Reception in the mountains was abysmal, and Violette Ellis had never been one to doom-scroll anyway.

But for Roman Griffin, currently in Berlin, the world was a high-speed conduit of information. It started when his legal team reached out, asking if they should, as per usual, aggressively scrub the latest batch of online speculation.

The previous waves of gossip had been crushed with brute force. Blake Pierce was the one in the spotlight; Roman was the one pulling the strings in the shadows. It was the only area where they didn't actively sabotage each other. When his legal counsel checked in, Roman knew immediately that trouble had surfaced again.

He clicked the link they sent. The more he read, the deeper his brow furrowed.

New posts were spawning faster than the page could refresh. Roman scanned them with a predatory gaze. This was unexpected. He followed the threads until he found the source material: a high-resolution shot from one of Blake’s matches. In it, Blake was hunched over, adjusting his wrist guard. A sliver of skin was exposed, revealing a jagged, pale-pink scar.

The comment section was a swarm of amateur detectives.

"I’ve gone through every match recording and photo from the last three years. He didn't wear a wrist guard before the training camp in Australia. He started wearing it right after, along with that scar."

"Don't forget, he switched to a left-handed grip after that camp, too."

"So, what actually went down during that training?"

"It doesn't have to be the training. What about external factors? Maybe..."

Because Roman had previously nuked the discussion, Violette’s name wasn't being explicitly invoked—just shadowed, a ghostly presence in every comment.

"Timeline check: that’s right around when the breakup happened. He wiped his entire Twitter history on a random Tuesday night."

"Heartbreak? That’s a stretch. Blake doesn't strike me as the fragile type."

"What do you know? You’ve seen how he still speaks up for his ex even now, risking his fanbase, acting like he can't let go even though she’s already married. Given that, does it seem so impossible?"

"If you put it that way... she got married so fast, could it be that..."

Roman’s expression hardened. This was the kind of loose thread that could unravel everything. If it remained a private matter for Blake, it was one thing; if anyone successfully linked it to Violette, it would turn into a public trial for her.

He didn't care how Blake had maimed himself. A respectable ex-partner should be as silent as a corpse. Clearly, Blake was hitting new lows in that department.

Roman contacted his associates, ordered the posts deleted, and tightened the net. He instructed his legal team to hit back with everything they had. Once that was settled, he dug up an old, buried contact from the depths of his phone.

*Roman: Explain yourself. Handle this.*

It was pouring with a freezing, misty rain in Berlin, while the city back home was buried in a suffocating night. The owner of the number was also in Europe. A few minutes later, the reply came through.

*Blake: I know.*

Roman dropped his phone, though his thumb continued to tap against the screen, a restless, rhythmic stutter. He trusted Blake to concoct a convincing narrative. If he couldn't even handle a PR crisis, then in Roman’s eyes, he was truly as worthless as he looked.

But Roman was distracted by something else.

What if Violette saw these threads? What would she think? Would a scar on Blake’s wrist move her? Would she feel guilty wondering how he got it? Would she soften? Would she falter?

Roman didn't know. Just as he didn't know if Violette’s confession of liking him was genuine or just a byproduct of the atmosphere, he didn't know the true depth of her previous attachment.

Two years of a burning, passionate romance couldn't be weighed against three months of a convenient marriage. True feelings didn't just evaporate because of a marriage certificate. For the first time, Roman realized there were many things in this world he simply couldn't control.

His black trench coat was slicked with rain. He had forgotten to duck under the eaves, standing there so rigidly, brow furrowed against the cold, that he looked like a statue carved from granite in the middle of the plaza.

When his driver pulled the car around, he was startled to see his boss soaked. He scrambled out with an umbrella.

"Mr. Griffin, you shouldn't be standing in the rain. You'll catch a cold."

"It's fine."

The driver heard the murmur. He worked in reception for high-profile clients in Berlin and started to say that a cold in a foreign city was a nightmare, but the words died in his throat. He caught a fragment of something else, something strange.

What?

The driver tilted his head, listening intently, but there was nothing more. He looked at the face of the man who had just sat down in the backseat; it was as cold and indifferent as if he hadn't spoken at all. He shook his head, clearing away the phantom phrase—*only when you're sick does anyone care enough to coddle you.*

Must have misheard.

Later that day, Blake Pierce issued a formal response. Roman glanced at it: a hand injury, ligament reconstruction.

It sounded plausible enough for an athlete, but he was still young, and a faction of his fans remained skeptical. They tore apart his old footage, pointing out that there were no signs of injury or restricted movement. The speculation about the scar persisted.

Hours later, Blake posted a photo of a surgical invoice from a prominent rehabilitation clinic in Australia. The discussion finally died.

Back at the hotel, Blake declined to meet with his club representatives. He retreated to his room and dialed that same number.

The line connected. Neither spoke for a long, heavy stretch. After ten seconds, just before Roman could hang up, Blake finally broke the silence.

"Thanks."

"I’m not doing this for you," Roman retorted.

Generating a falsified medical document was child’s play for him. The hundreds of millions the Griffin family poured into research and global institutional ties were finally good for something. He couldn't say if he did it for Violette or himself, but it certainly wasn't out of kindness to clean up Blake’s mess.

Outside, the headlights of passing cars illuminated the low-slung terrace on the third floor. Blake leaned against the iron railing, staring down at a young couple walking below. Aside from them both being of Asian descent, they held no interest for him, yet he watched them until his vision was blocked by the climbing ivy.

"I know," Blake said quietly. "But I did do something irrational. I deserved the fallout."

He was finally admitting the origin of the scar.

Roman’s voice was arctic. "That was your own choice. It has nothing to do with anyone else."

Blake let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "It’s insane that she married someone as cold-blooded as you."

"If that’s all, I’m hanging up."

"Wait," Blake called out.

Roman didn't pull the phone away, but his face was etched with impatience. "Speak."

Now that he had stopped him, Blake found he had nothing to say. He couldn't ask about Violette’s life, and he had no desire to make small talk with Roman. The last time they had met, he had been the one to throw the first punch.

He asked, "How did you explain it to her last time?"

Roman understood exactly what he was getting at. His expression was one of icy superiority. "The affairs between us do not require your oversight."

Blake paused. That was the reality of their current positions: he was outside the circle, and they were firmly within it.

He nodded, though he couldn't be seen. "I’ll give you a friendly warning. Someone saw us leaving the university building together last time."

"And if they did? Even if they told her, I’d still be the one in the right." Roman’s eyes narrowed, his voice a blade. "Do you want to guess who my wife would be more worried about? Our conflict, or whether you managed to lay a finger on me?"