Before she started high school, Violette Ellis was known to everyone as Twig.

The reasoning was simple enough: as an infant, the sound she made when learning to talk sounded remarkably like a chirp. Her parents, being the superstitious sort, believed names had to align with the five elements. Violette was missing "wood" in her chart, and since "Qiao" implies a tree, they decided to lean into the nature theme. The chirping sound was refined into "Twig," a nod to the delicate, budding branches of spring.

The name was officially retired just before middle school.

Her classmates had mocked her, relentlessly imitating the sound of a mouse. Violette had tried to defend the name, citing a classic poem about willow branches and spring silk, but it was useless.

"You’re just a romantic trying to make a mouse sound poetic! You’re a Twig, all right—a little rodent!"

Violette decided that arguing with idiots was a waste of breath. That night, she issued a formal declaration: she was grown up now. No more "Twig." From then on, she was to be addressed by her full name—Violette Ellis.

Charles and Catherine, having used the nickname for years, took a long time to break the habit. They eventually settled on calling her Violette, or, in moments of intimacy, Vee. But once in a while, a slip of the tongue would still occur. These days, Violette didn't care much about what people thought, and since "Twig" and "Vee" had essentially split the first twenty years of her life down the middle, the former had almost entirely faded into obscurity.

If it weren't for the skyscrapers in the Financial District lighting up with that specific, singular message, even Violette would have forgotten she had ever been called Twig at all.

She smiled, feeling a genuine warmth for that girl from the past who was receiving such a public blessing.

Beside her, others were debating the display.

"That's a hell of a stunt. Which young heir is chasing his wife this time? I heard the LED ads on the Financial Tower cost thirty thousand a day. How much is this total? Do you think he got a bulk discount?"

"A discount? You think the guy who owns that much of the city cares about a markdown? Every penny saved is an insult to his status!"

"Fair point. But look—it’s not just the Financial Tower. Check the rest of the skyline! Every major building in the district is lit up!"

"So what?" the first person grunted. "Does it change anything for us, the cogs in this machine?"

The conversation petered out in a sigh of resignation. Violette did a quick calculation in her mind. Same name, entirely different fates.

The midnight program was moving into the final stages. Violette received the cue and snapped back into professional mode. Emma Fox, her intern, downed the last of her coffee, forcing herself to be a productive cog in the machine.

The broadcast wrapped up just before one in the morning.

Standing at the observation deck of the Deepwater Spire, Violette looked down. The plaza below, once illuminated like high noon, was thinning out. Only the flickering red and blue of police patrol lights remained, keeping a lonely vigil over the aftermath of the holiday.

The long, grueling day was finally coming to an end.

Violette helped clear the equipment and pulled out her phone. The group chat was still buzzing with colleagues cracking jokes to stay awake, wishing each other a smooth year ahead with fewer night shifts. Violette sent a polite greeting before clearing her notifications.

There were a few personal messages waiting. She replied to her parents, telling them she was finally heading home. She sent a generic "Happy New Year" to a few friends.

Then there was the message from Blake Pierce. It had been sent exactly at midnight. The text was identical to last year: *Happy New Year.*

Only this time, he’d dropped the "sister" honorific.

Violette hesitated, then tapped out a brief reply: *You too. Happy New Year.*

Descending four hundred meters in the elevator took nearly two minutes. She leaned against the glass, scrolling through her phone. The contact at the top of her list usually pinged her every day, but today, it was deathly silent.

The elevator felt cramped, the air thick with too many people. Violette felt a sudden, sharp tightness in her chest. She opened the chat window, ready to type something, when her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

When she saw the caller ID, the heaviness in her chest vanished. She didn't even have time to untangle her thoughts before her fingers had already hit the answer button.

"You haven't gone home yet?"

"Are you finished?" Roman Griffin’s voice was steady. "I’m waiting for you in the plaza."

"The plaza?" Violette blinked. "How long have you been there?"

"Since dinner," Roman said. "Around seven o'clock."

Seven?

That meant he had been waiting at the base of the tower for nearly six hours.

Violette’s heart hammered against her ribs. The elevator suddenly felt agonizingly slow. There were still twenty floors to go. She pressed her lips together; she couldn't risk speaking—her voice would surely give her away.

She endured the descent in silence. As soon as the doors opened, she bypassed her colleagues and sprinted toward the parking garage.

At one in the morning, the garage was mostly empty. Roman’s black Bentley sat in the shadows, looking jarringly out of place amidst the festive decorations of the lot. She recognized it instantly and bolted toward the vehicle, yanking the door open.

"You really waited?"

A streetlamp stood behind her, catching the strands of her hair and turning them to gold. She looked exhausted, but her mouth was curled into a genuine, brilliant smile.

Roman leaned over, his shadow looming over her as he took her bag from her.

"The car is here, and so am I. What else could you possibly doubt?"

"But I was working late. Why come so early? Wasn't it boring?"

Roman glanced at her, his expression unreadable but softened. "I’m a resident of this city too. Am I not allowed to celebrate the New Year?"

"I didn't mean it like that," Violette said, feeling a flush of embarrassment. "It’s just... you’re so busy. I didn't think you were the type to spend hours waiting around for a celebration."

"Someone here is working until one in the morning. I wonder who’s actually busier."

His voice was a low rumble. Violette wondered if she’d misheard him; there was a flicker of genuine grievance in his tone. No, she was definitely just imagining it.

She climbed in and shut the door. The cabin smelled faintly of cold pine and cedar. Violette knew that scent well—every time she felt tired or overwhelmed, she found herself drifting toward that fragrance, her heart instantly settling the moment she caught a whiff of it.

Roman pulled her into his arms, his chin resting against the top of her head. "Tired?"

"Happy New Year," Violette muffled into his chest, her arms wrapping around him.

Roman didn't respond for a long time. When she finally looked up, her nose brushed against his jawline and caught the sharp prickle of stubble. Roman was always perfectly groomed; she reached up, feeling the slight roughness with curiosity, and nudged him with her nose.

"Why didn't you say it back?"

The question was nonsensical, but Roman understood immediately.

"I did," he murmured.

"When?"

Another stretch of silence. Then, lightning struck. Violette felt a sudden, intuitive shift. She tilted her head back, meeting his gaze.

In the dark, depthless pools of his eyes, she saw her own reflection—and something else. Something she hadn't known how to name before, but as she looked at him now, she realized it was a deep, quiet, and terrifyingly intense devotion.

Her racing heart refused to slow down.

Twig?

Was the "Twig" on the skyline… her?

She sat up straight, her mind reeling in shock.

"You…"

"Happy New Year," Roman said softly, his voice a vibration against her skin. "Twig."