It was just past nine in the morning.

Emma Fox bolted back to her room and immediately opened her laptop, her fingers flying across the keys. The post she had just uploaded already had a flurry of comments.

"This is the cutthroat, love-triangle-from-hell drama I live for. More, please!"

"I have a theory—did the big boss actually muscle in and steal her away? Why is my moral compass spinning? This is getting so addictive."

"Wait, isn't he supposed to be the saintly, high-and-mighty type? Surely not. Maybe they’re talking about something else?"

"Well, let the speculation begin!"

The internet sleuths were absolute geniuses, weaving together a chaotic blend of brotherly betrayal, forced romance, and power plays. Emma took a deep, steadying breath.

*Anti-Romance Crusader: I love it, keep updating.*

*User: The world has gone mad. Who the hell is actually writing this?*

The scheduled visits were done. Had it not been for the emergency up on the ridge, they would have been packing up to head back by now. With nothing to do today, Emma had spent the morning doing exactly two things: updating her post and engaging in endless, chaotic banter with strangers online.

When a knock finally came at her door, she was in the zone, completely oblivious to the world outside. She slammed her laptop shut and instantly composed herself.

Violette Ellis stood at the door, wearing a pair of men’s pajamas. The top and bottoms were clearly oversized, with the sleeves and hems rolled up several times. The ill-fitting clothes hung loosely on her frame, only making her look more fragile and slender.

"Master, you're back?"

"I came to get some clothes," Violette explained as she shuffled in, her slippers scuffing against the floor. "Roman didn't have anything that fit me, and it was too late by the time we got to the hotel, so I didn't want to wake you."

"Are you really okay? From yesterday?"

"I’m fine," Violette said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Look, don’t I look like I’m doing great?"

Aside from a lingering trace of exhaustion in her eyes, she seemed perfectly normal. Remembering the scene from this morning, Emma scratched her nose and asked tentatively, "Master, did you just wake up?"

"Yeah, I didn't get to sleep until five. Oh, here's the voice recorder."

Violette pulled the device from her pocket and handed it over. "It was pouring rain yesterday, so I haven't had a chance to check the files. Could you give it a listen later and see if there are any technical issues?"

"Sure, you should get some rest."

As Emma plugged the recorder into her laptop, the Twitter notification icon on her screen kept blinking, begging for attention. She couldn't help herself. "Master, have you had breakfast yet?"

"Not yet, why?"

"Just asking."

Five seconds later, Emma added, "Did the big boss eat?"

"No," Violette answered naturally. "He didn't sleep much either and only just woke up. He told me to go grab a bite together once we’re dressed."

*Hiss...*

The drama was real. Sneaking around while the "husband" was in the picture...

Emma stopped prying. She put on her headphones to focus on the recording.

By the time she finished the opening segment, Violette had already changed into her own clothes. She stood there, carefully folding the men's pajamas she had just returned.

"Oh, and if there are no problems with the audio, we'll finish organizing the data and head back to Deepwater tomorrow. I posted it in the group chat, but I didn't see you reply."

Emma hadn't looked at the work chat because she had been too busy doom-scrolling. She pulled off one headphone and nodded vigorously. "Got it, loud and clear."

Violette didn't stay long. True to her word, Roman was waiting for her to eat.

They didn't dine at the hotel; instead, they wandered toward a local commercial street. A light drizzle hung in the air, and the black umbrella Roman held remained tilted firmly in her direction. No matter how much she tried to push it back, his grip was immovable, so Violette simply gave in and picked the nearest restaurant to save him from getting soaked.

It was a steakhouse.

They advertised Angus beef, but the texture felt like processed, synthetic meat. Roman clearly wasn't accustomed to this level of quality; he chewed with a rhythmic, measured patience that was slower than usual. He was too well-bred to complain, even when the food clearly didn't meet his standards.

Violette pushed a portion of her pasta over to him and asked, on a whim, "How does this compare to the steak I pan-seared that one time?"

"Yours was slightly superior."

She laughed. "I think I finally understand my own level of cooking then."

As she spoke, she swapped her untouched plate for the one in front of him. "Stop forcing yourself. You look like you're testing for poison. There’s no one else here—you can drop the act. No one knows you're *the* Roman Griffin, and no one is watching your every move through a magnifying glass. Here, take this—"

Violette twirled some pasta and held it up to his lips.

Roman arched a brow. "Are you trying to soothe me?"

"The act is soothing, but what I said was the truth," Violette said with conviction. "Roman, just loosen up."

He finally let his shoulders drop, leaning back against the booth. "I was actually very relaxed."

Violette didn't believe him. He didn't look relaxed in the slightest.

Roman pulled out his phone and showed her his schedule—a dense, suffocating grid of commitments and an endless stream of unread messages that made her feel nauseous just looking at them.

He laughed, a dry, indifferent sound. "If I hadn't chosen to marry, this is exactly what my life would look like every single day. So, compared to that, this is a stolen slice of paradise."

As he said it, he froze, seemingly surprised by his own admission.

A stolen slice of paradise—an existence, he realized, that he had truly snatched from the jaws of his own life.