Roman Griffin used to hold nothing but utter contempt for the manipulative narratives of tabloid gossip rags.

He never expected that one day, he would become a master of the craft himself.

The cut on his forehead had healed in less than a week, leaving not even a shadow of a scar. Yet, only in the dead of night, with two people isolated in the heat of the moment, could he manage to keep a straight face while murmuring, "It still hurts."

He knew exactly what he wanted.

Violette Ellis wasn't naive. She leaned in, her hand resting against his forehead. His short hair prickled against her skin, and the warmth of his palm pressing against her brow offered a sensation entirely different from the rest of his composure. She had come here for this, turning over dozens of possibilities in her head, never once imagining the reason was so painfully simple: Roman was just too competitive to admit he wanted the attention.

Roman kept up a rigorous fitness regimen, though his build lacked the raw, hardened edge of a professional athlete like Blake Pierce. But every muscle etched across his frame felt custom-crafted—refined, elegant, and coiled with hidden tension.

She had once interviewed a young, promising scion of a wealthy family and knew that men of their social echelon were drilled in textbook-perfect self-defense and combat skills from childhood.

Roman was no exception. If he’d chosen to fight back, the outcome would have been anyone's guess.

Softened by the thought, Violette traced the skin of his temple, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his brow. Since Roman had finally dropped the act, she decided to clear the air. In the space between kisses, she whispered, "Kaisen didn't tell me it was a tennis event that day. I had no idea he would be there."

"I don't blame you," Roman murmured, his lips brushing against her skin.

Violette paused. "Will it cause you any trouble if others saw us?"

"No," Roman replied. "Everyone there knows their place."

In other words, they were all people who relied on the Griffin family for their livelihood.

Violette tapped her nose against his, her mood shifting as she changed the subject. "So, you're not going to kick me out tonight?"

"When have I ever kicked you out?"

Violette muttered, "Stubborn," and started to climb off him.

She barely managed to swing one leg over the side of the bed before her ankle was caught in a firm grip. His hand was broad, his fingers long, anchoring her foot with absolute precision.

Violette raised an eyebrow at him. He tightened his grip just a fraction.

"Absolutely not," Violette stated.

The man tried to negotiate. "I won't kiss you."

"Is that the issue?" Violette gave his hand a sharp, playful slap. "You’re recovering. You need to rest."

Playing the invalid came at a price, but the spoils of the night had already far exceeded Roman's expectations. He had never truly believed Violette would be the one knocking on his hotel door. Much like when he’d sent that pathetic text—"I'm sick"—he’d only hoped for a crumb of digital concern. He never expected her to be here.

Having her soft warmth pressed against him made for an incredibly peaceful night.

When he woke the next morning, the scratchiness in his throat had vanished. He slipped out of bed with practiced silence, careful not to wake her. A note was tucked under a paperweight on his desk, written in Violette’s elegant script: *A protective amulet, blessed at the shrine.*

It sat squarely atop his confidential files, a clear sign of her intention.

He pulled away the note, revealing the small charm beneath. It wasn't the first time he’d seen one; every time his mother returned from a temple retreat, she would distribute them to all three of her children. Roman was a man of logic and cold, hard results; he trusted himself far more than he trusted divine intervention.

Out of respect for his mother, he usually buried those charms in the back of his desk drawer.

But this one? The one she had specifically sought out for him? Roman unfolded his wallet and, with deliberate care, tucked it inside.

Violette woke shortly after he left. Checking her phone, she found a message—Roman had left his assistant, Alan Perez, at the hotel, with instructions to fulfill her every need.

She’d gone through the trouble of taking time off to come to Berlin; she wasn't about to rot away in a hotel room. After breakfast, she called Alan. He was exactly the kind of man one would expect working under Roman—by early morning, he had already curated lookbooks from every major luxury house and finalized a full itinerary of private tours and shopping excursions.

Violette had three days off. The first was for sightseeing, the second for shopping.

On the third day, Roman managed to carve out a sliver of time to join her at a museum. As she reached for her phone to show their reservation code, the corner of his wallet caught, sliding out just enough to reveal a splash of red silk thread, jarringly vibrant against the black leather.

She squinted. "You keep that amulet in your wallet?"

Roman felt the weight of her gaze, his confidence wavering. "Where else are they supposed to go?"

That wasn't the point.

Keeping it in the wallet was fine, but she never imagined Roman would actually carry it on his person. She’d assumed he’d toss it into a bag and forget it, perhaps catching a glimpse of it once in a blue moon. She hadn't expected him to keep it tucked against his body every single day.

Violette pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. "Is your throat finally better?"

"Yes," Roman admitted. "It was fine by the next morning."

So the Bodhisattva hadn't failed her. It seemed the charm was actually quite potent—keeping it close clearly had its perks.

She asked, "Are you a materialist?"

"It depends."

Violette pointed an invisible finger at his pocket. "And this?"

"In that case, I am a believer," Roman replied.

It truly was as they said: sincerity brings results. Violette began to wonder if she should go back and pray for a career-focused charm. Did they have specialized services? Something to ward off petty colleagues? Something to block manipulative rivals? Maybe a specialized one to make ex-lovers disappear into thin air?

Before the thought could fully settle, her gaze shifted. On the massive public screen in the plaza outside the museum, a live broadcast of a match in neighboring France flickered into view.

The crowd in the plaza surged, their enthusiasm palpable.

The screen cut to the opponent's angle. It was a familiar Asian face—sharp brows, striking eyes. At least, to both Violette and Roman, he was painfully familiar.

In the split second of his high-toss serve, the man's right wrist, bound in a sweatband, arched high into the air.

Violette froze for a few seconds, then realized Roman was looking at the screen as well. She immediately pulled her gaze away.

"Let's go. We're due inside," Violette said.

Roman stood rooted to the spot, his eyes still locked on the broadcast.

As Violette had noted many times before, it was nearly impossible to guess what was running through his mind when he went quiet. No matter how magnanimous a man claimed to be, jealousy always found its way to the surface. Some were blunt and asked, "Who’s better, him or me?" Others were like Roman—saying absolutely nothing, yet letting the atmosphere curdle with the exact same question.

Violette mirrored his silence for a moment, though she lacked his talent for this kind of psychological warfare.

After a beat, she sighed. "I didn't know he was competing in Europe."

Roman finally pulled his eyes from the screen.

She continued, "And I wasn't watching the screen on purpose."

The defensive note in her voice was clear. It was a subtle reprimand: *Don't be so petty.*

Roman gave a slight nod, then suddenly asked, "Have you seen any other news these past few days?"

His question was too vague. A flicker of something crossed Violette’s mind—she felt she knew what he was getting at, yet she was terrified of guessing wrong and stirring up unnecessary trouble between them.

She blinked slowly, feigning ignorance.

Roman tilted his chin slightly, gesturing toward the plaza. "About him."