Bradley Harper had been forced into the role of the reluctant emergency contact once again.

As for Roman Griffin, it took him less than fifteen minutes to reach the scene. A man known for his unshakable composure, he had hounded his driver four times during the trip—roughly once every three minutes—leaving the poor man visibly rattled. Before the car had even come to a full stop, Roman was already out.

Streetlamps cast long, soft shadows across the pavement. The magnolia-shaped lamp shades distorted the light into jagged, crown-like patterns at Violette Ellis’s feet. She stood leaning against her car, wearing a camel-colored cardigan and jeans, looking perfectly intact from head to toe.

Roman spared a glance at her car. Aside from a slight indentation on the front-left fender, it was largely unscathed. When she saw him, Violette even offered a casual wave.

Roman’s heart, which had been hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, finally caught a breath. As he approached, he heard the officer lecturing her about the dangers of fatigued driving. Roman locked eyes with her, his expression unusually stern.

"What happened?" he asked.

For a split second, it felt like that stormy summer night when they had first started to blur the lines of their arrangement—the sudden slam of brakes, the collision, and the twist of fate that followed. That night had been a torrential downpour; tonight, the moon was high and the air was crisp.

There was no aggressive driver from the other party and no external chaos to add to Violette’s misery. She listened quietly to the officer’s instructions, then glanced up at Roman.

Roman’s face was set in cold, hard lines, the night breeze tossing his dark hair. He stood only a few feet away, his collar unbuttoned and his sleeves rolled up, his dark, bottomless eyes fixed intently on her.

When the officer looked down to finish his report, Violette forced a lighthearted tone. "Honestly? I’m not even sure. This is the second time I’ve clipped something in this same area."

The last time had been on the downtown expressway. This time, it was the exit ramp.

Roman’s lips pulled into a thin line as he reached out. Violette instinctively took his hand, only to realize his palm was slick with cold sweat.

"I didn't notice the car behind me shifting lanes when I exited the highway," she said, her voice soft and placating. "I saw a flash in my rearview mirror, panicked, and yanked the steering wheel to the right. I didn't realize until it was too late that I didn't have the clearance."

She tilted her chin toward the car. "See? Just a scrape against the guardrail."

It was a trivial incident, hardly even worth calling insurance for. Yet, when she heard that dull thud, her very first instinct had been to reach for Roman. Somewhere along the way, he had become her synonym for safety.

Violette found the whole thing ridiculous. "Where did you even come from? I told your assistant, Alan, that it was a minor issue and not to bother you."

"The office," Roman said, his tone devoid of inflection. "Nothing that happens to you is a minor issue."

Once the officer finished the paperwork and finalized the damage claim for the guardrail, Roman questioned the third-party witness to piece together exactly how the accident occurred. The surveillance footage was clear enough: both cars had been merging simultaneously, but there had been plenty of room. It was obvious from the video that the driver of the white Mercedes had been distracted.

"Long day, everyone’s tired," the officer noted. "But I must remind your wife—if she doesn't feel up to driving, she shouldn't force it."

The ride home felt hauntingly familiar. Violette sat in the passenger seat, stealing glances at Roman. He didn't speak for the duration of the trip; his brows were slightly furrowed, his profile as cold and sharp as a blade. The car stereo played a rotation of old classics, desperately trying to maintain a veneer of normalcy.

Knowing she was at fault, Violette didn't dare start a conversation. That was until she realized the route was becoming far too familiar.

She turned to him. "Aren't we heading back to Blue Springs Estate?"

"It’s too far," Roman said, his voice clipped. "It makes your commute to work a nightmare."

"I actually don't mind—"

"Violette Ellis."

Roman rarely used her full name, and it made her sit up straight, as if she’d just been called out by a professor in a lecture hall. Sensing her sudden tension, Roman’s throat tightened. He softened his tone. "You’ve been sleep-deprived for weeks. Don't tell me you aren't aware of it."

"I can take a nap at the station during my lunch break."

Roman shot back, "So, tonight’s little stunt was the result of your 'well-rested' state?"

"..."

Violette had no defense. She looked down, twisting a button on her cardigan with her fingernails. *Click, click, click.*

"I’m not blaming you," Roman said slowly. "It’s my oversight. My responsibility is greater for letting you commute such a distance, and I should have noticed this long before now. I was just frustrated with myself."

"Why do you always have to be so... attentive?" Violette murmured, her head bowed.

The small cabin of the car made every word carry weight. Roman’s focus wavered; his leather-clad foot tensed over the brake pedal. Was she annoyed? Did she find his care a burden? He wanted to explain, but he didn't know where to begin. This was simply who he was, and he had already toned down his nature significantly for her. He opened his mouth, but afraid of saying something else to irritate her, he pressed his thumb against his forehead, remaining silent.

Yes, he was a boring man. He wasn't like Blake Pierce—

"I was the one who was distracted and hit the guardrail. Why are you taking the blame?" Violette snapped. "Roman, since when did you become someone who just spirals like this?"

Roman blinked, taken aback. In his thirty years of life, this was the first time anyone had ever accused him of "spiraling."

"Are you talking about me?" he asked, hesitant.

Violette, still ruminating on the afternoon's events, seized the opening. "You don't even like durian."

The topic change was so abrupt it caught him off guard.

"Why were you playing along earlier? Couldn't you have just said you didn't like it?"

He sighed. "It’s a trivial thing. It makes no difference whether I say it or not."

"How does it make no difference?" Violette pursed her lips, looking genuinely annoyed. "It affects how I know you. And what, are you going to pretend you love it every time I eat it at home? Doesn't that exhaust you?"

Violette wanted to know him properly. Violette was talking about the future.

Two simple sentences, yet they struck a chord deep within him. He reached over the center console and brushed her flushed cheek, coaxing her with his touch. "Home is supposed to be a place where you can relax. I just didn't want you to feel like you had to accommodate me."

"Yeah, sure, Mr. Griffin. Home is for relaxing. So, did you?" Violette grumbled. "And you say you aren't overthinking things!"

It was hard to imagine a man with such a heart of steel being prone to internal conflict. The strategic decisions he made at V-Oasis regularly left competitors bankrupt. He managed tens of thousands of employees, handled layoffs and promotions without a second thought, and never faltered in his pursuit of the grand vision. If he truly "spiraled," V-Oasis wouldn't exist today.

But he had decided, long ago, to follow the persona she had built for him.

Parking the car on the side of the road, Roman turned to look at her, his gaze intense.

"You're right," he said, enunciating every word. "I actually have been thinking about something else all day. I was so distracted during my meetings that I lost focus."

What was it? Violette blinked slowly, her expression asking the question for her.

Roman looked at her, his voice steady. "When you said you liked me today... was that just part of a dare you lost while playing with Adelaide?"