Back home, Violette Ellis was still fixated on that face. Where had she seen it before?

It wasn't a generic face, yet something about it nagged at her. This residential complex housed everyone from high-profile business moguls to D-list celebrities and elite professionals. It was easy to get lost in the sea of faces, and often people would approach her with the same tired line: "Miss Ellis, you look so familiar."

She was used to it. Being a news anchor in Deepwater meant her face was a staple in local living rooms every evening. But under the heavy studio makeup and professional lighting, she looked different—polished, curated, and distant. In real life, she was just Violette. And "you look so familiar" was just the default setting for strangers who couldn't quite place the feeling.

She shook the thought away and turned her attention to the steak. The raw, cool flesh was unpleasantly slick against her skin. Every time a stray piece of fat stuck to her finger, she shuddered, wiped it off, and headed for the faucet. Scrub, dry, repeat. She washed her hands at least five times just prepping the meat—scoring the fibers, seasoning with a dusting of salt, trying to handle the raw texture without retching.

She realized then that some people were simply never meant for the kitchen. She certainly wasn't one of those women who thrived in it. She wasn't "domestic" in the slightest.

She followed the recipe like a soldier, hitting one snag after another: the oil hissed and popped, the meat charred, the skillet was punishingly hot, and the hand soap disappeared at an alarming rate. After a chaotic scramble, she managed to plate two steaks just as the front door clicked open.

Roman Griffin walked in and stopped dead. A faint, acrid smell of burnt beef hung in the air.

He suspected the house cleaner had left a burner on, but as he stepped into the kitchen, his pace slowed. Two plates of "gourmet" steak sat on the table, their charred edges mocking him.

He didn't blink. He loosened his tie, unclasped his watch, and sat down, already calculating how to choke down every bite without making a face. He checked his phone. What day was it? His thumb hovered over the screen. Then, he opened a group chat with his inner circle.

Roman: Is a hundred-day anniversary a thing?

Bradley: ?

Bradley: If I recall correctly, you’re the only married man in this chat. Asking a group of single guys for marriage advice? A little rich, don't you think?

Roman: Forget I asked.

Bradley: Can I ask a question instead?

Bradley: So, what did you get her?

Roman: ...

Dax: Not having a gift isn't the problem, Roman. The real nightmare is you showing up empty-handed while she’s clearly put in the effort. That’s a death sentence. (Smile.jpg)

Roman glanced at the steaks again and rubbed his temples.

Bradley: Don't panic. The day's not over. Order 99 white roses, express delivery. Flower shop's closing in twenty minutes. Go.

A flurry of links to high-end florists hit his screen. Bradley was a menace, but he was a useful one. Roman followed the advice, ordering a massive bouquet of white roses. They’d be here in thirty minutes.

He finished just as Violette emerged from the bedroom. She had changed into a square-neck knit dress that hugged her frame, the hem hitting just below her knees with a daring slit that offered a glimpse of skin every time she moved. It was standard attire for an evening out, but at home, it felt like a statement.

Roman was certain now: she was celebrating the milestone. Even if it was just the hundredth day.

Their cat, Sunny, scampered after her, swiping playfully at the swaying hem of her dress. Before the cat could land a second pounce, Roman swooped in, lifting the feline by the scruff. He locked eyes with the cat, who blinked back with wide, innocent eyes.

"Go play somewhere else," Roman murmured, depositing the cat in the guest room. A peace offering of a wet food can silenced its protests.

When he returned to the dining room, Violette had already lit the scented candles. The lighting was low and intimate. She was hunched over, smoothing out the tablecloth. Hearing his footsteps, she didn't look back.

"Well?" she called out, her voice playful. "One hundred days of marriage. I think I’ve earned a gold star, don’t you?"

The way the dress clung to her waist was maddening. Roman closed the distance, his hand settling firmly on the small of her back. "You remembered?"

"Of course." She stood up, turning into his reach. "There’s this countdown app. It’s a lifesaver for birthdays and anniversaries. It popped up this morning. I didn't know if we were the type to celebrate, but since the notification went off, I figured—"

She stopped, her back bumping into his chest. His presence was sudden, overwhelming, and hungry.

She looked up, catching the line of his jaw. Roman’s lips were pressed into a thin, tight line; his throat moved as he swallowed, his entire body radiating a tense, simmering heat. She knew that look. It felt like being submerged in water—heavy, soft, and drowning.

"Not yet," she whispered, touching her burning cheek. "I worked way too hard on those steaks."

She meant to sound professional, but it came out as a soft, breathless plea. Roman felt his resolve crumble. He leaned down, pressing his lips against her ear.

"Understood."

He took over the rest of the evening, pouring a bottle of the sparkling wine she’d loved back at the White Peaks. The atmosphere was thick, intoxicating, and suffocating in the best way possible. They’d just finished dinner, her stomach still pleasantly tight from the meal, when the doorbell rang.

Roman wanted to ignore it, but his phone buzzed at the same time. The delivery.

He leaned in, kissing her sweat-dampened forehead. She sat on the edge of the dining table, one slipper dangling from her toe, looking at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

"I have to get the door," he said, straightening his shirt.

Seen from behind, he looked like the embodiment of disciplined restraint—crisp shirt, tailored trousers, every hair in place. No one would ever guess what had been happening seconds ago. Violette shook her head, trying to settle the electric hum vibrating under her skin.

She heard the brief exchange through the intercom. Moments later, Roman returned, holding a massive bouquet of white roses. He stood a few feet away, looking slightly sheepish.

"Is it too late for a gift?"

It was almost identical to the bouquet he’d sent to the studio when they first met. Violette stared at him for a long, silent minute. She took in every detail of his face—more intently than she looked at the flowers.

Finally, she spoke.

"Roman... did you forget that you’re allergic to pollen?"