With Violette’s vague reassurance, Catherine felt like she was walking on air for the rest of dinner. When Charles asked what had her in such high spirits, she kept her secret tight.

"Don't worry about it!"

"Keep smiling like that and you'll have wrinkles before the night is out."

He earned a sharp nudge to the ribs, and Charles promptly went silent. Later that night, he found her hunched over her laptop, scrolling through an Amazon baby gear list. He leaned in, peering at the strollers, his face a mask of bewilderment. "Are we...?"

"We are not. Don't be ridiculous," Catherine snapped. "I’m just getting a head start."

"Oh. So you *are* preparing."

"As the older generation, we have a responsibility not to pressure the kids. It adds stress. Stop asking."

Charles held his tongue. He thought to himself that *she* was the one constantly pushing the issue. And then there were those foul, jet-black herbal tonics he’d been forced to choke down for weeks—all to save face for Roman. He was past retirement age, yet he was still breaking out like a teenager under the stress of it all.

He couldn't win the argument, so he swallowed his retort and muttered, "You should stay out of it, too."

***

After dinner, Roman drove Violette home. He had an emergency at the office and had to head back as soon as he pulled into the driveway.

"Will you be late?" Violette asked.

"Hard to say. Don't wait up."

Upstairs, she showered, tossed her laundry into the washer, and began unpacking from her recent trip. She had just finished organizing her luggage when Roman’s call finally came through. He was still at the office; she could hear Alan Perez’s voice muffled in the background.

Roman asked if she was asleep.

Violette was finishing with her last piece of luggage. She wiped down the inside of the suitcase with an alcohol wipe and set it on the balcony to air out. "Not yet. You’re still tied up?"

"Yeah. If you're still awake, go into my study. In the drawer on the left side of the desk, there’s a VR headset..."

They had two studies in the house, perfectly symmetrical. Violette usually only used the west one; the east study belonged solely to Roman. Since moving in, she could count the number of times she’d stepped inside on one hand. The east wall was entirely floor-to-ceiling glass, overlooking the man-made lake. Opposite it stood a wall of bookshelves, with his desk anchored in the center.

Violette found the drawer easily. "Found it. Now what?"

"Turn on the computer and connect the Bluetooth."

The desk was littered with sensitive files. Fearing she might disturb his organization, she moved gingerly, clicking the mouse only when he gave the command. It seemed Roman desperately needed a file buried deep in the system; he walked her through the code, teaching her how to extract and remote-transfer it.

The transfer completed. Violette perched on the edge of his office chair, phone pressed to her ear. "Anything else?"

"Wait. Don't hang up."

On the other end, his voice drifted away. He was speaking to someone else. It wasn't loud, but the connection was clear enough that she caught the snippets of his conversation.

"It won't open. The bug fix for today is useless. We have to troubleshoot from the source code."

"Call Bradley Harper. Get his copy."

"Understood, Mr. Griffin. And this?"

"I'll take another look."

A moment later, Roman returned. "You still there?"

"Yeah."

Violette understood the dilemma. The only copies of the source code existed on his machine and Bradley’s. The one she’d just sent over was likely corrupted.

"Should I bring it to you?" she offered.

"No."

Roman hesitated. He was a man who moved with ruthless efficiency; he wasn't the type to waver. Violette prompted him, "I can leave right now. It would be faster than waiting for a driver."

As she spoke, she grabbed the device and headed toward the door, her footsteps echoing against the hardwood.

"Hold on," Roman commanded. "Try opening it on that machine. See if it runs locally."

"Fine." She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her and added a quiet, "Okay."

She followed his instructions step by step. Violette wasn't familiar with VR; she rarely used it. She suffered from severe motion sickness, and the moment the headset settled onto her face, the world began to tilt violently.

Roman’s device was set to a "starry night" interface. The vast, infinite space only amplified the vertigo. Roman’s voice, calm and steady over the phone, guided her through the menus. She clicked as he instructed, fighting the urge to vomit, until she finally reached the data center.

A sprawling, 3D render of a stadium unfolded before her. Every time her line of sight shifted, the world wobbled like jelly.

He noticed the lag in her response. "Can't open it?"

Violette took a shallow breath. "I can open it."

Ten minutes had passed. Her nausea was at its breaking point. She spoke in slow, measured intervals, swallowing back bile between every sentence. When she finally finished the operation, the code ran perfectly on the local machine.

She let out a long, shuddering breath.

"Got it," Roman said, and cut the line. He was buried in work; he was likely already back to hunting down that bug.

Violette wanted to rip the headset off, but she knew how meticulous Roman was. She forced herself to exit the interface properly, navigating the menus like a computer desktop, shutting down every program before finally powering the machine down.

But before her finger could hit the final 'off' switch, she brushed against a prominent, unlabelled button on the desktop.

The screen jumped.

Two seconds later, a familiar image flooded her vision.

Violette froze. It was the live broadcast feed from the Deepwater News station. The ambient sounds of the room seemed to vanish. In that silent, suffocating space, she watched herself reading the news.

Two versions of Violette existed in that moment, face to face. It was eerie. The Violette in the VR world had her lips moving, but there was no audio—a silent speech performed for an audience of one. If she allowed herself to imagine the words, they weren't news headlines. They sounded like a conversation between friends.

*—Violette, I’ve completed a massive project. Everyone says I’m the spitting image of my father.*

*—You worked hard. But you are your own person, too.*

*—Do you think I've made it?*

*—Of course! We hot-blooded rookies can do anything.*

Violette reached out. The sensation of space in the virtual world was disorienting; she felt as if she could touch her own ghost. The camera trembled, but the vertigo was suddenly pushed to the back of her mind, buried under the sheer weight of what she was seeing. She shut the machine down and placed it exactly where she had found it.

It was 3:00 AM when Roman stepped out of the guest bathroom. After a moment of contemplation, he pushed open the door to the primary bedroom.

As soon as he climbed into bed, he felt her move. She wrapped her arms around him, the familiar, comforting scent of her body lotion rising from her skin, curling around his senses.

"Just getting back?" she murmured.

Roman reached to click the bedside lamp, but she caught his wrist. He looked down, holding his hand in mid-air. "You’re still awake?"

Her mind had been racing for hours, heavy with everything she’d seen. "You have me in your machine, Roman."

His heart hammered against her ear, a rapid-fire rhythm that threatened to break through her eardrums. Roman stroked her hair in the darkness but didn't speak.

He had never been one for grand declarations. Since they’d been together, Violette had learned to read the silence. Pressed against his familiar, burning warmth, she felt like a fish pulled from the tide—parched, inflamed, impulsive, and desperate all at once.

She parted her lips, her voice a fragile anchor in the dark.

"You have the right to remain silent, but everything you say can be used against you in court, Mr. Griffin." She leaned in, desperate to hear his voice. "Decided what you want to say yet?"