Violette rose at the crack of dawn on Saturday.

The air in Deepwater was temperate; though it was only early spring, the peach blossoms in the mountain temple were already in full bloom.

The Griffin family had arranged everything with meticulous care—the vegetarian temple meals were surprisingly refined, and the accommodations were quiet and secluded.

By evening, after a shower, Margaret Lewis and Catherine Palmer paired off to attend the evening meditation service. Emerson Griffin and Charles Ellis remained in the courtyard, their heads bent over a game of Go. Violette, left to her own devices, had no interest in the chanting, nor did she want to sit under the watchful, stone-faced scrutiny of the two patriarchs.

Like most modern city dwellers, her belief system was a grab-bag of half-baked secularism.

She was, to put it bluntly, the kind of person who only bowed to the God of Wealth.

Aside from the dutiful incense she’d burned that morning, praying for Roman’s health while he was away—and pulling a surprisingly auspicious fortune—she’d spent the rest of the day aimlessly wandering.

The temple complex was sprawling, but the guest quarters were tucked away in the innermost courtyards. Violette knew the path by heart, weaving her way to a garden thick with peach trees. The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting a golden haze over the orchard that made it even more hauntingly beautiful than it had been at noon. Perhaps because of the view, she wasn’t the only one seeking solace in the back garden.

At first, she didn’t pay them any mind, offering a polite, practiced nod as she brushed past.

Then, a voice stopped her in her tracks. "Mrs. Griffin?"

Violette paused, pivoting slowly to place the face.

The man smiled, his expression sharp and recognizing. "You have a busy life, Mrs. Griffin. We met briefly at the university campus."

It clicked. The man with the Maybach.

The wealthy were often more superstitious than most, it seemed; the need to detox with a few days of temple food was apparently a universal ritual among his set. Unlike their first, stiff encounter, he was now eager to strike up a conversation. "Are you here for the vegetarian retreat, Mrs. Griffin?"

"Just clearing my head," Violette said with a practiced smile.

"How lovely. Is Mr. Griffin joining you?"

"He’s on a business trip," she replied smoothly.

"A pity. I ran into him at the school the other day and had the chance to ask him a few questions. I was hoping to thank him in person."

*The university?*

Violette’s intuition flared. She doubted the man could mistake her identity, and the chance of him misidentifying Roman Griffin was practically zero.

She kept her voice steady. "You mean the open house?"

"Exactly! You two were there together, weren't you?"

She didn't dare show even a flicker of confusion. Violette offered her most polished, "society wife" smile. "Oh, that day! He’s so shy about stealing the spotlight, he barely made an appearance. Where did you manage to track him down?"

"I must have just been lucky," the man said, chuckling. "Right outside the lecture hall."

*Outside the lecture hall.*

Violette felt a cold shiver trace her spine, but she kept her face composed. "I wondered where he’d disappeared to. I suppose he was off chatting with the school officials."

The man shook his head. "Not then. That was after everything had wrapped up. I remember I’d just finished talking with Mr. Griffin when I saw that professional athlete walk out from the other side. The one… Blake something?"

The smile, held too long, suddenly felt brittle. Her jaw ached.

"Is that so?" she murmured.

"Yes. I even managed to snag an autograph."

People in Roman’s inner circle didn't care for internet gossip. They obsessed over inheritance taxes, private equity, and who was currently burning through their family fortune. They treated romantic scandals like gossip over cocktails—interesting, but rarely worth the effort of taking seriously. Many of them were too concerned with face to care about a woman's past; they’d just as soon marry a famous starlet and stick her on a shelf like a trophy.

It was clear this man had no idea she and Blake Pierce had once been a couple. He didn’t know how discordant the names "Roman Griffin" and "Blake Pierce" were when placed in the same sentence. He spoke of it as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

After a stiff, polite farewell, Violette walked away.

The sun had completely vanished behind the hills, leaving only a thin, bruise-colored light clinging to the horizon. The temperature had plummeted, and she wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing her cold skin.

As she made her way back, her thoughts spiraled. Why had Roman never mentioned being at the university that day? He’d told her he’d arrived in Deepwater early, and he clearly knew she’d been playing tennis with Blake. Yet, he’d played the part of the oblivious husband who’d only just returned home at midnight.

And then, she remembered his collar—creased, messy. The faint scrape on his temple.

Could they have actually crossed paths? Had they clashed?

*Right.*

She recalled the cryptic, jarring question Roman had posed that night: "Who do you think won? Me, or him?"

The realization hit her like a physical blow: Roman—the man she thought she knew—had actually gotten into a fistfight with Blake Pierce.

The concept was so absurd, so entirely out of character for a man like Roman, that it left her reeling. By the time she reached the courtyard and performed the perfunctory greetings to the two fathers, she was breathless. She ducked into Kaisen’s quarters, using two bottles of soda as an excuse.

"Kaisen? You want a drink?"

Kaisen sprang up like a jack-in-the-box. "Are you kidding? Give it here!"

He’d been suffering through the vegetarian diet for one day, and he looked like he was about to wither away. He cracked open the soda, the fizz acting like a shot of adrenaline. "It’s a shame there’s no ice."

Violette handed him the second bottle. "Put it in the mountain stream outside. It’ll be ice-cold by morning."

Kaisen looked at her with pure awe. "Sister-in-law, you’re a genius!"

"Hey," Violette said, her tone deliberately casual. "That ice cream at the school was pretty good, wasn’t it?"

"It’s a staple! How could it not be?"

"Has your brother ever had it?"

"Yeah, big time! He came to the outdoor event last year. I insisted he try it, and he actually liked it!"

"Maybe he should go again next year," Violette said, feeling a pang of guilt for interrogating a minor. But she kept her voice light, airy. "It’s a shame he missed it this time while he was abroad."

"Tell me about it. I was really hoping he’d show up," Kaisen sighed.

It seemed Kaisen didn't know anything either.

*So.*

Violette felt a strange, nagging obsession with the truth. Roman had come; he hadn't come. Why was she tearing herself apart trying to find out the truth?

She had told him, point-blank, that she’d run into Blake that day.

He hadn't reacted. She’d attributed it to his legendary restraint, his ability to bury his true feelings. But looking back, it wasn’t restraint at all—he’d already known. He’d been sitting there, watching, waiting to see if she would be honest with him.

What would have happened if she hadn't confessed?

Would he have used it as a test? How would he have played it? Just sat there in the dark, watching her perform in a one-woman show?

Violette felt a chill creep into her marrow. The mountain wind bit through her clothes, turning her bones to ice.

She was so lost in the static of her own thoughts that she didn’t even hear Charles Ellis call her name twice as she headed back to her room.

Inside, she pulled out her phone. The screen flickered, then went black.

She’d already dialed his number, but the signal in the mountains was abysmal; the call had dropped on its own. She sat on the edge of the bed, her thumb hovering over the screen, lighting it up, letting it die, lighting it up again.

Truthfully, she wasn't even sure what she would say if he answered.