Stop Peacocking, Roman

Roman was away, so Violette decided to spend a few days at Bauhinia Bay.

Sunny had been brought along, and the cat spent his days tearing through the house. One minute he was busy leaving paw prints all over Charles’s calligraphy practice paper, the next he was using a wide-mouthed purple clay tea cup—which sat perpetually on the coffee table—as a makeshift foot bath.

Violette only discovered the foot-soaking ritual after Sunny had been squatting there for several days, which meant Charles had unwittingly consumed quite a bit of "kitty foot water."

When Violette recounted this horror to Roman via iMessage, he replied: "Your cups at home are wide-mouthed, too."

Violette’s amusement vanished instantly. Just as she was questioning her sanity, a second message popped up: "But I make sure to cover them whenever you’re not around."

Violette: "..."

Violette: "If you keep trailing off like that, I’m sentencing you to life without parole."

Roman: "As long as it’s not life without a wife."

Violette: "..."

Violette: "Roman, your sense of humor is aging like a fine, dusty antique."

Whenever the subject of age came up, Mr. Griffin suffered from a convenient case of selective hearing.

Their day-to-day communication was sparse, usually limited to a few dry sentences. But Violette made it a habit to share whatever oddities or amusing moments she encountered in her life, and Roman, in turn, would send her photos whenever he passed something unique—a peculiar street scene, a cluster of roses blooming in an alleyway, or the dramatic architecture of a Roman pillar.

During his final few days in Berlin, the organizers hosted a cruise dinner. Violette marveled at the photos he sent of the open sea at midnight, stained with the neon glow of the ship, looking like a surreal Impressionist painting.

Roman was never one for the social circuit; he retreated to his cabin early. By the next morning, Violette woke up to a video of him piloting a speedboat, chasing dolphins through the morning mist. He had even brought scuba gear. In the brief moment he pulled off his goggles, droplets of water sprayed from his dark hair in a clean, sharp arc.

Through the screen, Violette felt as though she could reach out and touch the icy chill of the ocean spray. It was the first time she’d seen this side of him—the sheer physical vitality, the smooth, effortless way he moved, looking every bit as sharp as an eighteen-year-old.

It was a far cry from the "aging antique" she’d teased him about earlier.

She typed out the compliment and hit send. A few minutes later, he replied with a single, cryptic: "Mmm."

"..."

What was that? Was the man literally peacocking for her?

Marilyn tapped her desk as she walked by. "Time to go. Meeting's starting."

Violette locked her phone, pushing the strange thought aside. "Right. Be there in a second."

Following the restructuring at the station after the holidays, several new programs were launching. With the workload expanding, staffing was spread paper-thin. A few interns had finally been promoted to full-time status to help shoulder the load, but there was still a glaring gap in the anchor lineup. This meeting wasn't just to discuss the new shows; it was to scout potential hosts for the prime slots.

"What do you think?" Marilyn asked as they walked down the hall toward the conference room.

Violette shrugged. "What’s there to think about? I’ll just listen to what the brass wants."

"Don't give me that," Marilyn scoffed. "If you really didn't want to do it, do you think they could force you? Everyone knows your track record. When you decided to move behind the scenes, you didn't leave a single inch of room for negotiation."

Violette pouted. "We weren't short on people back then."

Marilyn gave her a look that clearly said: *Well, we’re short on people now, so you figure it out.*

Marilyn already had her own news block and a lifestyle program, so the hot potato wasn't going to land in her lap. As expected, Arthur spent the entire meeting staring at Violette, practically begging her to volunteer for the new program.

Violette had already reviewed the proposal. It was a business interview show designed to capitalize on the current push for economic recovery. It wasn't exactly high-traffic content, and it required a heavy load of professional preparation—the kind of "hard labor" most people avoided like the plague. Violette didn't mind the work, but she dreaded the inevitable social obligations that followed, the performative networking culture she detested.

After the meeting, Arthur pulled her aside. "You should make better use of your status, Violette."

There it was. He wasn't just looking at the anchor; he was looking at Roman Griffin's wife.

Once the "CEO’s Wife" label was slapped on her, no one would dare force her to drink at business dinners. But it felt like riding Roman’s coattails—using his shadow to feel powerful rather than relying on her own capability. It left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"I’ll think about it," Violette told him. "Since you mentioned using my status, I suppose I should head home and ask the 'other half' for his opinion."

Her "other half" returned to Deepwater at the end of the month. He went straight from the airport to the office to handle the crises that couldn't be solved remotely. By the time he finally walked through their front door, it was past midnight.

Violette, defying her own usual routine, was still awake. She was curled up on the sofa, mindlessly leafing through an economics journal. The dry bureaucratic jargon was making her eyelids heavy. Just as she turned a page—this one about private entrepreneurs fostering rural development—the deep, resonant voice of the man she’d been waiting for drifted through the room.

"Still awake at this hour?"

Violette jolted upright, her fatigue vanishing instantly. "You’re finally home!"

Roman had never seen her wait up for him like this, so earnest and expectant. They hadn't seen each other in person for ten days, and while video calls helped, they were a poor substitute for the real thing. Seeing her sitting there in her lounge clothes, her long hair draped over her shoulders, made his heart swell with an heat he couldn't suppress.

He tossed his suitcase aside, shed his coat onto the arm of the sofa, and strode toward her. "Waiting up for me?"

Violette tossed the magazine aside and scrambled up to meet him, nodding like a bobblehead. "Mmhmm!"

It was a strange, intoxicating feeling. When his friends like Bradley had asked him after the wedding if he felt trapped, he’d honestly answered no. Back then, it was just because being with Violette felt better than anything else. But in this moment, looking at her, he finally understood what his parents used to talk about—the significance of a single light left on in a house waiting for your return.

Marriage was more than just a legal status. His kite string finally had a hand to hold it.

"I’m a mess, haven't even showered," Roman murmured, though his actions contradicted his words as he scooped her up. He brushed his lips against her skin, over and over.

Violette squirmed, trying to dodge him. "Put me down!"

She tilted her head back, intending to gesture toward the midnight snack she’d laid out on the table, but the movement only served to expose the slender, elegant line of her neck. Roman buried his face there, the contact sending a jolt of electricity through her.

By the time he set her back on her feet, her legs felt like overcooked pasta—limp and shaky.

Leaning against the table for support, she muttered, "I just threw something together. You should eat a little something before you turn in."

On the platter were two sandwiches, cut in half. The tomatoes, cucumbers, and ham were packed so densely they were spilling out of the sides. It wasn't exactly a five-star meal, but the amount of effort she’d put into raiding the fridge to keep him fed was obvious.

Roman let out a low laugh. "Good. I’m starving."

He washed his hands and began to unwrap a sandwich with slow, deliberate grace, only to notice Violette sitting across from him, legs tucked up on the sofa, watching him with unwavering focus.

"What are you looking at?" he asked.

"There’s a new program at the station," Violette said, resting her chin on her palms. She studied the way he chewed—even a man this attractive made eating look like a choreographed performance. She caught herself staring, pinched her own arm to snap out of it, and pressed on. "The station manager wants me back in front of the camera. I wanted to hear your take."

Roman looked up, genuinely surprised. "You want my advice?"

He leaned back, his shoulders broad, looking every bit the poised executive at a high-stakes forum. "My opinion is that important to you?"

If there had been a mirror nearby, Violette would have forced him to look at himself. He looked so incredibly reliable while holding half a sandwich; of course his opinion mattered. At the very least, he was the only one who could provide her with a steadying dose of calm.

Violette nodded. "I’m still on the fence."

Roman didn't need to ask why; he knew her concerns.

"I’ve asked you before if you wanted to return to the screen, but that wasn't because I thought your current work was a waste. The only thing that matters is what *you* want, not what anyone else 'suggests.' If you find that you’re happier behind the scenes, then keep doing that." He looked at her, his gaze steady and unwavering. "Zhizhi. No matter where you are, a pearl in an oyster will always shine."