The two-day silent retreat in the mountains ended, and Violette Ellis headed back to the city ahead of schedule.

As soon as her phone reconnected to the cellular network, a deluge of notifications flooded in. Her screen had never been this chaotic. She instinctively feared an emergency at the station, so she opened the work group chat first, scrolling through every message with meticulous detail.

The station’s operations were running like clockwork. No one was frantic, and no one had tagged her.

Violette exhaled, a small measure of relief washing over her. She tossed the phone onto the center console and drove back into the heart of Deepwater.

Just as she neared her building, another call came through.

Violette glanced at the caller ID.

"Didn't I tell you I was up in the mountains with my parents for a spiritual retreat?" she said, her tone unhurried as she answered. "What kind of worldly emergency could be so pressing that you had to track me down?"

Chloe Nichols sounded like she was chewing her own fingernails on the other end. "Are you back down the mountain? Where are you right now?"

"Almost home. Why?"

"I’m coming over to your place!"

Chloe was already nearby. She pulled into the underground parking garage almost at the same time as Violette.

The moment Violette stepped out of the car, Chloe intercepted her.

"I have to tell you something, but promise me you won’t freak out."

Violette began unloading her luggage, glancing at her friend with a dry expression. "Look at yourself. Who’s the one actually freaking out?"

Chloe locked eyes with her, dead serious. "I think Blake Pierce tried to kill himself."

Thud.

Her suitcase hit the concrete floor.

Violette turned her head, shock turning her movements sluggish. For a few seconds, she stood frozen, unable to even register the dull ache where the heavy bag had clipped her toe. Her ears were ringing with a high-pitched, insistent hum. She felt her mouth opening and closing, but she couldn't hear a word she was saying.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I think he tried to kill himself."

Violette frowned. The ringing persisted, a low, rhythmic thrumming of blood in her ears.

She barely managed to decipher the words from the movement of Chloe’s lips.

She stood motionless, feeling lightheaded. The pain from her injured toe finally caught up, radiating a dull, numbing throb that crawled from her foot up through the rest of her body. It felt as if it were vibrating from within, yet somehow muffled—like a hammer pounding against the other side of a thick concrete wall. Dull. Distant.

She bent down to pick up the bag.

It was strange. The garage was supposed to be spotless, yet the floor was covered in a fine layer of grit. Had the building staff stopped cleaning? There was a thin, hairline fracture running along the corner of the wall, snaking upward. A set of tiny, muddy paw prints trailed near her car—some neighbor’s dog, no doubt.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder.

Violette straightened up as if jolted by electricity. "What?"

"What are you thinking about?" Chloe’s voice finally breached the barrier in her ears. She shoved her phone in front of Violette’s face. "These are photos from the scene taken by fans. Look."

Violette stared at the screen.

She didn't know why, but her intuition had already told her it would be the right hand.

Sure enough, on Blake Pierce’s right wrist—the very place where he always wore a protective sleeve—there was a fresh, jagged scar.

Her finger accidentally brushed the screen, and the photo vanished.

The top trending post on Twitter was Blake’s latest update. It was brief and clinical, claiming the mark was a post-surgical scar, accompanied by "proof."

Others might have believed it, but she knew better.

Blake didn’t have any chronic injuries. His physical performance was at its absolute peak; he wouldn’t need surgery for a simple bout of intensive training. He was spinning a lie for the public, and the hospital listed on the report? Violette recognized it immediately. It belonged to the same corporate medical group that she and Roman Griffin used for their annual check-ups.

As the numbness faded, her mind sharpened into a cold, lethal focus.

Chloe kept talking in her ear, saying, "I knew it wasn't a sports injury because of the call he made to me after you got married."

Violette handed the phone back, reaching up to touch the corners of her dry, stinging eyes. Her fingertips came away damp.

"Let's go upstairs," she said, picking up her bags and walking toward the elevator.

The call Chloe was referring to had been Blake confirming that Violette was indeed married.

They hadn't been able to see each other's faces, but Chloe had heard the devastation in his voice. The wind had been howling in the background; he’d been on his way to the airport.

"Why is your voice shaking?" Chloe had asked.

Blake hadn't replied. He had simply used a handkerchief to bind his right wrist, which wouldn't stop bleeding.

"What are you doing? Is there anyone with you?" Chloe had shouted.

Blake had looked out the window at the city lights streaking past, unable to hold onto anything. His voice had sounded like a ghost dissolving in the wind. "Do you think... if I was in trouble, she’d call off the marriage to come see me?"

Chloe recounted this to Violette now, pacing like a trapped animal. "If it’s true, what are you going to do?"

"What is there to do?"

Violette began unpacking, methodically sorting her laundry, lining up her skincare products in the bathroom one by one. With every trip back and forth, her heart rate slowed to a steady, rhythmic pulse. The strange, phantom sensation from earlier vanished completely.

As she said, what was there to do?

She and Blake were finished. More than that, she was married.

She had her own life to tend to.

Besides, Chloe had said he "had" attempted it. The past tense carried a lot of weight. The most important thing was that while Blake might have been unstable then, he was rational now—and that rationality would only grow as time went on.

In this situation, she didn't need to do anything.

To show sympathy or weakness now would only make everything worse.

She admitted, briefly, that her heart had flickered. But like that sudden surge of panic, it was fleeting. It was ancient history.

"I’m not trying to push you two together, I know you’re married," Chloe said, caught in the middle of two friends who had once been a perfect pair. "I just think you two were so good together. Wasn't it a bit reckless to break it off? You could have held on a little longer."

"But the fact is, we didn't hold on," Violette said. "People and their connections... maybe there’s destiny, maybe not. Perhaps the timing between Blake and me was just slightly off."

As she spoke, she pulled the last item from her bag.

It was a small protective amulet, one she had prayed over at the temple, asking for peace and safety for Roman. In that moment, it had been the most sincere part of her entire retreat.

She gripped the amulet tightly in her palm.

Chloe asked, "Are you really, truly not going to show him even a shred of concern?"

"If I were going to show concern, I would have done it then," Violette said. "What would it mean to show it now? Late-blooming affection is worth less than dirt. I remember you were the one who taught me that."

Chloe stood stunned.

Back then, she had used that line to urge Violette to secure her future with Blake. Now, it had been turned back around to address this very relationship.

"But—"

"There are no 'buts'," Violette said, rubbing her thumb over the surface of the amulet. "If you’re my friend, you should respect my choices. Don't you think?"