Roman’s tone was detached when he mentioned Blake Pierce.

To be fair, he was like that most of the time, regardless of who he was talking about. It was nearly impossible for Violette to read anything in those amber-colored eyes.

Today was the first clear day since she’d arrived in Berlin. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting dappled, shifting light over Roman. His eyelashes were thick, casting shadows that made his gaze seem even more impenetrable. Outside, the square was buzzing as the match on the massive screen reached a fever pitch. Fans were waving glow sticks and roaring in unison. It was the home turf of Western players; you could easily tell which athlete the camera was cutting to just by the decibel level of the crowd.

In the lull when the cheering died down, Violette heard her own voice: "Which incident are you referring to? The most recent one?"

"Mm," Roman replied, his voice clipped.

"I saw it," Violette said.

A flicker of surprise crossed Roman’s face. His throat worked as he swallowed, clearly wanting to press for more.

*I saw it, and then what?*

But his voice felt stuck, as if he’d lost his ability to speak. He usually avoided bringing up Blake in front of her; his initiative today was an impulsive departure from his usual composed self. But the words were out, and there was no taking them back.

Violette stopped walking and turned to face him, her expression earnest. "Do you think I need to take responsibility for that?"

Even though jealousy was boiling over in his chest, Roman stood his ground. He remained ice-cold, the detached observer, and answered clearly, "I don’t know how messy things were when you two split. It’s not my place to judge."

"We fought. We broke up. I was back home, he was in Australia. We didn't speak for a long time." Violette remained fixated on the question. "So, knowing we had already ended things, do I still need to be held accountable for whatever irrational things he decides to do now?"

"No," Roman said, his words crisp and absolute.

Perhaps it was his imagination, but after he answered, the tension in Violette’s shoulders finally ebbed. The corners of her mouth lifted into a genuine, soft curve. It was as if she’d been carrying the weight of those past few days like a stone in her chest, bracing herself against the moralizing stares of the world. She had appeared stoic—impenetrable—but the moment she heard someone confirm that she was not responsible, the facade of "it’s none of my business" finally found its footing. She was no longer swaying in the storm.

"That's right," she murmured. "I don't need to."

When she looked up again, her vitality had returned.

"Roman, you're the first person who actually told me I didn't have to."

Violette tucked her arm into his, leaning in, a playful glint in her eyes. "Shall we go? I heard there’s a Nefertiti bust here, and original Monets. I’ve been dying to see them!"

"Alright," Roman replied, his voice warming. "I'll go with you."

...

On her fourth day in Berlin, an assistant drove Violette to Roman’s Gulfstream G650.

Violette had wanted to take a commercial flight, especially after learning the fixed costs of a private jet charter; it made even First Class feel like a bargain bin. But Roman wouldn't hear of it. He countered with a stubbornness that brooked no argument.

"But it’s just sitting there, not even going anywhere, and it costs 20,000 Euros in hangar fees every night."

"..."

Violette felt her heart bleed. As the ultimate blue-collar professional, she was already mentally calculating how many months of her salary it took to pay for one night of Roman’s jet parking. On the flight back, every time she closed her eyes, she saw currency symbols spinning in the dark.

They arrived in Deepwater at dawn. She messaged Roman to let him know she was heading to the office, then called her parents to see if they were home, letting them know she’d brought back some gifts.

The so-called "European specialties" were just Louis Vuitton, Dior, and Chanel—still cheaper than back home.

That evening at Blue Springs Estate, Catherine Palmer had set a massive table. Not just because Violette was home, but because some distant relatives were passing through and had stopped by for a visit. At Catherine’s suggestion, a few smaller items were handed out from the pile of "gifts."

Mother and daughter squeezed into the kitchen. Catherine asked, "You didn't mention taking annual leave. Why the sudden trip to Europe?"

"Roman wasn't feeling well," Violette said. "I went to check on him."

"Worried?"

Violette scratched the tip of her nose. "I suppose so."

"Oh, look at you, getting all shy."

Catherine chuckled, then turned serious. "Those bags cost twenty thousand each, don't they? I’m just going to the grocery store with that. Maybe you should just take it back and use it yourself."

"It's not like I don't have others," Violette said. "Besides, Roman picked it out."

Catherine raised an eyebrow.

Violette repeated, "Roman picked it out for his mother-in-law."

They say a mother-in-law only grows fonder of her son-in-law the longer she knows him. Catherine thought about the bag’s understated style and how spacious it was—perfect for a fashionable woman of her age. Roman’s taste was truly impeccable.

She asked again, "That watch—Roman bought that too, didn't he?"

"I picked the watch," Violette paused. "But Roman paid for it."

Truth be told, all the shopping expenses from the second day had been covered by Roman. Violette had tried to spend within her means, picking things that didn't exceed her own salary, but Roman never gave her a chance to even pull out her card. One second she was debating between two styles, and the next, his assistant had already swiped the card and was waiting off to the side with the bags.

His assistant had said, "Mr. Griffin said both were nice, but the brown strap is more casual—better suited for Mr. Ellis."

Sure enough, Charles Ellis hadn't been able to stop admiring that IWC watch. Everything was within the realm of what her family could comfortably accept, nothing so ostentatious that it would draw unwanted attention.

Roman’s meticulous nature was woven into every detail. Catherine certainly felt it too. She sighed softly and, echoing their last conversation, said, "The Griffin family is vast and complicated. Some things... you two really should start planning for the future."

"I know."

Violette reached out to slide the door open. Catherine turned her head in surprise; she was baffled that her daughter hadn't launched into one of her typical defenses—no pua, no internal struggle, live life for yourself, the body isn't ready until the mind is ready. Violette’s usual lectures were enough to reach the moon, and her stance was always ironclad. This time, a simple "I know" left Catherine completely bewildered.

"What do you mean, 'you know'?"

"It means it went in one ear, and out the other, pretty lady," Violette joked, gesturing to her head. "Whether it stays inside or comes out the other side depends on the situation."

Outside the kitchen door, the world was alive with chatter. Charles Ellis was talking about taking the extended family to the Deepwater Spire to see the night view, but the toddler who had been the loudest at dinner was now the first to crash, his head bobbing like a chicken pecking at grain.

The relatives, holding the sleeping child, suggested maybe next time.

But the Chinese have a fundamental rule: "Since we're already here..."

As they debated back and forth, they turned their eyes toward Violette, who had just stepped out of the kitchen.

Violette: "Huh?"

Her hospitable father thought his suggestion was brilliant. "Exactly! Let the kid sleep here. We have extra rooms upstairs. You’ve come all this way, and we haven't even taken you out to a nice dinner or shown you around. I’d feel terrible."

The end result was that Violette was left to carry the kid upstairs to bed while the adults went out. Everyone was happy with this result—except Violette, who had wanted to go home, shower, and sleep.

Her gaze drifted down to the toddler’s tiny hands resting on the blanket. There were little dimples on the knuckles—adorable. She stared at them for a moment, and on a whim, she pulled out her phone.

A few minutes later, Violette updated her social media feed: *Babysitting tonight.*

The page refreshed, and two comments appeared immediately.

Roman: ?

Blake Pierce: Whose kid is that?

Violette muttered a curse under her breath and shoved her phone into her pocket.