The morning of New Year’s Day was traditionally meant for house calls and well-wishes, but Violette Ellis had slept right through it.

Her first conscious action was to grope blindly across the mattress for her phone. Before she’d drifted off the night before, she’d fretted about sending the customary New Year’s texts to Roman’s parents. Now, with the sun already halfway to its zenith, any hope of a morning greeting had long since passed.

A quick glance at her screen revealed a message from Catherine Palmer: their private jet had secured a flight path early this morning, and the family was off to Hawaii for a holiday. As for why they hadn’t dragged Violette and Roman along? Violette was on rotation at the station through the second and fourth day of the break. Where she stayed, Roman stayed.

She dragged herself downstairs to the central hall, her legs feeling like overcooked pasta, and collapsed onto a sofa. A servant promptly appeared with a bowl of bird’s nest porridge and a red date and lotus seed tonic, noting that Roman had requested them specifically.

Before she could finish, the low rumble of an engine pulled into the garden, followed by the metallic click of a car engine cutting out.

The butler intercepted the newcomer. A moment later, Roman walked in, his strides long and decisive. He caught sight of her spooning the tonic into her mouth, walked over, and reached out to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

Violette was wearing a knit sweater with a deep sweetheart neckline. As he tucked the hair away, a vibrant, flushed mark near her collarbone was exposed to the light. Roman’s gaze darkened for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable, before he smoothed the fabric back into place, covering the evidence.

"Where were you so early?" Violette asked.

"Handing out holiday bonuses to the staff on shift at V-Oasis."

"Generous," she mumbled, tilting her head. "Why doesn't my station do that for me?"

She went back to her tonic. She’d heard lotus seeds were good for the heart—at the rate she was burning the candle at both ends, she was fairly certain she was a hair’s breadth away from a cardiac event.

"And my parents?" she added after a beat. "Did you see them when you woke up?"

"Mom mentioned needing to pick up a few things. I had the driver take them into the city."

"Strange. You’ve already done a security sweep of the pantry—we aren't running low on anything."

"Perhaps they just found the estate too quiet and wanted a walk through the shops."

It was a plausible enough excuse. They didn’t think twice about it.

By noon, the luxury SUV that had taken Catherine and Charles Ellis shopping pulled back into the garden, idling next to Roman’s signature black Bentley. Catherine emerged with enough bags that she looked ready to open a warehouse.

Violette watched from the balcony, stunned. "Mom, you're not moving in, are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Your father and I are just staying for the holidays," Catherine replied, her tone shifting slightly. "This is for you two. Specifically, for Roman."

There was even more in the trunk. The servants scurried to unpack the haul, and as the bags were opened, the scent of earth and herbs filled the air. There were black beans, black rice, black sesame, deer antler velvet, gecko, medicinal roots, and a host of other strange, dried substances.

Violette stared, horrified. "Mom, what is all this?"

"It’s for soup," Catherine said, instantly pivoting to maintain Roman’s dignity in front of the help, claiming it was for Charles’s health.

When the soup was finally served, there was a bowl for Charles and a bowl for Roman. Roman looked at the dark, viscous liquid with a flicker of confusion.

Catherine smiled warmly. "Your father can't finish his alone. It’s for vitality. You should have some, too. Build your strength up."

It was a thick, muddy-brown brew. Roman, ever the stoic, drank more of it than the supposed patient. He didn't recognize all the ingredients, but he certainly recognized the deer antler velvet. He didn’t bat an eye. He drank it every day for a week.

Catherine watched him, noting no outward reaction, though she did observe that he seemed to be spending much more time in the swimming pool. Thinking her concoction was working, she didn't find the extra effort a chore at all.

Violette, busy with her shift, remained blissfully ignorant of the undercurrents swirling through the house. She had her own headaches to deal with.

Every day, a bouquet was delivered to the station, and it was becoming a nuisance. Yesterday it was Alpine roses; today, pink "Sweet Akito" roses. Every time the cleaning staff passed her office, they’d chirp, "Violette, your husband is just so romantic!"

The problem, of course, was that the flowers weren't from Roman. They were from someone she preferred not to name. At least he had some shred of decorum—the cards were never signed. They only ever said: *Wishing you happiness.*

Violette texted him: *Stop sending these. I don't like them.*

Blake Pierce replied: *What do you like now?*

Violette: *I like you to stop sending things.*

Blake: *You used to only say the first four words.*

The man was shameless. Exactly as he had been when he first pursued her. Violette dumped the flowers on the office staff and deleted the chat log, finally feeling a sense of clarity. At least he had the sense not to resort to blatant, public stalking.

She finished her shift and headed home. Living at Blue Springs Estate for the holidays meant that even if she left on time, she didn't get home until after eight. The mornings were even worse; to clock in by nine, she had to leave by seven, which meant a six-o'clock wake-up call.

Every night, she had to issue the same decree to Roman.

"No, not tonight," she would say, with the firm precision of a briefing.

Roman would simply nod, read his book for a while, and settle into bed beside her with calm, practiced patience. Yet, in the hazy, half-awake hours of the night, Violette would catch the sound of footsteps pacing. She’d struggle to open her eyes and notice the chill radiating from his skin when he returned, as if he’d just spent a long time submerged in the pool in the dead of winter.

Finally, her day off arrived.

That evening, after finishing a cup of black coffee, sleep was elusive. She felt the mattress depress as Roman lay down.

"Did my mother talk to you?" she asked, her face pressed into the pillow.

"Yes."

The once-a-day tonic had increased to a pre-sleep routine.

Roman said, out of the blue, "Your parents seem to really want a grandchild."

Seeing as her parents couldn't walk past a toddler in the neighborhood without cooing, Violette didn't think the comment was out of place. "Everyone their age is like that," she muttered.

No wonder they’d been force-feeding him that tonic all week.

"What about you?" Roman asked.

"I'm fine. I don't have any specific feelings about children," Violette said, rolling over and hooking an arm around his waist. "Did my mother say something to you?"

He didn't answer.

Violette realized Catherine had likely been working on Roman behind the scenes, and she felt a wave of helplessness. She lifted her head, resting it against his chest, and murmured, "We're only staying here for a few more days. Just humor them for my sake, okay?"

She thought it sounded like a reasonable request.

To anyone else, it sounded remarkably like something a heartless spouse would say.

"Fine," Roman said softly.

He held her close, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. As the room grew quiet, the air thick with silence, he finally drew his hand away and reached for his robe.

As he touched the door handle, Violette sat up. "Hm? Where are you going?"

"Swim—"

The first syllable was a reflex, but he bit back the rest.

"Swimming?" Violette asked, bewildered. "At this hour?"

Roman froze in the doorway, silent.

Violette crawled to the foot of the bed, kneeling on her shins to look at him. Her night vision was poor, but she could just make out the gray silk of his robe, which shimmered like flowing water in the dim light.

"Do you have some kind of body-image anxiety?"

It was the only reason she could fathom for someone going for a midnight swim.

Roman leaned against the frame, his face swallowed by the darkness. His voice was cool and measured. "Before bed, your mother called me over to finish a bowl of that tonic."

Violette’s mind flashed to the mountain of items her mother had bought. She hadn’t known what half of them were—Catherine had claimed they were for "general health." But Violette knew the reputation of deer antler velvet. She’d heard the boozy, bloated executives at her work dinners joke about that sort of thing too many times.

She’d brushed it off as a harmless supplement. But hearing Roman say it now, the context shifted violently.

What kind of supplement required a midnight dose?

"No way. My mother wouldn't..."

Her voice trailed off, turning into a whisper. She suddenly felt like a gazelle on the savanna, staring down a predator. She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry.

From the shadows, Roman’s voice was slow and deliberate. "As for whether I need to be 'boosted'—I think you know the answer to that."