After Blake Pierce told her that someone else was also pushing for the lawsuit, a vague, flickering idea sparked in Violette Ellis’s mind.

Was the person behind it Roman Griffin?

Before their marriage, he had stepped in to crush the negative press. He was composed and refined, yet his methods were swift and ruthless. During that time, those engagement-farming accounts that usually fed off someone else’s misfortune didn’t dare utter a peep. Even when they caught wind of Violette’s marriage, they had been eerily polite, offering their congratulations.

Under normal circumstances, they would have likely labeled her with every derogatory slur in the book, painting her as a woman who hopped from one man to the next.

Violette told herself she didn’t care, but that didn’t mean she was made of steel. Sometimes, lying awake in the dead of night, she still found the world’s hypocrisy laughable. People who lived their lives by picking apart the lives of others were championed, while those who simply tried to live were put under a microscope and dissected.

It was a sick, empty theater of the absurd.

She didn't have the energy to fight the tide, and she had even tried to talk Blake out of wasting his time. But Roman—Roman was different. He was mature, steady, and possessed an impeccable sense of decorum. Whatever he said he would do, he executed with precision.

Before they married, he had told her, "You don't need to worry about a thing."

And so, Violette really hadn't. At the time, she assumed Roman was suppressing the rumors simply to protect the V-Oasis brand and the Griffin family name. But the news of their marriage had only circulated within a small, exclusive circle, which made his previous efforts seem, in hindsight, somewhat excessive.

Now, as the realization crystallized, an incredible thought occurred to her: Was all of that actually for her?

The idea took root, breaking through the soil. Looking back, the seedling she hadn't noticed had grown into a towering tree.

"Roman, was that you?" Violette pressed.

It wasn't as if he’d been caught doing something shameful. Roman lowered his voice and replied, "It was."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Violette’s hand traced the line of his spine up to his neck, her fingertips finding the rough, jagged skin where the hair met the nape. She smoothed it over, petting him like a skittish animal, then traced the vertebrae back down. In the shadows, she couldn't see the shiver that rippled across his skin where she touched him.

"I mean, was there ever a point where you needed me to coordinate with you?" Violette asked.

"It was a small matter," Roman said. "Besides, I have the standing to do these things for you."

Did he?

Then who didn't?

Violette didn't catch the nuance in his voice, burying her face into the crook of his neck instead. After a few moments of silence, Roman pulled her waist tighter and asked, "Why did you use the word 'also' earlier?"

Also.

*Are you also helping me with the lawsuit?*

Violette caught the implication. She stiffened instantly—the body rarely lies. But after that initial jolt of tension, she forced herself to soften.

The school visit had been crowded; there were plenty of people from their circles present. Everyone had seen Blake, and everyone had seen them playing tennis and talking. There was nothing to hide.

"I ran into Blake Pierce today," Violette said.

Roman was surprised by her bluntness; she hadn't even attempted to soften the blow. But the moment that name hung in the air, he felt a flicker of panic, as if a sudden, violent draft had swept through the room, threatening to tear her away from him.

He frowned, the movement tugging at the cut on his temple, a sharp sting of pain.

It brought him back to that VIP suite, the moment the young man had snapped. Young, hot-blooded, and far too easy to goad. Just a few words were all it took to make him lose his composure.

Behind the sofa hung a massive oil painting, decorated with a gaudy, mid-century gilt frame. Because it was merely for decoration, the craftsmanship was subpar, the edges poorly sanded.

*Thud.*

Blake had shoved him against the wall. He had used every ounce of his strength, but Roman hadn't even bothered to resist. He had let his body go with the momentum. His temple struck the sharp edge of the frame, and a line of bright, crimson blood bloomed instantly.

Roman hadn't been angry. He hadn't even reached up to touch the wound. As if he had foreseen exactly how this would play out, he asked in a calm, measured tone, "How exactly do you expect me to explain this to her?"

The hand gripping his collar tightened, the knuckles turning deathly white, fueled by mounting rage.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Blake’s teeth were vibrating with hate. "Are you trying to slap the master by beating the dog?"

Roman was a man of refinement, rarely resorting to insults. But some things were innate. Even as he spoke, a faint, mocking smile lingered in his eyes.

"That’s still better than being a dog without a collar."

*Bang.*

A fist slammed into the oil painting, barely an inch from Roman’s face.

Blake suddenly realized why Roman hadn't fought back—why he had provoked him at every turn. The injuries were a tactical choice: just enough to play the victim in front of Violette, just enough to condemn Blake in her eyes.

Blake’s punch had been carefully angled. He’d gained nothing but the sharp, stinging pain in his own knuckles. He sucked in a ragged breath, trying to drag some reason back into his lungs. He gritted his teeth. "I was with her for twenty months, and then some. You’ve only been here a fraction of that time—what makes you think you’ll be the one to win?"

Blake leaned in close. "Mr. Griffin, the one who laughs last, laughs best."

"You're right," Roman replied. "But as of this second, I’ve already won."

Blake straightened his spine, rolling his bleeding knuckles. The pain in his fingers traveled straight to his heart. He stood there, enunciating every word:

"But I’m younger than you."

"I can afford to wait."

Blake was indeed young, so he didn't yet know that a man should always leave himself a way out rather than aiming for the throat. The wound on Roman’s temple wasn't painful, but the words felt like a serrated blade in his chest, making every breath a laborious, wheezing struggle.

Roman held Violette tighter. Hearing that name from her lips left him uneasy; if he could, he would never hear it again for the rest of his life. Following his instincts, he bowed his head and kissed her, sealing her lips.

Violette, who had intended to finish explaining her day, was caught off guard, letting out a muffled sound of protest. She pushed against his chest, but he was as solid as a fortress. She tugged at his arm, but he was made of iron. Why was he always so immovable when it mattered most?

In the brief moment she caught her breath, Violette gasped, "Blake and I—"

Roman leaned down, pressing his mouth against hers once more to silence her.

A moment later, he offered a low, husky warning: "Right now, it’s just you and me."

Violette finally understood. Men never liked hearing another man's name in bed. She had only mentioned the beginning of the encounter, but Roman was intelligent; he knew that if she were willing to speak about it so openly, it meant there was nothing untoward to hide.

Since that was the case, she would let it go.

Violette brushed the complications aside, wrapping her arms around his neck and giving herself over to him.

"I know. It's just you and me."

She softened, kissing him repeatedly, even finding the time to brush her lips against the cut on his temple. As he pushed her against the vanity, she thought, *He’s so incredibly jealous. It’s as if he’s truly, desperately in love with me.*