"That bouquet—was it always meant for me from the start?"

The answer was hanging in the air, plain as day. But Violette wanted to know the root of it. Did he like her? Or did he simply want to possess her?

Between men and women, it usually came down to that singular, base dynamic.

Back in college, one of Violette's roommates had a wealthy boyfriend, and his childhood friend had spent a season chasing Violette. He was a gentleman, full of romantic gestures, never once crossing the line. Yet, there was no spark, no connection. Violette turned him down repeatedly.

When he finally gave up, he asked, "Are you always this hard to get?"

Violette didn’t know how to answer. In her mind, attraction was either instantaneous or it wasn't there at all—you couldn't force a puzzle piece into the wrong slot.

The boy dropped the act. "Fine, let’s try something simpler."

"Simpler?" Violette asked, genuinely baffled.

He looked at her with a sneer that seemed to say, *Don't play innocent.* "What’s your price for a night?"

"What?" She turned to face him.

"How much for you to sleep with me?" he said, enunciating every word. "If you don't like the sound of that, we can call it a hookup."

It was sheer coincidence that they were standing right outside the campus convenience store. Violette told him to wait a second, stepped inside, and walked out a moment later to smash a beer bottle across his head.

The sound of shattering glass and the spray of liquid hitting his face had felt—for a fleeting second—therapeutic.

That incident made her a legend on campus. For the remaining four years, not a single man dared to bother her again.

Later, in the professional world, she had attended the usual sponsor-funded business dinners, just like Marilyn Stone. And what were these dinners, really? Men turned into the same creatures once they’d had enough to drink—bloated, greasy, their oversized stomachs filled with nothing but hot air and vanity.

Some looked like pillars of the community, radiating academic grace, only to turn their backs and leer at her, whispering about how "the girls at Deepwater Broadcasting were getting prettier by the day," their eyes stripping her bare.

The subtler ones didn't say a word at the table, but as they were leaving, they’d have their assistants slide a hotel key card into her hand.

She had mellowed out since her college days, of course. But the worst offender had once followed her to the parking garage. She’d acted like she made a mistake and blasted his face with pepper spray until he looked like a bruised pig.

She had even offered a tearful, sincere apology afterward. "I’m so sorry, Mr. Hayes! I thought you were a predator stalking me. You scared me to death!"

Her screams brought her father, Charles, to the scene, and the issue was buried right then and there.

Her beauty had granted her certain privileges, but it had also invited plenty of trouble. She was no stranger to wandering hands, crude jokes, and hypocrites. Many men thought that age, status, and wealth gave them the right to play god. Violette disagreed. Back then, she’d made a vow: if she ever fell in love, it would only be with someone clean, someone younger.

Blake Pierce fit her preferences. Roman Griffin was the accident.

Roman lacked the typical "daddy-knows-best" arrogance of men in his position. He was humble, guarded, and impeccably attentive.

At times, he acted like an emotional novice—so clean, so raw that it felt out of place for a man of his stature. Violette had thought that when she agreed to marry him, she was securing stability, attracted by his icy, mountain-air demeanor.

But the mountain air had descended into the mud.

The myth that gentlemen never build walls? It was a lie. Gentlemen were simply the best at digging tunnels underneath them.

The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. Violette finally understood the faint, lingering aggression she’d felt whenever she faced Roman. He wasn't a domestic cat; he was a panther, and his relaxation was just a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.

The prey was already in his grip, so he could afford to be gentle. But when he moved to hunt? He was a different animal entirely.

Ruthless?

Violette smoothed out her thoughts. Just like the many times she had been weighed and measured for sale, she realized that to Roman, she was a beautiful display piece in a storefront window. Behind the thin glass, he wasn't being honest. He had been planning to claim her all along.

She locked eyes with him. "Why? You knew I had a boyfriend at the time."

"You weren't married, were you?"

Her palms grew damp. A sense of disorientation took root.

"What if I had been?"

"There is no 'if,'" Roman replied.

See? The mask was gone, and the predator was baring his teeth.

Violette felt suffocated. She stepped back, her skirt bunching up as she moved, hanging heavy and tight against her ankles like a wall of defense, swaddling her skin. Her hair was still a mess from their earlier rush, a stark contrast to her cooling skin, which was now shielding itself from his reach.

"Are you afraid of me?" Roman frowned.

"No. I'm not afraid."

People subconsciously repeat themselves when they're lying. She knew it.

Roman’s shoulders, usually relaxed, were tight. He was fighting the urge to lean in. His grip on the bouquet tightened, the paper crinkling in the silence.

Violette snapped out of the hypnotic trap. She turned her head. The table was a wreck—a knocked-over wine glass, napkins stained a deep, bruised red, a steak dinner left to go cold, and candles still flickering, smelling faintly of wax. They had lost control on this very table, but now, the last of the adrenaline had faded, and her sanity was returning.

"Roman, let's stop for today. Please."

"Alright." His answer was instant.

*Thank God.*

Violette clutched her chest. Thank God Roman still respected her boundaries.

She paced the room, restless, until she heard Roman speak behind her, his voice uncharacteristically jagged. "Do you hate me like this?"

She stopped. She turned to face him. "It's not hate."

How could she explain it? She’d thought she was sleeping next to a rabbit, only to find a wolf in its skin. Even if the goal was the same, she needed time to process the transformation.

"I just feel like I'm meeting a new side of you."

Roman stared into her eyes, unblinking. "No matter which side you see, I will never do anything to harm you."

"Then what was all that before?"

"Before?"

Roman realized what she meant, his tone turning firm. "He wasn't right for you. You must have felt it, too. With or without me, you two were going to break up."

The nerve of the man, to frame his manipulation with such calm elegance.

Violette stepped up to him and pried his fingers open one by one. She rescued the bouquet, set it aside, and tilted her head, tracing the lines of his face.

"And what about us? How do you think we end?"

Before he could answer, she interrupted. "You don't know, do you? Even if you think you can predict the future, I don't want my path to be rearranged. I'm not racing toward a finish line, so I don't want to know the result ahead of time. Do you understand what I mean?"

Roman’s lips parted. After a long pause, he gave a single, clipped nod.

"I just need to think," Violette repeated.

At least she didn't hate him. That was something.

Roman let her head to the bedroom while he retreated to the balcony. Usually, one cigarette was enough to settle his nerves, but even as he lit the second, his heart remained a storm. He had managed to ruin the anniversary she’d carefully planned.

He didn't know if the neighbor downstairs had also opened their balcony, but he heard the faint slide of a door, followed by the creak of a rattan chair.

The terraces were split-level. The 28th-floor sky garden faced south, while the 27th faced west.

The neighbors above and below usually stayed out of each other’s sightlines, yet they could still catch the faint sounds of the other’s presence.

Roman stood up, ready to head inside. His hand was on the door handle when he heard a voice that made his skin crawl: "Grandma, why on earth are you out here in the middle of the night catching a breeze?"

"If you young people can have a housewarming party, can't an old lady stay up for a bit?"

Roman glanced toward the source of the noise.

Even though he knew he couldn't see through the floorboards, he narrowed his eyes. A suspicion blossomed in his mind.

A moment later, he began typing a text: *Whatever it takes, I want the identity of the owner on the 27th floor. As soon as possible.*