Beyond the early days of their marriage when they had been meticulously polite with pet names, Roman usually addressed her only as "Zhizhi." Tonight, however, he had used her full name, "Violette Ellis," twice in quick succession. The gravity of that shift hung heavy in the air, a clear indicator of just how shaken he truly was.

Violette went soft in his arms. "I understand," she whispered.

Roman kissed her ear before loosening his grip. He bent down to retrieve his suit jacket from the floor. Violette studied him carefully; his expression was calm, as if the volatility from moments ago had been nothing more than a flicker of lightning—or a trick of her imagination.

But the dull, persistent ache in her lower back told a different story.

This was the first time she had witnessed the true extent of Roman’s capacity to bury his emotions, a reality underscored by the physical marks he left on her skin.

She followed Roman into the bedroom, finally finding the nerve to ask, "Why did you come here so suddenly? You never mentioned it."

"I wanted to surprise you," Roman said, glancing back at her while he poured her a glass of water. His tone was flat, detached. "I just didn't expect this kind of surprise."

Violette looked at him, feeling a pang of guilt. "I really am sorry."

Roman wasn't looking for an apology; he knew she had done nothing wrong. In the agonizing moments after learning Violette was trapped on the mountain, his mind had raced through every catastrophic possibility. He couldn't reconcile those visions with reality.

At least she was safe now. As he had said, he would reward whoever helped her, regardless of who that person was. He was simply haunted by the fact that he hadn't been the one by her side.

It was always like this. In the grand theater of their lives, he could command the spotlight, but he couldn't control the timing of fate. This was the first time he had been "late" to the performance, and it had shattered his composure enough to force him into a game of cutthroat competition.

He handed her the water. "Finish this. Room service is sending up some porridge. Eat, then get some sleep."

Violette was both freezing and famished; at his suggestion, her stomach let out a loud, protestive growl. She covered her stomach, feeling embarrassed. "Have you eaten tonight?"

"I’ve been too angry to be hungry," Roman replied.

"Then let me try to make it up to you."

Violette leaned in, rubbing her cheek affectionately against his jaw. His coarse, ash-gray stubble pricked her skin. When she moved to rub against him again, Roman used the back of his hand to gently push her away, his expression flickering with distaste. "Go shower first."

"You’re wet, too!" Violette protested.

As her gaze dropped, the realization hit her. She grabbed the collar of the heavy hoodie she was wearing and pulled at it. She had forgotten she was still wearing Blake Pierce’s clothes—no wonder she was being kept at arm's length.

"I lent my coat to Macy," she explained.

"Mm," was all Roman said. "Go shower."

Compared to the danger she had nearly faced, this was trivial, and Roman knew it. He didn't actually care about the shirt; he simply found it an eyesore. He wanted Violette marked by him, and only him, from head to toe.

He ushered her into the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, she called out to him. "Roman?"

He was on a call and didn't answer immediately.

"Husband?" she tried again.

The hand holding the phone stilled. He told the person on the other line he would talk to them later and strode toward the bathroom. His heart hammered in his chest, erratic and hot, fueled by a single, simple word.

"What is it?" he asked, standing at the door.

The sound of the water cut out. After a momentary silence, Violette spoke, sounding mortified. "I don’t have anything to wear."

Whatever pull Roman had, he managed to have clean, disposable essentials delivered to their door by four in the morning. Pajamas were impossible to procure on such short notice, so he simply handed her one of his own shirts.

The shirt was massive on Violette, the hem dropping past her thighs. She didn't want to overcomplicate things with pants, so she stepped out wearing just the top. Her legs were long and bare. Roman watched her for a few seconds before gesturing for her to come eat the porridge.

It was scallop and pork rib congee, stewed in a clay pot, savory and fragrant. Perhaps it was the brush with death tonight, but everything in front of her felt precious—even the slow, rhythmic bubbles rising from the bottom of the pot.

*Pop.*

For some reason, Violette connected the sound to her marriage. Slow-cooked over a low flame, the flavors seeping deep into the marrow.

She squinted, the warmth of the shower and the scalding porridge finally chasing away the last of the mountain chill. She curled her legs up, hugging her knees to her chest on the chair, watching Roman eat.

He had sat down late, having taken a quick shower after she’d started her first bowl.

"Don't wait for me, go to sleep," Roman said, seeing her staring.

"You’re the one who told me you shouldn't lie down right after eating," she countered, feeling smug.

He looked at her like a teacher praising a star pupil, but in the next breath, he added, "That doesn't mean you can sit with your legs curled up like that."

Violette obediently put her feet down.

"That hoodie," she asked, her voice quiet. "Could you have room service wash it and send it back?"

"Sure." Roman’s face remained neutral. "I'll handle it when the sun comes up."

As he said it, he leaned back, his shoulders relaxing. Violette took this as a sign that Roman wasn't being petty. He didn't care; or rather, he acknowledged her willingness to bring the issue into the light.

When he finished the last few spoonfuls, Roman spoke up. "The pilot called. Our guy is safe and back at his hotel."

"That's good," Violette said.

"I meant what I said on the mountain," Roman noted. "We should thank him properly."

Discussing her ex-boyfriend with her husband was awkward under any circumstances. Violette didn't know how to respond.

Roman didn't push her. He smiled slightly. "It's alright. We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"It's not that," Violette shook her head. "I just... I don't know how to handle it. I thanked him to his face. Is that not enough?"

Even with the sensitive identity of the other man, Roman was fair. "The area was unstable. It was dangerous. If it had been me—"

Violette looked up, catching his eye.

"I might not have had the same reckless courage," Roman admitted.

It was true. Roman would have chosen a path of greater security, a plan with a safety net. That kind of impulsive, headstrong bravery only existed in a certain stage of youth.

Violette didn't feel any less secure in her place in his heart because of that admission. In fact, she realized that was exactly why she had chosen to marry him in the first place—she wanted to be near that kind of stability. With Roman, you felt protected. With him, everything would always be okay.

"V-Oasis has some leftover promotional budget," Roman continued. "If you don't mind, I’m thinking of sponsoring his club."

Violette was stunned for a moment. She leaned forward, wondering if she had misheard him.

But Roman’s expression was serious, his tone as professional as if he were discussing a business merger. It was clear he meant exactly what he said.

"I..." Violette started. What could she possibly object to? It wasn't her money, and the investment wasn't in her. "...you should probably ask him yourself."

"Fair enough," Roman said, standing up. "Go to sleep. We'll talk about the rest when we wake up."

They stood side-by-side in front of the mirror, brushing their teeth. Violette’s mouth was filled with foam. She looked at Roman; even brushing his teeth, he was restrained, composed, his pale lips catching only a few droplets of water. After rinsing, Violette leaned against the vanity and watched him.

She watched him with such intensity that, eventually, Roman had to use his free hand to cover her eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Focus, Miss," Roman said with rhythmic composure. "It's five in the morning. I haven't slept, and neither have you."