Roman Griffin was a man who balanced his advances with precise restraint.

Violette had consistently avoided bringing up their past, and he had met her silence with his own. But that one word—"regret"—had pulled the invisible walls between them a little closer, leaving their relationship in a state of delicate suspension.

Who else, besides Violette herself, had any right to feel regret on her behalf? The answer was, undoubtedly, the person closest to her.

Violette felt a strange tremor in his voice, and without thinking, she tightened her grip, burying her face against his waist. Oddly enough, despite the intimacy hanging in the air, nothing more happened. Violette felt so secure, so profoundly at peace, that she eventually drifted off to sleep right there in his arms.

Roman seemed to realize it instantly. He didn't show the slightest hint of impatience; instead, he held his rigid posture for a long while. When her head finally lolled to the side, he lifted a hand to support her cheek, guiding her onto his shoulder, and reached down with his other arm to scoop her up by the knees.

Only when he held her did he realize how light she truly was.

He carried her to the spare bedroom and laid her down with meticulous care. He adjusted the essential oil diffuser to her favorite scent and pulled the blackout curtains shut until the room was pitch black.

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time after she was tucked in. His mind was sharp, his sleepiness long gone.

He found himself thinking about the conversation he’d had with Margaret Lewis before leaving the mountains that evening.

"You and Violette... are you two alright?"

"We're doing fine."

"Your father and I won't interfere in your affairs, but he did ask me to tell you something—"

Roman arched a brow. He couldn't imagine what Emerson Griffin had to say that required a middleman.

"What is it?" he asked.

"The way you were raised, it made you too disciplined. You’re always weighing the needs of everyone around you above your own. But a man isn't meant to be a fortress his entire life. You can afford to be soft sometimes; it doesn't mean you're weak."

Margaret sighed. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Seeing him standing there with his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed in the direction of the bedroom, Margaret added, "In a marriage, it’s healthy to have space, but you aren't leaving space—you're built like a brick wall. You don't even give her a chance to truly know you. How do you plan to spend the next few decades like this?"

Roman’s thoughts drifted to the durian tart on the dining table. After a long silence, he simply nodded. "I understand."

It wasn't that he was unwilling to open up to Violette; it was that the very nature of their beginning had forced him into a position of constant adjustment. He wasn't sure how much room he held in her heart, or if she even harbored a desire to peel back his layers.

He didn't want to turn himself into a burden.

His fingers brushed through the long hair fanned out across the pillow, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her temple.

Of course he wanted a future with her. And if she didn't mind, he would try—just a little—to set his armor aside.

...

During the New Year's holiday, Violette spent two days working the morning shift. With her out of the house, Roman naturally headed into the office.

The V-Oasis product launch had just concluded, and they had been pushing out system patches, optimizing the interface to make everything run with fluid precision. The feedback from the marketing department was stellar, and the entire office was buzzing with the secret, palpable joy of upcoming year-end bonuses.

Bradley Harper was there, animatedly describing the chaos of the launch event to Roman. Roman listened intently, occasionally pointing out where the presentation video could have been tighter.

Bradley leaned in, checked the notes, and realized the points were spot-on. He clicked his tongue, muttering, "You've got high standards, don't you?"

"If you’d clarified these optimizations during the pitch, we might have moved another million units."

Bradley stared at him, dazed.

"What?" Roman asked.

"I’m out here breaking my back, getting the guys to pool their money just to send a hundred floral arrangements to hype up the launch. Not to mention I had to take the stage myself while you were off on holiday. And now, you’re telling me I cost us a million sales?" Bradley tapped his own chest. "That’s cold, man. Truly cold."

Roman flipped a page in the report without looking up. "I'll be deducting that from your share of the profits."

Bradley had nothing left to say.

After a quiet moment, he suddenly remembered something. "Oh, right. Your wife sent you a floral arrangement, too."

Violette?

They had spent the entirety of New Year's Day together, and she hadn't said a word about it. Roman finally looked up, his fountain pen slipping between his fingers, leaving a dark ink smudge on the page.

"Where is it?" he asked.

It was the first time Bradley felt that such a sharp man could ask such a moronic question. Where? Was it supposed to follow him home? Obviously, it was still at the venue.

Bradley just blinked at him.

Roman stood up and paced in front of his desk. A few seconds later, he reached for the intercom to call his assistant but cut himself off, grabbing his car keys from the desk instead.

"Where are you going?" Bradley asked.

Roman was already at the door, his stride long and purposeful. "To see the flowers."

Even though Bradley was thoroughly baffled, he followed suit. On the way, he couldn't help but add, "There were so many flowers there, you want to know how I spotted it?"

Roman actually offered a rare smile. "Because you have an eye for quality?"

"Not exactly. It’s because your wife is… unique."

Bradley laughed. "In a sea of standard bouquets, she sent over a Money Tree. When I walked by, I checked the card. It said: 'From an anonymous Ms. Shen.' Who else could it be?"

Roman pulled out his phone, debating what to type into the chat, his expression softening. "A Money Tree?"

"Yep. She’s definitely one of a kind."

After deleting and rewriting his message several times, Roman sent her a single photo.

Violette had no idea that when Roman arrived at the venue, he’d walked into a group of workers sorting through the floral debris, picking out stems to recycle. She didn't know how long he’d searched before finding that small, leafy tree. And she certainly didn't know that the workers refused to part with it, forcing him to buy the tree back at double its market value just to save the trouble.

It was a tedious, painstaking effort that Bradley wouldn't understand.

The photo showed a sliver of the office—the Money Tree, resting on the herringbone-patterned floor.

The florist had sent her a picture of the finished product days ago. Violette recognized it instantly. With its little red tassels and miniature lanterns, the tree looked vibrant and auspicious.

The background, she realized, must have been Roman's office.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the bustling heart of Deepwater was visible, and in the distance stood the main corporate headquarters run by Emerson Griffin. Violette identified the location by the surrounding landmarks.

She typed back: *If I had known you were going to keep it in the office, I would have sent a much bigger one!*

Roman: *Why didn't you tell me?*

Violette: *You didn't go to the launch, and I didn't think it was that important, so I didn't bring it up.*

Roman: *It was important.*

Violette: *Hmm?*

Roman: *It’s the first time you’ve ever officially given me a gift.*

Roman: *So, yes. It was important.*