As soon as the question left his lips, Roman regretted it.

Some things are better left unsaid. It wasn't as if he hadn't known from the start. He simply wanted to continue living their married life in the same quiet, undisturbed rhythm they had these past few days. Why bring it into the light? Once the truth was laid bare, there would be nothing left but petty arguments and cold silence.

The simplest path was to play the fool. As long as he acted oblivious, things would remain as they were: Violette Ellis sleeping by his side every night, his wedding ring resting on her finger, and the world addressing her as "Mrs. Griffin."

What more could he possibly want? He had started this arrangement with such lofty promises—claiming he didn't care about her past. Yet, only a few months in, he found his boundaries eroding, his possessiveness ballooning. How was he any different from a common, jealous husband?

Roman kept his face composed as he reached out to wipe a smudge of durian from the corner of her lip. The pungent, heavy scent drifted onto him, but he was too preoccupied to notice. He felt a sting of regret and a sudden, sharp chill of fear. Thank god he had built a fallback plan before hearing her answer.

His remark about "not being finished" had been an awkward slip, especially since he could see her still chewing, but that seemingly inconsequential comment had saved him. Now, he clung to his self-deception: the denial she offered must have been in response to his comment about the food.

After that, neither of them spoke. He remembered she had been murmuring something else before he interrupted—she’d had something to say. Roman waited patiently.

Once Violette finished the fruit, she spat the seed into a fresh trash bag. She turned to rinse her mouth, eyes darting toward her phone, which had just lit up on the counter. From his angle, he could only see the screen flashing; her body blocked the message content, but he knew an iMessage had arrived.

Violette was, indeed, looking at a message. But when she saw who it was from, her reaction was purely instinctive—she bent over to shield the screen. She finished rinsing, turned around with an effortless, nonchalant air, and tucked the phone into her pocket.

Roman remained standing where he was.

As Violette walked past him, she remarked, "Why are you standing there like a statue? Guard duty?"

"Work’s been heavy today. Sometimes I just need a moment to zone out when I get home."

It was a plausible excuse. Violette found it relatable; she often spent her own days feeling like a spinning top and just wanted to find a corner to collapse in, brain dead and body idle. Though, she was lazier about it—she’d sprawl out on the sofa, while Roman always stood with that rigid, military posture.

She moved on, crossing the living room before ducking into the bathroom.

As the glass door clicked shut, Violette pulled out her phone again. She didn't know why she was hiding it; her current contact with Blake Pierce was strictly professional, completely above-board. Yet, checking his messages under Roman’s nose felt inexplicably illicit.

She opened the two unread messages.

Blake: Are you free?

Blake: I lost my wired earbuds. I think I left them in the car last night while I was reviewing those files. I remember using them then. Could you check if they're still there?

Earbuds?

Violette immediately pictured the wired pair sitting on the entryway console at home.

Violette: The white ones? The wired ones?

Blake: Yes.

Violette: ...

Blake: ?

The notification sound was too loud; she muted the phone.

Violette: It's nothing. Send me your address, and I’ll have them mailed to you.

Blake: I haven’t left. I’m still in Deepwater.

Violette: I’ll send a local courier to deliver them.

Blake didn’t reply for a long time. Just as she was about to put her phone away, he finally pinged an address—the same hotel as before.

Violette replied with a curt "Okay" and locked her screen.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, the living room was empty, the light glowing from beneath the study door. Violette didn't disturb him. She walked straight to the entryway. She was relieved she hadn't mentioned the earbuds to Roman; he hadn't seemed to notice them.

With a quick motion, she swept the earbuds into her bag. She’d have a courier pick them up from the studio tomorrow.

***

December 31st.

The final day of the year.

Deepwater hadn't hosted a formal countdown in years, but this time, the festivities were centered beneath the Deepwater Tower. Standing at over 1,300 feet, the tower offered the best vantage point for the South Lake fireworks. With a drone-led countdown and fireworks launching from miles away, the event had drawn most of the city’s population to the streets.

Security was suffocating. If not for the press passes hanging around their necks, Violette and Emma would never have cleared the barricades to reach the plaza at the base of the tower.

Even though Violette had stepped back from the main desk, the network still paired her and Marilyn for high-profile holidays—one anchored in the studio, the other managing live field reporting.

Before the sun went down, Marilyn sent her a text. Beyond the work-related logistics, she added a simple note: The item has been delivered.

Violette replied with an "OK" emoji. She’d been out of the house since dawn, running off her feet. There was no way she could have waited at the station for a courier, so she’d left the earbuds with Marilyn.

Marilyn, who knew the whole story, had just looked at her with a knowing glint in her eyes and nodded.

It seemed the earbuds were back in their owner’s hands.

The ticking time bomb had been defused. Violette felt a weight lift. Her recent back-and-forth with Blake was finally over. Now, she just wanted to spend New Year’s Day relaxing at home.

Maybe she could take Roman to an art exhibit?

The thought crossed her mind, only to be immediately dismissed. It was January 1st—the V-Oasis system update was launching; he wouldn't have a spare second.

Violette couldn't help but smile at her own silliness. Every time Roman had joined her for an outing, it was because he had business nearby, an afterthought rather than a priority. Why was she pushing her luck, wanting him to drop his work to entertain her?

It must be his natural, gentlemanly demeanor that kept giving her the wrong impression.

"Violette, come check the levels!" someone called from nearby.

She snapped out of her reverie.

The last day of the year; everyone was eager to catch the spectacle. Looking down from the base of the Deepwater Tower, the plaza was a shifting sea of black dots. The crowds were tightening, cordoned off by police tape as night descended.

Violette threw herself into work. She had two segments: a live broadcast during the evening news and a late-night outdoor stream. Both were at the tower, requiring six hours of continuous coverage.

By the time the second segment was about to start, Emma was slumped on the floor, exhausted. Violette was holding up better, though her resolve was fueled by pure, stubborn professional grit. She began retouching her makeup, running through the script one last time.

There were only a few minutes left until midnight. Reporters from other networks were in the middle of their own live feeds.

Violette glanced at her watch.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

Emma tugged at her sleeve with a weary laugh. "Boss, this time last year, I was at home with a Coke and a bowl of cherries, watching the New Year’s gala with my parents."

This time last year?

Violette remembered. She had been at the station, and Blake had been in the parking lot below.

The moment the clock struck twelve, he had sent her a text: *Happy New Year, Sister.*

She hadn’t seen the message until an hour later, once she had finished her work.

But tonight, the final day of the year.

20 seconds. 19. 18...

10, 9, 8...

3, 2, 1...

The silent night sky erupted in a blaze of color. Massive fireworks burst over South Lake, saturating the skyline in vibrant hues. Through the heavy, reinforced glass, Violette couldn't hear the roar of the crowd or the cheers rising from the plaza.

Emma pointed suddenly. "Boss, look over there!"

Violette followed her gaze. On the skyscrapers directly across from the Deepwater Tower, the digital facades of the Financial District were all glowing. It didn't look like a public holiday slogan. It looked like a private message to a lover: *Zhizhi, Happy New Year.*

Zhizhi?

Violette thought, *what a coincidence.*

It was the nickname she had been called when she was a child.

She wondered who the "Zhizhi" was who was being loved so dearly.