After Chloe Nichols left, Violette Ellis sat in the sofa for a long time.

The final words she had spoken to Chloe were harsh, and Chloe had left in a huff. Emotional connections are built on fate, but friendship is no different; time alone does not guarantee depth. At the very least, in this particular instance, even though they had known each other longer, Chloe consistently sided with Blake Pierce. Two days of quiet contemplation in the mountains couldn't outweigh the trivial noise of the secular world. Violette slumped back against the cushions, her mind a tangled, agitated mess.

Only when her stomach growled did she realize she had been sitting in the dark for hours. Outside the window, the sky had turned pitch black, and heavy, charcoal-colored clouds smothered the moonlight. Just as she was about to head to the kitchen to find something to eat, her phone chimed.

An international call from Roman Griffin.

Violette stared at the screen, a flicker of resistance rising within her. She didn't want to answer. The ringtone persisted for a full minute before cutting off automatically. She was just about to stand up when the phone rang again. This time, a video call request popped up.

Roman never video-called when he was on business trips, let alone called back immediately after being ignored. Violette sensed something was wrong. She took several deep breaths, forced her composure back into place, and tapped the accept button.

"Mm?"

It was a single syllable, impossible to read.

His face filled the screen. It was the same one she knew so well. The climate in Europe was cold, and Roman was wearing a dark, heavy wool coat that made his already fair skin look almost translucent. His lips were pale. As he spoke, the column of his throat moved with every word.

"You're home?"

Violette gave another clipped reply: "Mm."

Looking at him through the screen, the feeling of distance felt even more pronounced. A lamp flickered somewhere in front of him, casting glimmers of light into his eyes. In this light, his irises weren't the deep, bottomless black she was used to; they had an amber, translucent quality. He was usually so composed, so high above everyone else, that it was easy to forget he was human.

Roman watched her back. He reached out and touched the corner of his eye. "Did you wake up too early at the retreat? Your eyes look a little red."

"Maybe I was just catching up on sleep after getting back," Violette said. "That’s why I missed your first call."

The excuse was flawed. If she had been asleep, she wouldn't have known there was a first call.

"Is everything all right back home?"

"Of course," Violette said. "Why wouldn't it be?"

A heavy silence settled between them. People didn't video-call just to chat about the house. Violette pursed her lips. "Is something the matter?"

"Twig."

Roman’s low voice cut through the air. His eyelids were drooping, a subtle slump that made him look unusually drained. Seeing that, she finally acknowledged his pallor. He really did look ill.

"I think I've caught something," he said.

She didn't know which mountain temple his family had chosen to send him to, but the deity in charge clearly wasn't doing their job. Violette glanced at the charm sitting on the coffee table. Apparently, it hadn't worked.

She sat up straighter. "Is it bad?"

Roman let out a cough. "I’m not feeling great."

"Is it a sore throat? Or something else?"

"I’m not sure. It feels like everything."

"I left the medicine in the side pocket of your suitcase," Violette said, scanning her memory. "There are lozenges for your throat. Take your temperature; if you have a fever, the fever reducers are in there too. If it’s not too high, use a cooling patch. I think it’s in the pocket right next to the others."

As she spoke, Roman simply watched her, his eyes glassy and pale under the artificial light. He didn't say a word, yet she felt the message loud and clear: *I am miserable.*

She couldn't bring herself to continue the lecture. She picked up her phone and switched to a different message thread. From Roman’s angle, he could only see her face, a close-up that didn't do her features justice, her lips pressed into a tight, firm line. A faint, rhythmic tapping echoed through the mic—she was typing.

After a few back-and-forth messages, Violette set the phone aside.

"Are you at the hotel?" Violette asked. "I've had Alan Perez ask the front desk to get you a digital ear thermometer. Make sure you check your temp and let me know the result in a bit."

"Okay," he said.

Because of that single, obedient word, Violette spent a few more minutes reminding him to dress warmly. It seemed to rain every day in Berlin, and she warned him not to pick up the local habit of walking around without an umbrella. Roman just kept saying "okay."

After a while, her face filled the screen again. She seemed distracted, constantly replying to messages and looking at other things. Roman knew when to quit; he hung up the call before she had a chance to say she was busy.

...

The following evening, when he stepped out of the conference center, Alan Perez was nowhere to be seen. In his place was a different assistant named Kylan Perry.

Ever since that video call, Alan had been constantly dispatched for random errands. One moment he was grabbing a thermometer, the next he was off to a local bistro to fetch hot soup.

Roman knew Alan was doing this for Violette. He turned a blind eye, happy to reap the benefits. In truth, he wasn't that sick—just a scratchy throat from getting caught in the rain. That call had been a calculated display of weakness, a trick straight out of a soap opera to earn her sympathy. It was beneath him, but he could see that Violette’s mind wasn't on him that day, and he knew why. He had used that leverage to force his way into her thoughts.

If she would give him even a fraction of her focus, it was worth it.

His goal had been achieved.

Back at the hotel, Roman had Kylan bring him the project files for the next day, intent on compressing his schedule to return to Deepwater sooner. Being away from her made him restless.

Five minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Roman coughed and stood up. It was common for a temporary assistant to forget things, so he didn't intend to scold him, but his mood was sour, and he didn't bother to put on a polite mask when he swung the door open.

"What is it?" he snapped.

Standing outside was Alan Perez.

Alan stepped slightly to the side, revealing the person behind him. Compared to Alan, she looked slender and soft in a cream-colored chiffon blouse tucked into high-waisted trousers, layered with a taupe knit sweater. She looked like she had just stepped off a plane, radiating the effortless, poetic grace of a news anchor.

Seeing Roman standing there, frozen, Violette gave a little wave. "Did the cold freeze your brain?"

"You..."

He started to speak, only to realize his voice was genuinely raspy.

"Is it really that bad?" Violette didn't hesitate. She fished the digital ear thermometer out of her bag, pressed it to his ear, and *beep*—98.8 degrees. Perfectly normal.

She switched to the other ear just to be sure. Still normal.

"You're fine," she said with a smile. "No fever. Just a sore throat, then."

There were tiny, glistening droplets of water on her sweater, as if she had walked straight through the rain to get here.

Alan, ever the professional, interjected, "Mrs. Griffin heard you were ill and left in such a hurry that she barely even used an umbrella before rushing into the hotel." He paused for effect. "She was afraid you’d be distracted, so she didn't tell you she was coming."

Violette felt awkward at the repeated use of "Mrs. Griffin." She could handle it in a text message, but in person, it made her skin crawl. She quickly pushed Roman’s chest, steering him back into the room. "Why are you standing in the doorway? Aren't you going to welcome me?"

Alan discreetly closed the door behind them.

The lock clicked shut, sealing the world away, leaving them alone in the quiet of the suite.