Violette Ellis woke up the next morning, sticking to her routine as if nothing had changed.

Roman Griffin hadn’t returned to the master suite, and there was no trace of him anywhere in the apartment. Violette combed through the rooms, but the place was empty. However, the perfectly portioned serving in Sunny’s food bowl was a silent testament to Roman’s presence. Every morning, regardless of the chaos, if he was home, he never failed to feed the cat.

The table was wiped clean of the previous night’s mess. Sunlight slanted through the balcony glass, catching the roses in the white porcelain vase, making them look lush and dew-kissed. As Violette moved closer to admire them, she spotted a small, cream-colored note tucked against the rim of the vase.

*I apologize for what I did. My intent was only to love you, Twig.*

So much for him being "not good with words." Apparently, he knew exactly how to craft the most devastatingly beautiful lines. Violette folded the note once, then again into a sharp, perfect square, and tucked it into her pocket.

She had an interview scheduled for that morning. After grabbing a quick coffee and croissant, she rushed out the door. The rest of the day was a blur of makeup, script review, and back-to-back rehearsals. She didn't have a single second to let her mind wander.

It wasn't until two in the afternoon that she finally sat down with the editor to review the raw footage. As the screen flickered to life, she saw herself mid-sentence with her guest.

"Many people are prioritizing emerging industries for their portfolios," Violette said on screen, "but your track record shows a much heavier focus on traditional sectors. What’s the reasoning behind that?"

The guest leaned back, a measured smile on his face. "It’s a matter of preference, really. The two perform very differently on the market. To put it in plain English: one is seasoned, the other is young. The advantage of the seasoned option is that the foundation is rock-solid. When it rises, it’s steady; when it dips, it’s resilient. As for the young ones? They need the right wind. If the wind hits, they soar, but if the wind dies, they crash—or worse, they’re out of the game entirely."

"So, low risk and low return versus high risk and high return. Is that how I should interpret it?"

"Not quite as binary as that. My personal preference for traditional industries comes down to the lower risk, but the returns are rarely disappointing. If you control the supply, you capture the maximum yield. Take the recent trend of hoarding vintage bourbon, for example..."

The editor chuckled from his seat. "Makes me want to clear out my savings and buy a few bottles."

When she had conducted the interview, her mind had been entirely focused on the professional aspects of the conversation. But listening to it again, with the heavy, gnawing weight that had sat in her chest since last night, the words took on a completely different texture.

She wasn't naive enough to think she was morally superior, or that her disgust at Roman’s scheming was purely righteous. In fact, she was selfish—she believed that choosing who to love and who to walk away from should be an act of personal agency, free from the interference of others.

Last night, she had been blinded by her irritation. She hated being manipulated. She wanted to know if her breakup with Blake Pierce had been the result of his own limitations or a catalyst pushed by Roman’s hand.

She couldn't bring herself to fully forgive Roman, but she couldn't bring herself to truly hate him, either. She was like a scale losing its calibration—one moment wondering if, without Roman’s interference, she and Blake might have made it work; the next moment realizing that even if they had, what would have been the point?

*Resilient. Rock-solid.*

*No wind, no momentum. Out of the game.*

The analogies were a mirror to her own life. Who said the market didn't predict the heart?

Violette felt her perspective clearing. When she had first chosen to be with Blake, she had known, deep down, that he was too young and too unseasoned to handle the pressure. They were bound to drift apart eventually. As Roman had predicted, the path they were on had always been headed toward a split. Their love had been fiery, impulsive, and fresh—but once the novelty evaporated, there was nothing left to sustain them.

Just like a failed investment in a volatile industry, her next choice would naturally be the exact opposite. Whether Roman had interfered or not, her decision had been the only one she was capable of making. The option she thought had been stolen from her was actually the one she had rejected by nature.

Her hand brushed against the tiny folded note in her pocket. She gripped it tightly. She shouldn't have laid all the blame on Roman.

***

"What’s this about 'those who respect others are respected in return'? My old man dragged me into his study yesterday and gave me a massive lecture," Bradley Harper complained, pacing around the private members' club. "Since when have I been disrespectful? And is that even how you use that phrase?"

"Give him a grandson and he’ll call you the most respectful son on earth," someone teased.

"Please. I’m not even close to being done playing the field. Forget it!"

Roman sat on the sofa, unmoving. He didn't look like he was here to play cards, and he hadn't opened his tablet to work. His focus was entirely on his blacked-out phone screen, his thoughts miles away. It wasn't until Bradley’s outburst punctured the atmosphere that he shifted his posture. He leaned back, resting his head on the cushion, and rubbed the bridge of his nose to mask his exhaustion.

It was ironic. The moment Bradley spoke, a thought flashed through Roman’s mind: *What goes around, comes around.*

He had once intervened in the space between Violette and Blake. Now that he had taken his place at her side, Blake was lurking in the shadows, waiting for his chance to strike. Cause and effect.

His message from last night had finally received a response minutes ago. The new owner of the 27th-floor unit was a woman in her seventies, and all the contact info listed with property management pointed back to her. At a glance, it had nothing to do with Blake, but one layer deeper, the truth was obvious: that woman was Blake’s grandmother.

Roman pressed his thumb into his brow, calculating. How could he suggest that Violette move to Blue Springs Estate without tipping his hand?

The banter around him continued, but he was lost in thought until a shadow fell over him.

"Hey, Roman. How’d it go yesterday? Did the flowers work their magic?"

Roman looked up, his expression unreadable. Bradley felt a chill crawl down his spine; he clearly hadn't gotten the response he wanted. Bradley coughed and awkwardly changed the subject. "So, you coming for a late-night bite with us? Or are you heading back to pick up your wife?"

Violette had driven herself today, and she hadn't given him a clear answer when he’d asked her to "think about it" the night before. Roman didn't want to crowd her. He had already debased himself once; he didn't need to do it twice. He preferred to project an image of patient, quiet understanding to mend the crack in her perception of him.

"Where are you going?" Roman asked.

Bradley blinked, surprised. "Oh, I was betting against you coming. We were thinking about that old brasserie downtown."

It was a city landmark. When Roman had visited Bauhinia Bay, he’d seen the restaurant’s take-out bags in the kitchen more than once. Charles Ellis had mentioned that Violette loved the place.

The roast duck and the salt-and-pepper king crab were her staples. If she didn't have time to dine in, she ordered it delivered. But the crab would lose its crunch in the box, and the duck would lose its texture. The flavor always suffered.

"I'm in," Roman said, standing up.

Seeing the others frozen in surprise, he urged them, "Well? Let’s go."

The "late-night" meal, originally intended for after ten, was pushed forward to eight-thirty by Roman’s sheer insistence. Though he hadn't been hungry, the atmosphere of the bustling dining hall, packed with round wooden tables, whetted his appetite.

Bradley was ordering for the table, ticking off portions, when he saw "2" marked next to the duck and crab. He figured someone had hit the button twice by mistake, so he corrected them both to one.

When the food arrived, Bradley reached for a piece of crab, but Roman shoved his arm aside, effectively blocking him.

"Seriously? You’re hoarding the goods, Roman?"

Roman signaled for the waiter, eyeing Bradley coldly. "Pack these up."

"Wait, what?"

"I have somewhere to be," Roman said, settling the bill on the table. "Enjoy the rest."

Roman didn't know when Violette would be home, but he timed his arrival to match her usual schedule perfectly. He fully expected her to be home by now.

But she wasn't. She had been pulled out at the last minute.

The moment Violette stepped into the cafe, she spotted Chloe Nichols at a nearby table, shamelessly trying to pick up a guy. Violette dragged her back to their booth, much to Chloe’s annoyance.

"He’s a high-quality catch! You’re ruining my chances!"

"High-quality? His eyes were wandering everywhere but your face the whole time," Violette said, adjusting the collar of Chloe’s top. "I’m only staying for a little while."

"In a rush for your next appointment?"

"Something like that," Violette replied.

She wasn't one to let things fester. Now that she had reached her own conclusion, she wanted to go home and settle the air between her and Roman. It was impossible to keep living in this state of icy tension.

They hadn't spoken all day—not a call, not even a text. He was either waiting quietly or crouching in the dark. Violette knew that a mature leopard could wait in the grass for half an hour, holding perfectly still, just for three seconds of a clean, fatal strike to the throat. Roman wasn't as harmless as he pretended to be, and she was starting to wonder if she had been the prey all along.

This wasn't a nature documentary, but the laws were the same. Violette checked her watch. "I’m heading home before ten."

"Oof, curfews now?"

"Something like that. If I don't get enough sleep, I won't be able to function tomorrow. You paying for my lost wages if I’m late?"

Chloe finally dropped the act and pulled out her phone. "I’m torn on something. Help me out?"

On her screen were two event tickets. One was for a major tournament in Malaysia next week. The other was for a local exhibition match during the Lunar New Year holiday.

"The Malaysia match is the real deal, the atmosphere will be insane, but I’ve burned through all my vacation time! If I take more, they’ll dock my pay—it hurts just thinking about it. The second one is close by and fits my schedule, but it's just an exhibition..."

"If you don't have the days off, just let the Malaysia one go," Violette said. She paused. "Why don't you try the VR viewing system at Roman’s company?"

"That’s a brilliant idea!"

Chloe had intended that all along. She shot Violette a mischievous look, and Violette felt a creeping dread.

"Say what you need to say."

"Well, the system just launched, and you know, the Malaysia match requires an invitation key..."

"..."

She’d been waiting for this. Violette agreed with a sigh, and Chloe cheered, pumping her fist in the air.

Chloe excitedly scrolled through the player list for the Malaysia tournament. As she flipped through the photos, Violette’s hand suddenly froze, pressing down on the screen.

"Who is this?"

She pointed to a young man she remembered seeing in the elevator.

"Him?" Chloe zoomed in on a group photo, squinting at the sharp-featured man with intense brows. "Oh, he’s the guy who took bronze in the Australian Open men's singles last year."

"What’s his relationship with Blake Pierce?"

Chloe looked surprised that Violette had brought him up, but thought for a moment. "They played doubles together once. I think they were in the same training camp."

Violette pulled her hand back, her voice turning icy. "I see."

No wonder he looked familiar.

One wave hadn't even finished receding before the next began. She had a very strong idea of who had bought the apartment on the 27th floor.