Roman Griffin prided himself on his memory.

Some things, however—the cadence of a voice, the lingering ghost of a scent—seemed to burn themselves into his mind with an stubborn, quiet persistence. He recognized that clear, crisp voice instantly. Even now, when she laughed, the tail end of her tone tilted upward, bright and impossibly gentle.

The "passionate rookie" he once knew had grown up.

In his mind, he’d pictured the girl from that alleyway confrontation as a ray of sunshine—and she was, though in a way he hadn't fully anticipated. The camel-hair coat she wore suited her; it gave her an air of polished maturity that was even more captivating than his memory. Perhaps it was the weight of her career, but there was an intellectual grace in her every movement that pulled him in like a gravity well.

When Bradley Harper first told him she had a boyfriend, Roman had paused, then offered a casual shrug. "And? What’s that to me?"

At the time, he honestly hadn't intended to cross any lines.

But in the days that followed, without even realizing it, he found himself tuning into the evening news in Deepwater. Through the thin, flat glow of the television screen, she was there, and he was here. It felt like watching a friend from afar. She read the headlines; he recounted the grind of the company’s latest battles to the empty room.

Eventually, at a dinner party, he ran into someone from the station. On a whim, Roman asked about the aftermath of that messy divorce case from the alleyway years ago.

It was a standard, forgettable legal dispute. By all rights, it should have been buried in the archives. But as soon as he brought it up, the man’s eyes lit up.

"It wasn't that the story was groundbreaking," the man said. "It was the internal drama. The reporter in charge fought tooth and nail to keep the story in the light. The higher-ups thought it was a waste of resources to chase such a minor, depressing local issue."

"And what happened?" Roman asked.

"She won. She pushed it all the way to the end," the man laughed. "She had a silver tongue, that one. Do you know what she told the station head? 'Sir, you were the one who taught me to see the world through the small details. I’m using this case—which you consider mundane—to highlight a crisis that isn't just an exception. To you, it’s a boring story. To that woman, it was her entire life. If the community news doesn't cover this, what are we supposed to air? Your sanitized, corporate-approved fluff? No thanks.'"

The passionate rookie had become a formidable anchor, just as Roman had channeled that same fierce defiance to push V-Oasis into new, uncharted territories.

He had claimed his own seat of power, silencing Emerson Griffin and the old man.

They had met, as if by destiny, at the peaks of their respective fields. Yet, in their suffocatingly busy lives, the only fixed point was that eight o’clock news slot. A thin, digital screen kept them miles apart. One day, Roman decided he was done with the distance. The screen felt like a barrier—a projection of a world that, despite her voice and her presence, remained cold and artificial.

Roman was a man of action.

When he handed her that meticulously arranged bouquet of white roses, he felt a brief, sharp jab of self-doubt. The power of self-suggestion was terrifying; he had spun such an elaborate lie about being allergic to flowers that he had almost started to believe it himself. He played the part with absolute, unshakable conviction.

Later, he used a project as an excuse to invite her to dinner. He remained cool, professional, and kept the conversation strictly about work.

The only slip was hers. She mentioned that this particular restaurant was nearly impossible to book, something she’d tried to do for months.

Roman leaned into the opening. "Coming here with your boyfriend?"

"Yes," Violette replied.

"I have the manager’s direct line," Roman said, pausing for effect. "Next time you want to come, just let me know. No booking required."

After that, they slipped back into the safe rhythm of shop talk. He had buried his intentions so deeply that no one saw the knife behind the smile.

The only hiccup was when a friend of hers saw them eating together, forcing her to scramble for excuses with her boyfriend. Roman, ever the "concerned acquaintance," asked if he should step in and clarify things.

Violette had replied with a string of exasperated sigh emojis: *Sorry, Mr. Griffin, I’ve caused you so much trouble.*

*Trouble?*

Roman thought to himself that he was the one lighting the fire, not the one being burned.

Fortunately, he got exactly what he wanted: she was single.

Roman didn't like dwelling on that chapter. He preferred the deliberate, careful way he had paved their life together since the wedding. But that didn't mean hearing about it left him unaffected. His own moral compass had been a source of internal friction back then.

If only he had met her sooner. If only they could have had a clean, honest beginning.

...

Back in Deepwater, the clouds parted, and the humid, tropical heat returned to the city. After stepping out of Roman’s car, Violette headed straight to the station. Arthur Campbell was waiting; he knew the danger she’d been in and wasn't going to rest until he saw her in one piece.

After she finished her report, Arthur looked her up and down. "Arms and legs still attached?"

"You saw me walk in, didn't you?"

"Had to be sure," Arthur muttered. "That was almost a headline-level disaster. The last thing I need is for my star anchor to become the breaking news."

Violette smiled. "Are you trying to jinx me, sir?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

He handed her two concert tickets as a peace offering. "Take your husband. I heard he even scrambled a helicopter to pull you out of that mess?"

The old man was nearing fifty and still loved a bit of gossip.

Violette let out a dramatic sigh. "Sir, are you trying to show concern, or are you just here for the scoop?"

"If you don't want the tickets, give them back."

"I'm keeping them!"

She tucked them into her pocket, her expression shifting. "You said this program was meant to run for six episodes? Is that still the plan?"

Arthur glanced at her suspiciously. "Why? Have other plans?"

"Depends," Violette said, deliberately vague.

She wasn't usually like this. Normally, if she could do twelve episodes, she wouldn't settle for six. It was obvious she had something on her mind.

"It’s pre-recorded anyway. Finishing early won't change much," Arthur mused. "Whether we continue depends on the higher-ups and the ratings. If it’s only six, you’d better hurry. You should be wrapped up by mid-year, around June or July."

"Got it," Violette nodded.

"Is there really something going on?" Arthur asked.

"Haven't decided yet," she said, half-joking. "I’m married now, so I have to think about my family, don't I?"

"Stop trying to dodge the question."

Once the work briefing ended, Violette returned to Bauhinia Bay for dinner. She arrived before Roman.

"Back already?" Catherine Palmer asked the moment she saw her. "There was a massive storm across Deepwater the last few days. You weren't caught in that, were you?"

Her parents were retired, living a quiet life. There was no point in scaring them with stories of near-misses. Violette followed her usual policy of downplaying the bad and highlighting the good, nodding casually. "I’m fine. The work is done."

"I called Roman the other day, and he said he was in Riverwood too. Did you two go together?"

"Why are you calling him?" Violette countered.

"I just wanted to invite him over for dinner!" Catherine shifted the subject back. "Did he visit you over the weekend?"

"Yes!"

Her answer was firm and clear, causing Catherine to study her for a few extra seconds. "Look at you."

Seeing that they were getting along well, Catherine seemed satisfied. She tossed a bag of Chinese kale to Charles Ellis for prep while she began mixing the sauce for the honey-glazed BBQ pork. Violette followed her into the kitchen, dodging her mother’s playful glares as she fiddled with the spice jars.

They usually caught up in the kitchen.

Catherine went back to her favorite topic: grandchildren. Her tone was lighter now, worn down by repetition. "It’s up to you guys, as long as you’re actually thinking about it. Hey! You poured way too much honey!"

Violette laughed and pulled her hand back. "Mom, you nag me every time. How could I forget?"

Catherine dipped a chopstick in to taste it, returning to her earlier jab. "So? Tell me, did my words go in one ear and out the other?"

"They’re still echoing in there, I promise!" Violette chirped.

The sound of the front door opening drifted in, followed by the voices of Charles and Roman. He must have brought something over, and Charles was fussing over him being too polite.

Hearing Roman, Catherine dropped the subject.

She signaled for Violette to stop being a nuisance and get out there to be with her husband. Violette followed orders, washed her hands, and as she walked past her mother, she leaned in close, whispering, "This program wraps up in July. After that... we’re going to start trying."