Without warning, Roman had become agonizingly direct.

Violette nearly buckled under the shift. She stared at the screen, her mind racing through the timeline of their relationship. From a professional acquaintance to mutual testing, a cold-eyed consensus, and finally, marriage—she had always treated him as a strategic partner.

Thinking about it now, she felt deeply selfish. She had greedily devoured the security he provided while keeping her own heart locked away.

Unable to respond, a heavy wave of guilt washed over her.

Back home that evening, the usual space between them felt charged, stripped of its former ease. In the corner of their sprawling sectional, Violette huddled in her small enclave, noise-canceling headphones on, her fingers drumming against the keys as she polished Emma Fox's internship evaluation.

Roman didn't interrupt. He appeared focused on his own work, yet she could feel his gaze drifting toward her, tethering her to the spot.

She had changed into a silk slip dress after her shower. The crisscross straps highlighted her sharp, delicate collarbones, and her skin, bathed in the soft glow of the floor lamp, possessed the luminous, polished texture of a pearl. Perhaps because she was home, her posture was loose; her right leg was tucked inward, her foot resting on the slippered floor while her heel caught the sofa frame.

From his vantage point, she looked like a drawn bow, taut and vibrating.

He remembered her taking that same shape in bed, her body straining under him.

Roman’s throat worked hard. A restless, indefinable static buzzed in his veins. He stood up, poured himself a glass of ice water, and reclaimed his seat on the couch.

Violette closed her laptop just as he sat down, looking up. Stung by her earlier guilt, she tried to force a sweetness into her tone.

"It’s dropped a few degrees outside," she said softly. "Are you sure you want ice?"

"My throat’s acting up. I need it."

"If your throat is bothering you, shouldn't you be drinking something warm? I remember my mother leaving some herbal tea for me. Hang on..." She stood up to leave.

She had kicked off one of her slippers somewhere in the dark, and after a brief, failed search, she gave up and began to pace barefoot.

She only made it a few steps before Roman caught her.

He didn't say a word, just retrieved her stray slipper and knelt to slide it onto her foot. The heat of his palm against her ankle was so searing that she reflexively recoiled.

Connecting his gesture to his earlier complaint about his throat, Violette leaned over, pressing a hand to his neck, then his forehead. "You're burning up. Are you running a fever?"

Roman tilted his head, deliberately brushing his brow against her cool palm. It was a rhythmic, calculated movement—a man leaning into a master’s touch.

"No fever," he murmured. "Just use me to cool down."

"We have a thermometer," she said, her chest feeling hollow, the echoes of her own heartbeat loud in her ears. He was so close that his dark hair brushed against the silk of her dress, teasing her skin like stray feathers.

Their eyes locked. Violette swallowed, her throat suddenly parched.

"I... I’ll go get the thermometer."

"Mhm."

He agreed, but his grip remained firm. His lashes fluttered against her palm, a sensation that drove her to curl her fingers into his hair. In this position, she felt an intoxicating rush of power—one slight tug, and she could force him to look up, force him to yield.

The sheer, sudden rush of control made her tremble.

Roman tracked every flicker of emotion on her face. He had tried softening his edges, and while he was still mastering the art of being "soft," the effect was immediate. She was hooked. She was so hooked she couldn't even hide it in her eyes.

Roman reached up, weaving his fingers through hers. If a stranger walked in now, they might mistake it for a proposal—the man kneeling in devotion, their palms pressed together as if he were about to slide a ring onto her finger.

Instead, he tilted his head, parted his lips, and sucked her fingertip into his mouth.

Violette gasped. The word "dirty" died on her tongue, replaced by a jagged, sharp-edged sound.

***

The medical check-up had been on the calendar for weeks, so she wasn't surprised when Margaret Lewis called to finalize the details. She had already cleared a half-day leave with Arthur, who, exhausted by the recent cycle of overtime, had signed off immediately.

Violette drove herself to the address provided. Roman arrived shortly after, giving her a few moments to catch up with Margaret over tea.

She wore a crisp, light-green silk shirt tucked into tailored trousers. Margaret beamed the moment she saw her, praising her vitality before pulling a small gift box from her designer tote.

"Look at this. Does it suit you?"

Violette opened the bright orange box to find a silk scarf in a bold, color-blocked print. She had a basic understanding of luxury labels, and one glance told her the value matched the jewelry Roman had bought her previously.

The Griffin family operated with surgical precision; their gifts were always perfect, never creating the burden of obligation.

"Thank you, Margaret," she said, offering a shy smile.

"Why are you being so formal? You’re family. Just show up next time, no need for gifts."

"We'll be back soon," she promised.

Satisfied, Margaret stirred her coffee, her expression thoughtful. "Roman has always been a man who knows his own mind. He was more mature than any child his age. If we hadn't had his younger brother later, we wouldn't have realized that boys aren't supposed to be like Roman—they’re supposed to be messy and loud. But wanting him to be chaotic now..." Margaret chuckled. "That's probably just a pipe dream, isn't it?"

To Violette, Roman was the quintessential archetype of the eldest son of a powerful family. She had assumed his rigidity was the product of a brutal upbringing, but listening to Margaret, she realized that hadn't been the plan at all.

"Was he never rowdy as a kid?"

"Never. And now, looking back, I think that’s a tragedy," Margaret sighed. "He was always so serious. I honestly worried that when he married, he’d be just as cold at home."

Violette went quiet.

*Cold? Hardly.*

The memory of the living room sofa the night before flashed in her mind, accompanied by the vivid, sprawling details of his "creativity." Her face burned. She felt the sudden need to fan herself under the table, terrified that the older woman might see right through her.

Thankfully, Roman arrived just in time to stop her mind from wandering into dangerous territory.

Under Margaret’s watchful, hopeful gaze, the two of them entered the private clinic. The Griffin family’s personal medical team moved like clockwork, providing white-glove service that turned the physical into a quick, sterile affair.

But when it came time to wrap up, there were two boxes on their charts left unchecked.

Violette felt her skin prickle at the memory of that room. Her legs had been held up without a shred of dignity, and even with the doctor’s professional bedside manner and the high-end padding of the equipment, she had felt a desperate, clawing urge to leap off the table and run.

Money couldn't buy you out of the indignity of a clinical exam. When it came to a physical, everyone was equal.

She remembered the cold touch of the instruments.

The doctor had asked, "Have you been sexually active lately?"

Violette had turned bright red, staring at the wall. "Yes. Yesterday."

The doctor had sighed gently. "Ah. That might skew the results. If you have time, Mrs. Griffin, you should come back to redo this specific test."

She had fled the room, clutching her crumpled, incomplete chart. When she saw Roman’s chart, she realized his had blanks, too.

"You, too?" she whispered, gesturing to his paperwork.

Roman didn't blink. "We’ll come back."

They shared a silent, unspoken pact not to discuss the details, heading straight to the front desk to submit their charts.

The nurse, ever diligent, leaned forward with a polite smile. "Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, just a reminder: for this specific test, you really need to abstain for at least 48 hours. Everything else is perfectly fine!"

Violette nodded frantically. She glanced at Roman; he remained perfectly unbothered.

"Understood. Thank you."

Near the elevators, Margaret had finally made it to their floor. She’d spent the whole morning worrying that her earlier hints hadn't been strong enough, hoping for another chance to pry. Then, she heard the nurse’s clear, helpful instruction.

Her footsteps faltered.

All the careful maneuvering she’d done earlier felt like a complete waste of effort. She’d spent the last few days agonizing with her husband, Emerson, fearing their eldest son was too repressed and his marriage too stagnant.

Looking at them now, they hardly seemed like a couple in need of worrying.