Was there really no follow-up to that day?

Violette remembered taking a few floral arrangement classes—mostly because she couldn't resist the aesthetic photos the instructor posted every day, and she thought it might be a nice way to soothe her nerves.

One day, after class, she saw a familiar car parked downstairs. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should say hello, but then Roman stepped out. He was dressed in a white shirt with a black diagonal-striped tie, uncharacteristically without a jacket. He leaned against the car, looking effortlessly relaxed.

"Taking a floral arrangement class, Ms. Ellis?"

"Oh..." Violette felt a bit sheepish. "Just a casual hobby, really."

"My sister is in there, too," Roman added smoothly. "Come to think of it, she’s the one who recommended this instructor."

That explained it. Otherwise, how would a man like him, who had a known allergy to fresh flowers, even find a place like this?

Violette let her guard down completely. As her gaze drifted past his shoulder, she saw Blake Pierce approaching. She offered a polite, apologetic nod. "My boyfriend is here to pick me up. I have to go."

"Until next time," Roman replied, unfazed.

By the time Blake had bounded up the stairs, Roman had already disappeared back into his car. The tint was perfect; it was impossible to see anything inside. Blake glanced in the direction of the parked car, a strange flicker of unease rippling through him—that man he’d just seen talking to Violette felt like a threat he couldn't quite name.

"Was that a friend of yours, Violette?"

A friend? Hardly.

"Just someone I interviewed for a story a while back," Violette explained.

Blake leaned in, needy as a Golden Retriever. "And what about me? I was someone you interviewed for a story once, too. Do you tell other people that, too?" His dark, piercing eyes were practically swirling with jealousy.

Violette rolled her eyes. "Why are you jealous of everyone?"

The sun was bright, the weather was perfect—everything seemed fine.

But thinking back on it now, the pieces shifted. *Calculating.* The word burned itself into her mind. Violette bit her lip and took a half-step back. The mental image she’d built of Roman—the man she thought she knew—was blurring at the edges. He was still Roman: the same features, the same frame, the same effortless grace. But the puzzle of who he truly was needed to be completely reassembled.

Seeing her retreat, Roman reached out instinctively, but his hand caught only empty air, blocked by the massive bouquet of white roses he was holding.

Panic flared in his chest. He wanted to step forward, but his rationality held him back. He could read the look in Violette’s eyes; she was dissecting him—not as a husband, but as a predator who had been lying in wait, his plan long in the making.

His face was taut, his heart slamming against his ribs in a frantic, irregular rhythm.

He had been trained as a corporate heir; he’d stood under the cold scrutiny of shareholders without breaking a sweat. He’d built V-Oasis from the ground up, facing hardships that would have crushed lesser men. Yet, in this tiny, inconsequential gap in time—a moment that wouldn't even warrant a footnote in his life story—his heart was hammering like a drum. He was terrified of being sentenced to death.

What was she thinking of him?

*Devious? Dirty? Manipulative?*

He remembered a conversation from when they had first broken up, while Violette was still wavering. He had said, with an air of practiced indifference, "Everyone finds comfort in their own past. It’s a comfort zone. It’s hard to step out, but not impossible."

"And what’s the fastest way to step out?" she had asked.

"Just stretch out one leg," Roman had said, staring straight at her. "Once you do, the other leg will naturally pull itself out of the swamp."

He had compared Blake to a swamp. He’d buried an invisible thread in her heart, and all he had to do was give it a gentle tug. With every agonizing tear, she would wake up a little more. Yes, that was it—he had to make her see the need to escape the swamp.

He didn't even need to pull her out himself; her own survival instinct would eventually tell her it was dangerous. It was like being pricked by a fish bone, bleeding and miserable. Eventually, every time she thought of fish, she’d feel a phantom hitch in her throat, a reminder of the sharp, jagged thing that had left her gasping for air.

And that rainy night during the Summer Solstice.

When she had been on the verge of a breakdown, desperate to reach out to Blake, Roman had stepped in, as light as a breeze. With one hand patting her back soothingly and the other cradling the back of her head, he’d whispered, "It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll handle everything for you. There’s no need to contact people who don't matter. He only brings you trouble, doesn't he?"

He must have been blinded by the impulse of that sudden embrace to have been so transparent with his words. Roman knew that if Violette looked back now, the truth of his intentions would be blindingly obvious.

His manipulation had been repeated, over and over. And the cracks had finally begun to show.

Roman didn't dare take his eyes off her for a second, trying to read every flicker of her heart. Now that she knew the kind of man he was, would she still lean toward him? Would she still let him hold her?

He wasn't sure.

Just moments ago, before this bouquet had come between them, they had been sharing such an enviable moment.

"Twig."

Roman couldn't bear the silence any longer. For the first time, he was the one to break it.

"Wait."

Violette’s hand hovered in the air, as if she were still trying to solve a complex riddle. In her mind, she was replaying every frame of her life with Roman. *Calculated. Long-game. Hidden motives.* The thought that had been clawing at the back of her mind was half-confirmed. But there was a voice in her heart that needed to hear it from him.

Violette took a slow, steady breath. "So, that bouquet... were you planning on giving it to me from the very start?"

"Yes."

Violette looked at him. "Why?"