Kaisen scored, his face flushed with adrenaline.

"Sister-in-law, how did you know for sure he wouldn't go for that ball?"

"He's a pro. His instinct told him the next move would be a feint, so he stayed back to cover the baseline. That ball? He had to trust his partner to handle it."

"Damn... you know him too well." Kaisen cast a pointed look her way. "So, there’s this talk online about… you two…"

"Focus on the game."

Violette flicked his forehead hard enough to make him wince.

The friendly match continued. It was meant to be a lighthearted exhibition, not a slaughter of the students. Usually, both sides would trade points for a polite draw, but Violette was a wildcard, and Kaisen had clearly put in the hours. In a set that should have been a warm-up, they somehow surged to a 7-point lead.

Slowly, the crowd along the sidelines stopped chattering and began to watch the court.

"Who’s that playing with the Griffin kid?"

"No idea. Haven't seen her around before."

"Didn't the eldest Griffin heir get married a few months back? Could it be?"

Up in the VIP suite, the school board official leaned in. "Mr. Griffin, are you sure you don't want to go down and celebrate the win?"

The school was backed by Griffin capital, and the plan had been for Roman to give a closing speech. But Roman showed no interest in making an appearance.

"No," he replied, his tone smooth and unhurried. "If I head down there now, I’ll only steal my wife's thunder."

The official held his tongue. He knew better than to push.

On the court, the set ended. People drifted into small clusters. Violette had just cracked open a bottle of water, but before she could take a sip, a socialite approached her with a wide, polished smile.

"Excuse me, you're Mrs. Griffin, right? A pleasure to meet you."

Violette recognized her—the woman who drove the black Maybach. She nodded, wary of the name "Griffin"—she didn't want to cause confusion between Emerson and Roman. Keeping her tone neutral, she smiled. "I’m married to Roman Griffin."

Her face was dusted with a fine, natural sheen of sweat. Unlike the static, porcelain-faced women basking under the umbrellas, Violette looked like a blooming bud—vibrant and painfully alive. In a room full of jaded socialites, she was the final, brilliant stroke of color on a dull canvas.

Across the court, Blake froze.

His gaze snapped toward her. The sun was dipping low, but the glare made his eyes sting. He stood motionless as the sunset stretched his shadow out, a dark, jagged silhouette that looked like a beast ready to tear into his chest.

She really was someone else's now.

The thought hit him like a shaken-up beer can, the pressure boiling over in a frantic, suffocating foam.

He stood still for so long that he drew attention.

"Mr. Pierce? Everything alright? There's a refreshment stand by the fence—can I get you something to drink?"

The staff member’s voice was like a sharp tap to his temple. Blake blinked, the mask of a pro athlete sliding back onto his face. "Sure. Thank you."

It was crowded. He couldn't afford to cause a scene for her. Not now. Not ever.

He held onto that thought like a lifeline. But the second Violette finished her pleasantries and headed toward the back of the campus building, Blake followed, driven by an impulse he couldn't control.

He checked over his shoulder. The crowd was still glued to the courts. The back of the building was silent, save for the dry rustle of wind through the banyan trees. Near the end of the corridor, the water in the restroom cut off.

He stopped, leaning his back against the wall.

Violette stepped out, wiping her hands, and stopped dead. Blake was draped against the wall, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other tossing a tennis ball into the air with rhythmic, bored precision.

When he saw her, he straightened up. He gripped the ball in his right hand and shoved it deep into his pocket, stretching the fabric taut.

Violette scanned the area, eyes darting.

"No one's here," Blake said.

She crumpled the paper towel in her hand and tossed it into the bin. "Did you need something else?"

They’d already covered the legal situation on the court. There was no reason for him to be stalking her into a building. She locked eyes with him, noticing he was wearing a new wristband—olive green, not the red one he usually wore for matches.

He noticed where she was looking and shifted his right arm behind his back.

"I thought I should tell you," he said. "The lawsuit… it seems like I’m not the only one pursuing it."

"Oh?" Violette tilted her head.

"A few of those accounts I hadn't reached yet? They’ve started posting apologies."

It was the only excuse he had left. He didn't even understand why he was risking this—just to see her, even if only for a second.

"I see," Violette said. "Anything else?"

"No." He shook his head. Then, his voice dropped, heavy with a dangerous honesty. "I miss you."

She had been halfway to the door, but her feet felt fused to the floor. She turned, looking at him, seeing the tremor in his eyelids.

"Don't be insane."

Her voice faltered. She had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard it throbbed, a sudden, sharp fear piercing her gut. Since when had she ever been afraid of him?

Blake looked down, feeling the steady, hollow ache in his own chest. He shook his head quietly. "Just pretend I never said it."

He kept his word. He didn't say another word that could be taken the wrong way.

Violette looked at his pale lips, then looked away. "I’m going."

"Right."

She walked toward the exit, never looking back. The late afternoon sun spilled over the building, casting long, orange shadows that swallowed her whole.

Blake waited, then followed.

His footsteps were light, like dead leaves skittering on pavement. As he turned the corner to the stairwell, another set of footsteps joined his.

Blake looked up. A pair of charcoal-grey slacks descended the stairs. When the man turned, Blake saw the cold, mechanical glint of a tourbillon watch on his wrist and the metallic sheen of a wedding band on his ring finger.

He looked familiar. Blake’s gaze traveled up.

Roman stood two steps above him, his presence radiating a cold, impenetrable authority. Every line of his posture, every flicker of his controlled, detached expression, shouted the gap between them.

"Let’s talk," Roman said.