Roman Griffin didn’t just need to stop the supplements; he needed to cool off.

As Violette leaned back, her skin grazed the heated pulse point on his neck, sending a shiver through her. She instinctively recoiled, but Roman caught her with surgical precision. His thumb pressed against her inner wrist, tracing the skin in slow, deliberate circles.

Violette’s heart hammered against her ribs. She was terrified that, in the suffocating silence of the night, he might hear the frantic, uneven rhythm of her pulse.

"Any restrictions today?"

Roman tilted his head, his nose brushing against her cheek, his voice a low vibration against her earlobe.

The heat of his breath turned her skin electric, the warmth spreading down to the tips of her ears. She gave a faint, microscopic shake of her head—a movement so subtle she thought it would go unnoticed.

Roman, however, caught it instantly.

"Good," he murmured. "Then there’s no reason to stop."

Violette didn’t think it was good at all. He looked dangerous tonight. Even in the heavy dark of the bedroom, where his features were obscured by shadow, she could feel the predator in him—a slow, calculated pressure that left no room for retreat. Every move he made was measured, a slow-burn trial of her limits. Violette knew better than to think he was testing her. This was just the start of his dominance.

The only mercy was that if she truly hit her limit and begged him to stop, Roman—no matter how far gone he was—would pause to soothe her.

His methods of persuasion were... distracting. Violette had lost count of how many times he’d coaxed her into submission that night, her willpower melting away under his touch until she had no boundaries left to defend.

By morning, the first thing she said to Catherine Palmer was, "Mom, please stop sending these health tonics!"

She didn't call her 'elegant' or use any endearments. The formality was gone; the situation was dire.

Catherine looked genuinely bewildered. "Why? You were taking them fine before."

"Because they’re pointless! He doesn't need them!"

Seeing a housekeeper passing through the hall, Violette dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. "We’re using protection. It’s birth control, not fertility issues."

"Birth control? But Roman said you two were..." Catherine paused, stunned. Had she been under the wrong impression for weeks? Or was it just a man’s ego, the kind that would rather have his wife take the blame for "preventative measures" than admit to any physical shortcomings?

Violette could read her mother’s thoughts as if they were written in the air.

"I’m not lying to you," Violette said, her voice dry. "Roman only talks about wanting kids to keep his parents off his back. We aren't planning on anything."

Catherine looked at Violette with an expression that suggested the situation was even worse than she’d feared. "You need to be prepared."

"Mom, are you even listening to me?"

"If the Griffin family thinks you’re trying and nothing happens, what do you think the next step will be?" Catherine said pointedly. "The Griffins have a legacy to protect."

Violette held up a hand, stopping her. "I’m not letting myself be gaslit into this. If that day ever comes and it’s an issue, then it just means I’m not the right fit for their family. Having a child isn't like picking up groceries. I have control over my own life."

Catherine could only sigh in defeat. She knew Violette’s temperament—the way she chose her career, the way she chose her husband—it had all been on her own terms. No one could push her into a corner.

"Just make sure you and Roman are on the same page," Catherine finally conceded.

With that tension released, Catherine felt much lighter. By the afternoon, she and Charles had packed their things and headed back to Bauhinia Bay.

Realizing his in-laws were gone, Roman called them immediately. Catherine, still embarrassed by the earlier misunderstanding, made a flimsy excuse about missing their own apartment, and Roman politely agreed to visit them in a few days before hanging up.

When he turned back, Violette was curled up on the sofa, watching him with a playful glint in her eyes. Sunny, their cat, was pacing gracefully along the back of the cushions beside her.

"Fixed that for you, Mr. Griffin. No more bizarre medicinal brews for you."

It was an ordinary, domestic scene, yet Roman stood still for a long time.

Even back when he’d barely known her, he’d fantasized about this—her in his house, wearing comfortable loungewear, hair loose, lounging on his sofa as if she actually belonged there. He’d imagined a cat or a dog, maybe even children running around calling him 'Daddy.'

Back then, it had felt like a delusional dream. Now, it was becoming his reality.

A wave of warmth swelled in his chest. Roman walked over slowly, pulling Violette into a light embrace. "So, you’ve been watching me?"

Violette quoted a famous line, a smirk playing on her lips. "Watching isn't the right word. I was merely admiring the view."

Roman chuckled. The vibration of his chest hummed against her palms.

Violette pressed her hands against him, assuming a look of feigned resistance. "Only hugging. I’m truly exhausted today."

"I haven't even said anything yet," Roman said, his eyes darkening.

Violette poked his chest with a single finger. "I can feel your intent."

"Zhizhi."

"Hm?"

"Want to experience something else?"

"What else?"

Her hand was guided, but she lacked the strength to resist. It wasn't that Roman was forcing her; it was the way his eyes looked at her. When he focused on her like that, they were like pure amber—so clean, so clear, that it was impossible to reconcile them with the raw, possessive hunger he usually masked.

His palm was searing against her, his breath hot against her skin. Only those eyes remained pristine, wide as the universe.

Violette snatched her hand back, a sudden shiver running down her spine. She’d gone further than this with him before, but this new intensity made her skin crawl in the best, most terrifying way. The games of a playboy were one thing, but the sudden, raw passion of a man usually composed felt like a direct strike to her heart.

As Roman led her to the sink to wash up, she glanced down at her own palm, the skin flushed pink like a fresh scar. Her fingers felt numb, tingly. He dried her hands with obsessive care, pulling her flush against his waist and leaning down to kiss her with a lingering, heavy devotion.

He was a man of plans, a man of patience. The lessons his grandfather had drilled into him by the study desk years ago were finally locking into place. Roman wondered, with a touch of cynicism, if the old man had finally cooled off.

...

Midnight. Five in the afternoon in Switzerland.

Roman had just finished a call with his grandfather.

The old man sounded slightly breathless—he hadn't quite finished unbuckling his gear—but his spirit was as sharp as ever. He spent the call berating Roman for not joining him in the Alps to ski over the holiday, though he immediately followed up by saying it was better that he hadn't, since he preferred the peace of being alone.

"Are you ever planning on coming back to Deepwater?" Roman asked.

"Is it snowing in Deepwater?"

"No."

The old man sounded cold. "I’ve only been on the slopes a few times this year. Why would I go back? To listen to your weary, long-winded lectures?"

Roman didn't back down. "And you’ve forgotten your history of altitude sickness?"

"You used to wet your pants when you were little, but I don’t bring that up every time we speak. Don’t try to scare me."

"Fine. Just stay safe."

He was still angry about the secret marriage. Over the last few months, the old man seemed to have regressed into a permanent state of teenage rebellion; for every word Roman said, his grandfather had ten snappy retorts.

Roman soothed him with practiced patience before checking his watch. "It’s late here. Midnight. I’m going to rest."

"Since when do you have a set bedtime? Your little friends always complained that you’d pull all-nighters when you were working. Now that you’re married, you’ve learned how to tuck yourself in on time?"

"Yes," Roman replied.

The old man had been ready for a monologue, but the single 'yes' stopped him dead in his tracks. If this were the past, Roman would have countered with some dry, biting remark about 'maintaining health.'

Yes? What did he mean, 'yes'?

Where was the retort? Silence stretched between them. The old man finally muttered a dry, "Oh."

"Goodbye, then. Take care of yourself."

"Oh."

Roman hung up and walked straight to the master suite. Violette had been keeping a strict schedule lately; she should have been asleep by now. Because of the call, it was now a few minutes past midnight.

Her phone sat on the bedside table, the screen dark.

He reached out and tapped it, lighting the glass.

There, as expected, was a single unread notification.

Blake Pierce: The sixth day of the new year. Still wishing you happiness.

The conversation history was different from usual—clean, empty, as if it had been scrubbed clean. Roman stared at the message for a long, silent moment before clicking the delete button.