It took Roman Griffin several seconds after Violette spoke to regain his composure. He shouldn’t have let the slip-up happen; he had been so meticulous, so calculated, the first time he sent her flowers.

Back then, Violette was already spoken for.

She was the definition of professional, rarely even attending social gatherings outside of work. For a man like Roman, getting close was an uphill battle. When the rare opportunity arose to visit the TV station for an interview, he’d donned his sharpest three-piece suit, knotted his tie with surgical precision, and obsessively checked his reflection in the mirror until he was satisfied.

The bouquet of white roses was his opening gambit.

Afraid she might reject them, he’d rehearsed every excuse, every tone of voice, every fleeting expression. He needed to appear completely selfless.

He had succeeded, too.

Roman didn’t care how long the roses lasted in her vase. What mattered was that he had finally breached the perimeter of her life—even if he were to wither away as quickly as those petals, even if he only made the smallest of dents. By their next meeting, he would casually bring it up: "How are the roses? I read about a way to press them into bookmarks. It should look quite beautiful."

There was always a way to manufacture a connection.

Roman’s sense of boundaries was just as refined; he knew never to violate that invisible cushion of safety between them. Even when Violette eventually broke up with her boyfriend and he swooped in to propose, she never once suspected his original appearance had been a calculated performance.

The problem was that love makes a man sloppy. He had actually forgotten.

He *should* have been allergic to pollen.

Roman stood frozen, his pulse still hammering against his ribs. He held the bouquet of white roses—looking like a pillar of integrity on the surface, but feeling like a fraud underneath. He was playing the gentleman while pulling strings like a puppet master.

"I..." Roman started, his voice dry.

"Are you okay?"

Violette stood barefoot before him, her eyes scanning his exposed skin. Her fingers brushed against his throat and the back of his ear, leaving behind a trail of fire that made his skin crawl.

"We should have some Claritin in the house. Just because you aren’t reacting yet doesn't mean—"

Roman caught her hand.

The roses were crushed between them, their ivory petals like fine silk, or moonlight on water, staining both their palms.

"Actually, I’m not allergic to pollen," Roman said.

Violette’s pupils dilated; the pieces of a puzzle she hadn't known existed began to lock into place. She didn't need to ask for confirmation, because in the next breath, Roman admitted it with brutal honesty: "I’m sorry. When I told you that at the station back then... I had ulterior motives."

*Ulterior motives.*

Violette remembered details she had long ago swept under the rug. Perhaps her subconscious had sensed the glitch in the matrix back then, because now, before she could even consciously process it, the memories surfaced on their own.

The station’s annual gala. She was waiting for a car on the curb, desperate to escape the biting cold of the year-end rush. She hadn't been able to hail a cab, but a black Bentley had pulled up instead.

The window rolled down, and Roman looked at her with feigned surprise. "Ms. Ellis?"

Even after interviewing a thousand people, Violette recognized that god-blessed face instantly. She gave a polite nod. "Mr. Griffin. Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year. Waiting for a ride?"

"Yeah," she said, checking her phone. "Hard to get a driver at this hour."

Roman signaled his chauffeur to pull over, then circled around to open the door for her. "Get in. I’ll drop you off."

Violette was taken aback. "I’m sure a car will turn up if I wait a little longer."

Roman didn't push. He stood at the edge of the wind-swept curb, acting as a shield for her. "Then I’ll wait with you. I’ve nothing better to do. Consider it a late-night stroll."

Violette tried to refuse, but Roman had already shut the door, leaving the chauffeur to wait. He stood there, tall and composed, radiating a quiet, old-world elegance. Violette couldn't help but think of the English gentlemen from classic films—the kind of men who would never dream of leaving a lady to wait alone in the dark.

She struck up a conversation to fill the silence. "Just finished a dinner meeting, Mr. Griffin?"

"Family dinner," Roman replied, rubbing his temples. "They nagged me until my head spun."

She had seen him strolling through boardrooms with effortless command, but she had never seen this side of him—this version that was actually... human. He got nagged at family dinners?

It was almost endearing.

Violette felt her internal defenses lower, just a fraction. She smiled. "I assumed you were the type who never had to listen to anyone's lectures."

She had two glasses of red wine at dinner, and the heat was creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks a soft rose. Her smile felt a little tipsy, her eyes shimmering. Roman watched her, his gaze lingering for a second too long before he cleared his throat and looked away.

"You’re mistaken, Ms. Ellis. I’m just a regular person. I get lectured at home just like anyone else."

Alcohol emboldened her. Violette asked, "What do they usually nag you about?"

Roman wore an expression of helplessness. "Academics, work, life plans, the company's long-term strategy..." He paused, then added, "Lately, it’s been marriage and kids."

So, the rich were just as miserable.

Violette felt the distance between them evaporate. Thinking of her own parents, Charles and Catherine, and their endless pestering, she crinkled her eyes. "Same here."

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. Not a single taxi cruised down the road, and the rideshare apps kept spinning in circles. Violette finally gave up. She couldn't keep making Roman wait in the cold.

"Where were you heading, Mr. Griffin?"

"I was on my way home after dinner," he said gently. "I live alone, so there’s no rush. That’s why I offered to give you a lift."

He had already said as much; refusing now would just be playing hard to get. Violette pressed her hands together in a gesture of gratitude. "Then I suppose I’ll have to trouble you, Mr. Griffin."

That was the first time Violette stepped into Roman’s car.

The interior smelled of clean, cold cedar. A reading light hummed softly on the left, and on the folded tray sat a book with a plain, blank cover, spine-up, as if he had been in the middle of a chapter before stopping.

The car felt *so* Roman.

Violette didn't know how she’d reached that conclusion. Back then, she knew so little about him—less than a handful of positive adjectives—as if he were a jigsaw puzzle with half the pieces missing.

She sat down, fidgeting nervously with her fingers, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

The chauffeur pulled up the privacy partition and headed toward Bauhinia Bay. In the backseat, Roman had abandoned his book. He leaned back, eyes closed, his expression detached, as if he had forgotten there was another person in the car.

*Good,* Violette thought. The reason she hadn't wanted to get in was the fear of awkward small talk with a stranger. If he wanted to be silent, that was perfect.

She looked out the window, mesmerized by the streaks of streetlights and shadows. The scenery became familiar, drawing closer and closer to her building.

The car made a final turn into the complex. When she moved to get out, Roman shook off his slumber, his eyelids heavy with feigned exhaustion. "My apologies. It’s been a long day. I think I drifted off."

Violette thought, *Keep sleeping, it saves me the trouble of talking.* But she said, "It’s fine, Mr. Griffin. Thank you for the ride."

"Don't mention it," he said with a low chuckle. "It was on the way."

He was the consummate gentleman, standing by the door until he watched her disappear into the stairwell before getting back into his car.

Up in her apartment, Violette stood by the window and watched. The black Bentley lingered for a moment, then began the slow, deliberate task of turning around to leave.

"Who dropped you off?" Catherine asked, stepping up behind her.

"A friend," Violette said.

Down below, the red tail-lights of the Bentley glowed in the dark as it navigated the narrow driveway.

Catherine narrowed her eyes. "A man, right?"

"Mom, you’re so old-fashioned."

"If I were old-fashioned, I wouldn't have let you date that other boy," Catherine rolled her eyes. "What about this one? Is he interested in you? What does he do?"

"You're so narrow-minded! Can’t a man and a woman just be acquaintances?" Violette countered. "You don't understand. That’s just called being a gentleman."

"A *gentleman*," Catherine repeated, the word dripping with sarcasm.

Violette looked at her with an expression that said, *believe what you want.*

How could Roman Griffin possibly be interested in her? Regardless of his status, regardless of whether he knew she had a boyfriend—just look at the flower incident. They had met once more after that, and he’d merely recommended a technique for pressing flowers. If he were interested, any man would have jumped at the chance to ask her out. But Roman hadn't. He’d simply forwarded her the contact of a florist and left it at that. No strings, no follow-up.