Dining at the Griffin household hadn't been the ordeal Violette Ellis expected.

Though she’d remained on edge the entire time, the relief she felt as she watched the blinding, artificial glow of the estate lights fade in the rearview mirror was cut with a strange, lingering melancholy. When she looked back on it, the weight in her chest largely stemmed from her guilt toward Margaret Lewis. She hadn't even brought a thoughtful gift, yet she’d fed the woman’s hopes with a performance of a happy marriage.

As they’d prepared to leave, Margaret had pulled Roman Griffin aside for a private word. It looked like an extension of their dinner conversation, a maternal lecture delivered with the weight of expectation.

Inside the car, Violette finally pulled her gaze away from the retreating driveway.

"Are we really going in for a physical after the holidays?"

Roman turned his head, a flicker of something dark and indecipherable crossing his eyes. "What’s wrong? Is playing the part getting boring for you?"

He didn't bother to soften the blow. It was an intentional display, meant for her eyes only. Violette stiffened, then rushed to clarify, "That’s not it."

"Then what is it?"

"I’m worried they’ll be disappointed later."

"Having a child is a matter of luck. It might happen on the first try, or it might take three to five years," Roman said, his voice measured and steady. "They know you can't force these things."

Violette remained uneasy. "But—"

"If you're that worried, why don't we just have one?"

Violette froze. "What?"

Roman watched her with a faint, mocking curve to his lips, his gaze piercing. "It’s a joke. Can’t you tell?"

Violette offered a soft, non-committal hum, but the tension in her chest didn't dissipate as she’d hoped. It was bizarre. She had already thought it through—logically, it wasn't the time to be discussing children. Yet, the moment Roman dropped that comment, she had almost impulsively blurted out a "yes."

It was haunting.

They spent the rest of the drive in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. When they got home, Violette caught up with her parents over the phone. Finding it still early, she retreated to the media room to find a film. When Roman walked in with a glass of milk, she was curled up in a lounge chair, playing an old wedding video.

The sky in the recording was a crystalline blue, the audio a chaotic mix of voices and the captured, eternal sounds of a soft, candid complaint.

"Hey, don't block the shot! You're getting in the way of me filming my sister-in-law."

"The bride looks so beautiful!"

"...for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer..."

Roman walked over and sat beside her. "Why are you watching this?"

"Couldn't find anything else to put on."

Violette stared at the screen, the shimmering lights of the projection dancing in her eyes. In the video, she held a bouquet of lilies, her smile beneath the veil precise and professional. Off-screen, draped in her silk loungewear, the current Violette looked far more undone. She tucked her legs beneath her, arms hugging her knees.

"It was so loud," she murmured. "I didn't realize so many people actually came to our wedding."

Roman let out a low chuckle. "You make it sound like you weren't the one getting married."

Violette bit her lip. "I was too nervous that day. I don't remember much."

Was that true?

Roman thought the opposite. He’d anticipated that day for so long that the memories were carved into his bones, sharper than anything else in his life.

It had rained the day before. The lawn had been manicured to perfection, the air heavy with the scent of crushed grass. He remembered her walking toward him, her father’s arm linked in hers, the wind catching her veil.

A breathtaking sight. A vision of perfection.

The only regret was the rush. The date had been set in a panic, leaving them with no choice but to pull a gown from an unreleased couture collection and have it frantically altered to her measurements.

That, too, was his fault. When Margaret had asked an astrologer to pick a date, he’d chosen the earliest one available.

He had been terrified that something might change if they waited too long.

When her father placed Violette’s hand in his, he’d felt the trembling in her fingers. He’d been just as nervous, but he’d masked it so well it created the illusion that he was the one in control. He still remembered the long, agonizing silence after the officiant finished the vows and asked if they took each other to be their spouse.

The gap had been so long that the guests began to whisper.

That silence hadn't been doubt. It was Roman desperately trying to regulate his own heart, terrified that if he opened his mouth, his voice would crack and betray his composure.

When he finally said, "I do," the crowd had erupted in cheers and laughter.

He’d lifted her veil to kiss her and heard Violette whisper, barely audible, "I thought you were going to change your mind."

Roman felt a smile tug at his mouth.

Change his mind?

Regret was the last emotion that would ever touch this marriage.

On the projector, the footage reached their first kiss.

Violette turned her head. "I really thought you were going to back out at the last second. I’d already mentally drafted the headline for the next morning’s news."

"Oh? And what would that have been?" Roman asked, playing along.

"‘Gold-digger’s dream shattered: famous anchor dumped by billionaire heir—'"

The hand resting on the armrest suddenly tightened. Roman turned his gaze to her, his voice dropping an octave. "Violette."

"—ah." The last syllable died in her throat.

The atmosphere shifted instantly. Amidst the flickering shadows of the projection, Roman’s expression was bone-chilling. Neither of them looked at the screen anymore.

Violette leaned back, her hand fumbling for the remote on the sofa. With a sharp click, the screen went dark, plunging the room into oppressive blackness.

She swallowed hard in the dark. "Are you angry?"

Roman’s voice came from the void, unreadable. "Don't ever describe yourself like that again."

Her eyes hadn't adjusted yet, so she couldn't make out his features, but her chest felt heavy, bloated with a surge of complex, suffocating emotions. Her eyes stung. She forced them wide, determined not to let the humid Deepwater air touch her iris, terrified of appearing soft or vulnerable.

It was her armor. She couldn't show weakness in front of a camera—it would only invite the "just a pretty face" label. She couldn't afford to make a single mistake, or it would confirm every tired stereotype about women in the industry.

Violette was used to it.

Even now, she forced a smirk, her voice intentionally light. "I'm not even mad. If the tabloids got their hands on it, they’d say things much worse than that."

Her eyes began to find focus in the gloom. She noticed the silhouette beside her—silent, motionless, like a statue.

Inappropriately, she found herself thinking that even as a statue, Roman would be a singular, aesthetic masterpiece.

"Do you want to keep watching?" she asked with a smile. "Or should we put on something else?"

The "statue" suddenly shifted, leaning toward her, closing the space between them.

Violette barely had time to let out a confused gasp before his lips descended on hers.

Roman could be so dull, yet his lips were soft—surprising, almost impossibly soft. It was one of the few things she knew about him, and every time he kissed her, she was struck by it.

She understood what this kiss meant.

He hated how she’d degraded herself, so he was silencing her.

He kissed her with a desperate edge, his breath mingling with the damp, heavy air, his body pushing firmly against hers. Violette parted her lips, her silk sleepdress bunching up at her waist as he moved.

"I sometimes regret..." Roman murmured against her skin, his voice gravelly and uneven.

"Regret what?" she breathed.

"I regret not knowing you sooner," he wheezed, his voice muffled by the hollow of her throat. "Maybe then you wouldn't have had to suffer through all those nasty headlines."