Roman Griffin’s memory was razor-sharp; he pegged Emma Fox the moment he saw her.

He had called Violette Ellis on his way to Riverwood, but her phone was off. He’d sent her a text, too—a curt command to call him back the second she was free.

*Roman: It’s pouring. Tell me when you’re done.*

Violette hadn’t replied. When he tried again, the line remained dead.

For the duration of the drive, Roman had sat in an agonizing, coiled silence. He wasn’t a man prone to hysterics, nor did he enjoy the indignity of scaring himself, but a cold, heavy dread had settled in his gut. He didn't even bother dropping off Dax Murphy in town; he told him to hail a cab and made a beeline for the resort.

Seeing Emma sitting there in her flip-flops and oversized lounge shorts, the tension in Roman’s shoulders finally snapped.

He set his phone aside and strode toward her, his presence looming.

"Ms. Fox," he said. His voice was like grinding stone, steady and composed. "Could you tell me if my wife is in her room?"

***

Upstairs, Violette saw the call come in. She yanked the charging cable loose and stepped to the side to take it.

Outside, the rain was coming down in sheets, a relentless deluge that showed no signs of stopping. She braced a hand against the windowsill and swiped to answer.

"Hello?"

"How are you?" Roman cut straight to the point. "Where are you?"

His voice sounded normal, but the cadence was clipped, hurried.

She was miles away from Deepwater, and she didn't want him worrying for nothing. She forced a light, airy laugh. "I’m fine, of course. It’s been a crazy day; I didn't even notice my battery was dead. I was just about to text you back when you called."

She kept her smile soft, her eyes crinkling at the corners, radiating a rehearsed gentleness.

Blake Pierce, who had been sitting a few feet away, stiffened. He looked like a dog catching the scent of danger, his posture snapping upright.

Violette, her back to him, tapped her fingers rhythmically against the windowsill.

"What's wrong? Is there an emergency?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line. The soft, rhythmic sound of Roman’s breathing was swallowed by the roar of the rain, leaving only the static-like hum of the storm between them.

Ten seconds bled by.

Finally, Roman said her name, his tone stripped of all levity. "Violette, did you really think you could keep something this big from me?"

Violette’s smile faltered. She tried to deflect. "...It’s not that big of a deal."

"A landslide. You’re trapped on a mountain, and you weren't going to say a single word?"

His voice was cold now—sharp enough to cut.

Violette could practically see him sitting there, his face a mask of iron-willed gravity. His natural air of command was suffocating, even through a screen.

"..."

She couldn't find the words.

After a few breaths, she gauged that his temper had leveled out—he wasn't the type to scream into a phone—and chose her words carefully. "I’m at the water treatment plant on the mountain. I’m perfectly safe. They reinforced the land when they built this place; it’s rock solid."

She softened her voice, aiming for soothing. "It's fine, really."

Behind her, someone knocked over a water basin, the clatter echoing through the small room.

Violette glanced at the window reflection and saw Blake cleaning up the mess. He was hunched over, nothing but a dark, messy mop of hair visible.

Violette pressed on. "You always have your ear to the ground anyway. I thought I’d just spare you the panic and tell you when I got home."

She was trying to lighten the mood. It worked—mostly.

"Stay exactly where you are," Roman said. "I’m coming to get you."

It was raining cats and dogs, and the roads were severed. She couldn't help but interject. "It’s pouring, Roman. The roads are cut off. You’re coming from Deepwater—"

"I'm at the foot of the mountain," Roman interrupted. He repeated, "I'm coming to get you."

Since they’d married, Roman had always been the type to consult her on every decision, rarely acting with such unilateral force. But Violette knew the man. At his core, he was immovable.

Once he said it, he meant it. No amount of protest would stop him.

Violette figured that perhaps Mr. Griffin’s true superpower wasn't just his intellect, but his ability to throw obscene amounts of money at a problem to force the road crews to work faster. He was a man of calculated risks, unlike the impulsive, reckless spirit that defined Blake. She didn't need to remind him of that.

After the call ended, Roman kept checking in, sending a text every fifteen minutes.

Knowing his anxiety, she started recording short, impromptu video clips to show him she was okay. In one, she was curled up on the sofa looking half-asleep; in another, she caught Tessa Turner complaining about her injured leg. She capped every clip with a single word: *Peace.*

Roman was a man who required a response for everything, especially in a crisis.

Around 2:30 AM, a monstrous roar erupted outside. Violette thought the storm had intensified and stood up to check the window.

The three of them had been huddled in this small conference room all night. Tessa was passed out on the long sofa. Blake sat alone by the coffee table, having dragged his own chair in from the hall because he found the mahogany furniture too stiff. Violette had the luxury of a worn-out, rolling office chair.

As she stood, the wheels groaned against the floor.

Blake wasn't sleeping. He dropped his arms from his chest the moment he heard her, rising to follow her.

A window was indeed cracked, the wind whistling through a rusted gap. Violette tried to shove it shut, but the frame wouldn't budge. Blake leaned in, using his raw strength to force it closed with a sharp *clack*.

Violette muttered a thank you and stepped back.

Blake didn't move, watching her closely. As she nearly collided with him, she froze, staring past him at a point in the distance.

"What is that?" Violette asked. "There’s a light... hovering in the sky."

Her night vision had always been terrible.

Blake took one look and reached his conclusion. It wasn't a light; it was a helicopter.

The roar grew deafening, becoming a concrete silhouette against the sky. Violette finally identified the rhythmic thrum of the rotors.

"A helicopter?"

"Yeah," Blake said, his eyes glued to the glass.

The security guard downstairs, jolted awake, stumbled out into the rain in his poncho. When he saw the behemoth hovering in the sky, he stumbled backward, blinked, and stumbled again—a perfect pantomime of a man convinced he was hallucinating.

The helicopter hovered for a heartbeat before touching down in the center of the courtyard.

The roar of the propellers died down, and the rain lashing against the windows slowed to a patter. The world fell into a sudden, eerie silence.

Violette leaned out the second-story window. She caught a glimpse of an arm draped over the edge of the hatch. The moment the door swung open, the man leaped out, ignoring the way the stagnant water splashed up to ruin his tailored dress slacks. He didn't care. He pressed his phone to his ear and marched forward.

His hair was windblown and messy. Under the harsh white glare of the porch light, his face was unmistakable.

Violette’s pulse skipped.

It was Roman.

She knew he was coming, but she had assumed he meant he would wait for the roads to be cleared in the morning. She never imagined he would pull strings to fly a chopper straight into the mountains at two in the morning.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

She swiped to answer. "Roman."

The man below looked up, waving a hand at her in the window. "Come down."

He said, "I'm here to take you home."