is that? Don't they know we aren't supposed to eat things that reek?"

The girl had looked so humiliated.

Violette had watched her consider throwing it away, only to look too heartbroken to let it go. Eventually, the girl had climbed the stairs all the way to the rooftop, huddling in the wind just to eat it.

Violette had followed her, pretending she wanted some fresh air, and had asked for a bite.

"Wow, that’s delicious," Violette had said, eyes closing in bliss. "I haven't had a good durian pastry in ages. Where did you get it? Do you have the address?"

The girl had been stunned, eyes rimmed with red, before nodding vigorously. "Yes, yes! Just a second, Ms. Ellis!"

The girl hadn't lasted long under the pressure of the station and had eventually moved on to a different career. But Violette still remembered her—the round face, the way her cheeks puffed out like a hamster’s when she ate.

*Being the boss must be nice,* Violette thought with a sigh. *Regular workers can't even eat a piece of fruit in their own office.*

She pulled open a drawer, grabbed a roll of plastic wrap, and sealed the plate. She couldn't resist sneaking a small piece for herself.

"You maw-row... umph... boss..." she mumbled, the fruit still in her mouth.

Roman paused, tidying up. He turned his head. "Hmm?"

Her mouth full, Violette waved her hand dismissively. "Umph..."

Roman laughed softly. "Finish chewing before you talk."

Violette nodded.

They occupied the kitchen in silence. Roman nudged the faucet open with the back of his hand, washing his hands again and again with methodical patience. Over the sound of the water, he spoke. "I heard from the security team at the station that things still aren't quite safe. From now on, if you’re working late, I’ll come to pick you up."

It was a statement that required no debate—just a nod of agreement or a soft, melodic sound to signal she didn't need the trouble.

That was why Roman hadn't worried about her mouth being full.

Violette gave him that soft, melodic sound.

"They said there was a suspicious black van lurking around yesterday," Roman added. "Did you not know?"

Violette blinked, the answer stuck in her throat.

The water shut off. Roman turned, reaching for a paper towel. He balled it up in his large palm, the paper instantly soaking through with water.

He lifted his eyes, meeting hers in the quiet air of the kitchen. Her mouth was still closed, and a small bulge of durian pushed against her right cheek. As she swallowed, the bulge shifted, tracing a rhythmic path along her jaw.

Roman couldn't help himself; he reached out and poked her cheek.

"Still not finished?"

She was finished, but acting like she wasn't felt like the safest move.

Violette filled her mouth with air, her nose overwhelmed by the sharp, lemony scent of the hand soap on Roman's skin. She felt suffocated by his presence—a clean, sharp scent that masked an overwhelming sense of pressure.

She shook her head, responding to his previous question with that same, soft, melodic hum.

*I don't know.*