Violette did not see Blake again until the end of the tour.

That was a relief to her. She worried that the young, hot-headed man might act on impulse and cause some sort of catastrophe.

She drove straight back to the station, burying herself in the preparations for the midnight broadcast. By the time she finished and finally arrived home, it was nearly 2:00 a.m. Her mental and physical reserves were completely depleted, and she felt drowsy behind the wheel. If she hadn't rolled all the car windows down, letting the chilly night air blast into the cabin, she might have fallen asleep while driving.

The elevator mirror reflected her reflection: her hair was a mess, tangled into knots by the wind. She ran a hand through her hair, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

In the entryway, a black suitcase stood against the wall. Beside it sat a pair of men’s dress shoes.

Violette froze for a second. "Roman?"

The house was silent, offering no reply. Assuming he must have gone to bed, she quieted her movements, treading softly.

A moment later, the sliding glass door to the balcony creaked open.

The night wind surged in, carrying the damp scent of early morning dew. Violette turned around to see her husband. His dress shirt was tucked into his slacks with its usual meticulous precision, though the icy, solemn expression he wore in the darkness seemed to thaw the moment he stepped back into their home. His gaze softened as it landed on her.

"Just getting back?"

"I was on the graveyard shift today," Violette said. "I thought you weren't flying back until tomorrow. Did you just arrive?"

"Just now," Roman said, selectively answering only the last part of her question.

In the corner, a Monstera plant swayed in the draft blowing in from the balcony. Even after the door was clicked shut, the plant continued to quiver, its shadow dancing against the wall like something clawing for escape.

Violette walked over, standing on her tiptoes to brush her fingers against his jaw.

"You've got stubble. Why the rush to get back?"

He offered a gentle smile. "Who was it that said they missed me?"

Saying things like that face-to-face felt different than texting; it made her skin flush with heat. Violette couldn't help but wonder if he’d squeezed his schedule because of that single confession. Did it mean their marriage of convenience was evolving? Did she actually carry some weight in Roman's life now?

Her heart fluttered, as restless as the Monstera’s shadow.

She stood on her toes again, only to catch sight of a red mark near his temple. It was a fresh wound, a thin line starting at his hairline. She hadn't noticed it before because of the way his hair fell, but up close, it looked like a jagged scratch from something sharp. It wasn't deep, but against his pale, cold skin, it looked vicious.

Her gaze dropped. The shirt he usually wore with stiff perfection was wrinkled, his tie was missing, and there were several disheveled creases across his chest. A faint scent of smoke clung to the air, not yet dispersed by the night breeze, tickling her nose.

Violette pulled back, creating a foot of space between them.

She swept her gaze over him from head to toe. "What happened to you? Don't tell me you got into a fight."

"And who do you think won?" he asked, half-joking.

Violette didn't think Roman was the type to get into brawls, so she treated it as a joke, knowing exactly how to play along. Besides, Roman always gave her the impression that he was incapable of losing at anything.

"You, of course," Violette said.

She tapped her own temple, then turned to find the first-aid kit. "Seriously, what happened?"

She crouched in the corner of the living room, rummaging through the side cabinet. Because of the crouch, her skirt pulled tight against her curves. Roman watched her back with dark, intense eyes for a long moment.

"The plane hit some turbulence," he finally said. "I bumped into the vanity mirror."

"And the clothes?" Violette asked, still digging. "They're a mess."

"Traveling is exhausting."

The way he said it made it sound like he was fishing for sympathy. Violette looked back at him, skeptical. "You still smell like cigarettes."

"Business meetings rarely happen without them."

Every answer was perfectly logical, yet Violette’s gut told her something was off. He’d gone on business trips before, yet he’d never come home looking this ragged.

She finally found the iodine swabs, twisted one open, and watched as the reddish-brown liquid soaked into the tip. She flicked her wrist, double-checking the saturation, then stepped back to him. With one hand, she gripped his empty collar; with the other, she reached up to dab at the wound.

She went through three swabs before she was satisfied. Throughout the entire process, Roman stayed hunched over, moving in perfect sync with her. At first, she’d had to pull on his collar to get him to lean down, but eventually, he’d just surrendered himself to her care. As she let go, she noticed the collar was still just as wrinkled, looking as if someone had grabbed him and held on with white-knuckled force.

But that thought only lasted for a fleeting second. After all, in her world—or at least, in her understanding of it—no one would dare lay a hand on him.

After she finished washing her hands, Roman was still standing in the same spot. His shirt had come untucked at the back, creating an irregular, bunched-up shape at his waist.

Violette glanced at him. "Aren't you going to shower?"

He didn't move. After a long moment, he held out a hand toward her. "Care to join me?"

Violette’s cheeks turned a bright, burning crimson. Even the skin at her collarbone flared with color. Roman felt a twinge of self-reproach; he didn't know what had gotten into him to make him so forward the second he got home. Just as he was about to brush it off as a joke, he heard her say:

"Okay."

Their bathroom was cavernous, taking up the space of what could have been a separate suite. Inside, there were dual sinks, a shower and sauna room, and, facing the night sky through a floor-to-ceiling window, a circular tub large enough for two.

The vast room felt suddenly claustrophobic with both of them in it. Roman hoisted her onto the marble vanity and kissed her deeply, leaving no room for argument.

The vanity top was ice-cold. He kept one hand braced behind her back, the other reaching out to flip the heater switch. Violette, swept away by the intensity of the kiss, found herself reaching for his buttons with desperate fingers.

She traced her fingers down his chest, one by one.

*Click.*

The metal buckle at his waist came undone. Violette gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs, and she pushed him back.

Roman had already wedged himself between her legs, looking confused. "What’s wrong? Not comfortable?"

"Don't move," Violette said, squinting at him. Her face was scorching, but reason still held a grip on her. She told him to turn around.

Roman complied, still puzzled. "What is actually going on?"

"I'm checking," Violette said softly. "Making sure you haven't been acting out while you were away."

He was perfectly fine. Not a single scratch on him.

Hearing her say that, the rigid tension in his shoulders finally eased. He turned back and reached out, pulling her hand toward the half-unbuckled metal clasp at his waist. "Not going to check the rest?"

"I'm done," she said, hopping off the counter.

Her legs felt like jelly, and she nearly stumbled. Roman caught her just in time. "What are you running for?"

Since she’d been caught, she stopped fighting. She wrapped her arms around his waist, her fingers tracing the line of his spine.

"I heard that some parts of the industrial districts in Southeast Asia can be pretty lawless."

So, she hadn't been checking him for infidelity at all. She was just worried about the state he'd come home in.

Roman pulled her into a tight embrace, losing his voice for a moment.

"Roman," Violette whispered against him, "are you the one handling the litigation for me?"