The Morning He Forgot to Leave

Roman Griffin pulled on a pair of slate-gray pajamas and climbed into bed.

In a few hours, the new system launch event would begin. He had already delegated the heavy lifting at the company, yet as he drifted toward sleep, he habitually picked up his tablet to fire off a few final messages.

Violette Ellis turned off her bedside lamp first.

Seeing the room plunge into darkness, he reflexively locked his screen. Violette was curled on her side under the duvet. Sensing his hesitation, she cracked open one heavy, exhausted eyelid. "Are you turning in?"

"Yes."

The moment he answered, he realized he’d only sent half of his last message. He sat back up. "I need to head to the study for a moment. Get some sleep."

Violette managed a sleepy nod, but her eyes were already dragging shut, heavy as lead, before he’d even reached the bedroom door. He spent five minutes clearing his inbox. When he returned, she was already dead to the world, curled peacefully on the left side of the bed.

***

With no lingering burdens on her mind, Violette slept remarkably well. She woke up at 10:30 a.m., having clocked a solid eight hours.

Her stomach felt hollow. She rolled out of bed and made for the kitchen with a bare, sleep-tousled face. As expected, there was breakfast warming in the steamer, though no sticky note was left behind. She tilted her head, listening, and was startled by the low murmur of a man’s voice coming from the study.

Wait. Roman was home?

Wasn’t today the big day for V-Oasis? She had booked a delivery from the florist days ago. Since Roman was allergic to fresh flowers, she’d compromised and ordered a money tree. It was scheduled to be delivered to the launch event under the name of an "anonymous Ms. S."

When the phone call ended, Violette knocked on the study door. Roman opened it almost immediately.

"Couldn't sleep in a little longer?" he asked.

Violette shook her head.

"Ate breakfast yet?"

She shook her head again.

Roman let out a soft, dry laugh. "What’s wrong? Have you become a silent, decorative bride?"

What an outdated trope. Typical of him.

Violette leaned against the doorframe. "Why didn’t you go to the office?"

"Someone keeps looking at me like I’m some kind of heartless capitalist," Roman said with a mock-weary shrug. "Twig, I’m offended."

Her intention hadn't been to drive him to work, but as he uttered the name "Twig," her face flushed a deep, burning crimson, and she reflexively touched her ear. She asked, "How did you even know that name?"

"My sources are simple. Either I heard it from you, or your parents mentioned it by accident."

For some reason, Roman’s tone felt incredibly measured—almost deliberate. She searched his face for a hint of guile, but his expression was as unreadable as ever.

"Did my parents tell you?" Violette asked.

"Fill your stomach first."

He wasn't ready to talk. He ushered her toward the dining room. As Violette ate, Roman picked up the conversation again. He explained that he’d been chatting with Charles Ellis in the living room once, and Charles had let the name slip. When Roman probed further, Charles had laughed, saying, "We all called her that when she was a little girl. As she got older, she developed some kind of temper and refused to let anyone call her that anymore."

Roman had laughed it off then, mentioning that he’d had his own rebellious phase at that age, but he’d tucked the name away.

—Twig.

He finished the story and looked at her. "Twig is a lovely name. Do you hate it when I call you that?"

The sound made her skin prickle. "No."

"The spring grass is as green as silk, the Qin mulberry bows its verdant twigs," Roman recited slowly. "It is truly a beautiful name."

Violette felt a sudden, sharp ache in her chest. She froze, lifting her gaze to meet his.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

She quickly dropped her eyes, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Was it fate? They had actually used the same line of poetry to interpret the meaning of her name.

How strange. Was Deepwater having a heatwave? Had the city drifted closer to the equator?

Violette fanned her face with her hand. "I just... I think your poetry reading is, well... quite pleasant."

It wasn't just his reading; it was the way his voice made anything he said sound like a benediction. His privileged upbringing gave him an inherent, effortless grace—he was always composed, always deliberate. To Violette, he was the picture of a refined gentleman, though she had no idea that to others, that same calm, cold tone was as chilling as a frost-covered mountain peak.

With the "mountain peak" home, she didn't bring up the launch event again.

That afternoon, they wandered through the Deepwater Art Gallery. By the time they stepped out, the sun was already bleeding into the horizon.

Violette was just wondering how they should handle dinner when Roman said, "It’s New Year’s Day. Want to head over to my place for a meal?"

She stood frozen on the sidewalk. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"If I had told you early, you would have spent the whole day spiraling," Roman said. "It’s just a meal. Home cooking. No reason to be nervous."

So that was why he’d taken the day off.

But could a dinner at the Griffin estate ever be considered "home cooking"? Violette felt her nerves fraying. "We should... we should stop by the mall. I need to buy a gift."

"Not necessary," Roman said. "I’ve already got something in the trunk."

He had truly covered every base. For him, this was just a simple dinner. For her, it felt like an inspection.

The Bentley glided out of the city, winding around South Lake and up into the hills. Past the halfway point, the landscape was punctuated by security checkpoints and high-end private gated zones. Beyond the layers of security lay vast, sweeping golf greens. From the higher elevations, one could overlook the urban sprawl and the shimmering surface of South Lake. Below, tucked into the shoreline, was a small private dock where a few monohull yachts bobbed on the water.

All of it was Griffin property.

The car climbed until it reached a cluster of white-walled, peaked-roof villas in a subtropical style. The property was encircled by infinity pools; the water’s surface shimmered, reflecting the black lacquer of the Bentley like scattered stars.

Seeing the old butler waiting quietly under the portico, Violette felt her palms turn damp. "Is there going to be a crowd today?"

Roman reached across the center console and caught her hand. "Not many. Just family."

"Just family" sounded like an army to her. She took a deep breath, trying to keep the faces of the Griffin clan from flashing through her mind. Having a father-in-law who wouldn't even crack a smile at his own son's wedding was already terrifying enough.

She couldn't bring herself to think about Patrick Griffin’s stern, unyielding expression.

Perhaps sensing how much she was telegraphing her anxiety, Roman didn't let go of her hand once they stepped out of the car. She tried to pull away twice, but he only tightened his grip.

"Try to behave," she hissed under her breath, pasting on a polite smile.

He squeezed her hand even harder. "If my parents see how close we are, they’ll only be relieved."

Violette knew less about the Griffin family than she did about Roman. She still couldn't fathom how a family of such status had agreed to this marriage. Even if, as he claimed, his family was anxious for him to settle down, there were plenty of better candidates than her—especially considering her messy, tangled history with Blake Pierce.

"Don't worry," Roman murmured. "My father is actually quite kind."

Violette nodded like a bobblehead doll. "Uh-huh, sure."

Internally, she was screaming: *That’s such a pathetic attempt at comfort, Roman. Do you even believe that yourself?*

When Patrick Griffin appeared on the porch, offered a single, stiff nod to Violette, and then immediately turned his cold gaze on Roman with a clipped "Come to the study," Violette stopped believing entirely.

Roman didn't seem bothered. He politely declined the servants, escorted her to the living room, and leaned down to press a lingering kiss to her temple as a goodbye.

Usually, his little gestures helped her relax. Not today.

Violette’s senses were heightened to the point of pain. She heard the soft thud of footsteps climbing the stairs toward the study, then a pause. She looked up and, through the white jade balustrades of the landing, caught a glimpse of Patrick Griffin’s impeccably tailored trousers.

She felt like she was going to faint right there on the rug.

[]