The car was dead silent. A passing streetlight caught the window, painting half of Violette’s face in a heat that had nothing to do with the night air. She didn’t need to touch her ears to know they were burning, but fortunately, the side facing Roman was shrouded in shadow—he couldn't see a thing.

Violette lowered her gaze. In the brief lulls, the only sound was the distant, piercing roar of construction trucks rolling under the bridge.

The words had come from Adelaide, not her. But trying to explain the context of that conversation now felt like a chore. Why clarify? Why not just let Adelaide reach her own conclusion?

She did, in fact, like the way Roman smelled. By any logical stretch, admitting she liked him wasn’t exactly a lie.

Violette deliberated for a moment before deciding to address the simplest part of his inquiry.

"It wasn't a game of Truth or Dare," she said, her tone steady. "And I didn't lose anything."

"So, that thing you said..."

Roman trailed off. He seemed to be waiting for her to repeat the conclusion, or perhaps he’d suddenly grown fearful of actually reaching the answer. Either way, he stopped.

Another car sped past, its headlights flooding the cabin in a rhythmic strobe.

Caught in the flickering light, their eyes locked. On a whim—or perhaps a sudden, reckless impulse—Violette unbuckled her seatbelt. She hoisted herself up, leaning across the center console just as Roman reached out. She pressed a fleeting, feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth. As she pulled back, the seatbelt recoiled with a sharp *snap*, yanking her back into her seat.

They both settled back into their positions. Violette turned her gaze to the streetlamp outside, staring straight ahead.

"It means exactly what you think it means."

She didn't dare look at Roman, so she had no idea what expression he was wearing. The silence that followed stretched on, thick and strange. Fearing he’d turned into a statue, she snuck a tiny, peripheral glance toward him.

Roman was still sitting in the same posture, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Violette decided to pretend the last thirty seconds hadn't happened. She cleared her throat. "Why aren't we moving?"

"Wait a second," Roman muttered, his voice gravelly.

"Waiting for what?" she asked.

...

Roman shifted his posture, smooth and subtle.

"Nerves," he said. "My leg is cramping."

By the time they pulled into their residential complex, a ghost of a smile was still lingering at the corners of Violette’s mouth. It wasn't their first kiss, so what exactly was he nervous about? But in that moment, the confession that he was nervous had filled her with a strange, giddy satisfaction. She couldn't hold it back and let out an uncharacteristically airy giggle.

Roman wasn't a man with a thin skin. He kept his composure, waiting for the cramp to subside and for his suit trousers to settle back into their proper, crisp line.

They pulled the car into the garage, acting like any other happily married couple returning home. As Roman rounded the car to retrieve her bag, his arm slid around her, pulling her firmly into his side.

The elevator was coming down from the lobby. When it opened at the basement level, the building’s property manager was waiting inside, holding a beautifully wrapped gift box.

"Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, welcome home."

The property management team usually prepared little surprises for the holidays. They hadn't been around for the recent ones, so it wasn't particularly strange to receive a gift now.

Before she could even offer a thank you, the manager added, "This is a housewarming gift from the resident on the 27th floor. You haven't been home much lately, so we’ve been keeping it safe at the front desk. I saw your car pull in and wanted to bring it up right away."

The 27th floor. A housewarming gift.

Roman caught the keywords. He nodded, his expression completely blank. "Thank you."

The manager stepped off at the lobby, and the elevator surged upward to the 28th floor. Once they stepped out, Roman’s right arm remained hooked firmly around her waist, while his left hand carried the gift. Violette reached for it a few times, but he acted as if he hadn't noticed, completely indifferent.

At the front door, Roman tipped his chin, signaling her.

Violette understood. She reached out and tapped in the code to the digital keypad.

During the short climb in the elevator, her mind hadn't stopped racing. *What kind of stunt is that little brat Blake Pierce pulling now?*

What was inside the box? Was there something suggestive?

More than curiosity, she was terrified of her stable life being upended. While living at Blue Springs Estate, Violette could avoid these questions, side-stepping any contact with Blake. But not here. Here, they lived on top of each other, sharing the same elevator. At any given moment, the three of them could end up in that small, enclosed space.

What would she say then?

If she tried to explain to Roman that Blake Pierce moving into the unit downstairs was a move she hadn't consented to, would he believe her?

Roman’s emotions were like an iceberg—she only ever saw the tip. He might say everything was fine, but his heart could be a different story. Once a relationship descends into suspicion, it’s a death march. Violette knew that better than anyone.

Her constant arguments with Blake hadn't just been about how they handled public criticism; the cracks had formed long before that.

She thought back to that one time he’d flown into Deepwater just before a major tournament. He’d been insecure, hearing the slightest rumor and rushing over to interrogate her.

*"Is there some guy named Griffin chasing after you?"*

If only there had been less suspicion, things might not have fallen apart. If not for that trip to Deepwater, so much of the subsequent chaos might never have happened.

Violette’s eyelid began to twitch again. She reached up to press it down, kicking off her heels as she stepped inside. When her bare feet hit the floor, Roman was already bending down to straighten them.

She took the chance to snag the gift box from the foyer table.

It had a delicate bamboo handle tied with a silk ribbon. It was light—the weight of a standard gift. Violette carried it into the living room and sat down.

She positioned herself at an angle that blocked Roman’s line of sight to the terrace. He didn't have x-ray vision, so he couldn't see her expression or the contents of the box. All he saw was her slender silhouette, her hair pinned up with a claw clip, a few stray tendrils escaping. As she bowed her head, her bangs fell forward, revealing the sharp point of her chin.

She was examining the items one by one. Roman knew this because he could see her lining them up on the table—scented candles, hand creams, things like that.

The person who sent this had a very specific agenda. It felt like they were targeting the woman of the house.

Roman walked over at a leisurely pace and plucked one of the items from the table, turning it over in his palm.

Citrus. Rose.

They were all scents Violette loved.

Thankfully, Roman had been in a good mood before coming home, so he wasn't about to act like a jealous husband and storm down to the 27th floor to confront anyone. He smoothed out the only ripple of irritation in his heart, relaxed his shoulders, and leaned back against the sofa. "Why are you in such a hurry to open it?"

Violette’s fingers paused. "Nobody can resist an unopened package."

Roman crossed his arms over his chest, his right hand tapping against his left bicep.

"Well, now that we've accepted a gift from the new neighbor, perhaps we should find an opportunity to pay them a visit."

He wasn't entirely sure why he’d said it.

Violette remained perfectly natural, as if she didn't have the slightest clue who lived downstairs. His question felt like a thorn—the natural defensive reaction of a man who felt his territory encroached upon. By the time he realized he wanted to pull the thorn out, he’d already pricked himself.

Violette looked up at that moment.

She stared at him, her expression and gaze just as they always were. "No thanks. After work, I’m functionally agoraphobic. If you want to go, you go by yourself."