Violeta Reynolds had been married to Raiden Evans for two years, and in all that time, she’d never once seen him break his cool in public. But late one night, right there in front of her, he was tangled up with some girl in a dim, grimy alley—locked together, shameless, for anyone to see.

The girl looked fragile, like a soft flower pushing through muck, her legs wrapped tight around his waist while she sobbed into his shoulder. Violeta leaned back against her car seat, her mind going completely blank.

Someone had accidentally shared their location earlier that night. It wasn’t even ten minutes away from the house she and Raiden shared. If he was gonna cheat, you’d think he’d pick somewhere a little more private, right? Raiden was a powerhouse in the business world—old money, three generations of prestige, a man who lived by a strict code of high standards.

Violeta couldn’t square that polished Raiden with the man making out in this dump. The mold-streaked walls were so far beneath what he’d ever tolerate normally. A dry, bitter smile tugged at her lips. What even was she, anyway? Just a wife in name only, watching this whole mess from the sidelines?

Confronting them wouldn’t change anything. A public scandal wasn’t worth the fallout. They’d married two years ago, and Raiden had already been in love with someone else back then. Violeta had been the one stubborn enough to say yes anyway, giving up a thriving career just to be his wife.

In their two years of marriage, she’d tended to every little thing for him perfectly. She knew his stomach was sensitive, so she cooked every single dinner from scratch with extra care. Every detail of his suits, his ties, his shoes—she planned it all, down to the sock. She handled every single thing that mattered to him, never letting anyone else lift a finger.

But here he was, in this filthy alley, like a beast finally yanking off his prim gentleman’s mask. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Violeta’s head—one sharp, searing pain cutting through all her stupid delusions, and suddenly she could see everything clearly.

What came next wasn’t even a question. The marriage was over.

As she pulled away, her headlights swept right over Raiden. He froze, lifting his head to stare after her. A weird, unplaceable unease settled in his chest. He didn’t recognize the car, but he watched it roll straight toward the villa they shared.

"Raiden… I hurt so bad," the girl whimpered against his neck. He snapped back to the moment, straightening his cuff with the same meticulous care he gave everything.

"Let’s call it a night for now. The company’s got a big merger coming up. We can’t afford a divorce scandal getting out right now," he said.

"I get it, baby. I don’t mind waiting," she murmured soft as butter.

Raiden glanced down at her. There was something about that wobbly, vulnerable look that reminded him of Violeta, just for a split second.

Meanwhile, back at the villa, Violeta had just stepped out of the shower when she heard the master bedroom door click open. Raiden stood in the doorway, his suit draped over one arm, one dark brow quirked up. His chiseled jaw always carried that quiet air of superiority, sharpened by his straight high nose and deep-set eyes that tilted ever so slightly up at the corners.

A smudge of pink lipstick stained the collar of his crisp white shirt—the same sticky formula Violeta had always hated. Raiden never seemed to mind, though. Go figure.

Violeta kept toweling her hair, stepping slowly toward the bed. Raiden’s gaze lingered on the soft curve of her waist, peeking through the thin fabric of her nightgown. "When’d you get home?" he asked, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding.

Violeta watched him in the reflection of the window across the room as he tossed his tie aside and started unbuttoning his shirt. "Got dirty on the back nine," he said quickly, like that explained the smudges on the fabric. "Played golf with the clients tonight."

"Any hole-in-ones? Sounds impressive," she answered flatly. Raiden’s jaw tightened just a little, that old unease creeping back up his spine.

He reached out, wrapping a big hand around her waist. "You upset, huh? When we got married, I told you straight up I wasn’t in love with you. I already had someone else. This was never supposed to be some fairy tale," he said, trying to sound like he was being honest instead of cruel.

Violeta’s throat felt clamped shut, wrapped tight with rusted wire—every one of his words tearing through her like a blade. She’d met Raiden years ago, when her father Charlie Snyder first introduced her to the family. Her love had grown slow, steady, and this marriage had been the dream she’d chased for years. Now here she was, finally waking up to what it really was.

She nodded, numb, and Raiden huffed a soft laugh, pressing a lazy kiss to her cheek. He didn’t realize, or maybe he just didn’t care, that Violeta had once loved him so fiercely, so completely—she’d never needed his love to validate hers. Not until that moment, anyway.

Violeta Reynolds lounged against the headboard, tablet propped in her hand, picking apart her target’s assets. Raiden Evans grabbed a pair of pajamas from the dresser and headed for the bathroom. The steady drumming of the shower filled the room as Violeta blinked slow, mind spinning through exactly how much she’d walk away with if she divorced him.

This marriage was never anything more than a transaction between the Reynolds and Evans clans— a corporate merger, not a love match. If she was being honest, it probably had something to do with Clark, her so-called brother, too.

Her fingers glided across the tablet screen, just as a cloud of warm steam drifted over her shoulder. She felt Raiden’s chin settle on her shoulder, his sharp gaze locking straight onto the numbers glowing on her screen.

“Thinking about calling it quits?” he asked, casual as anything, swiping his thumb to go back a page. “Gonna leave me high and dry, huh?”

The unspoken threat hung thick in the air: divorce him, and you walk away with zero. Two years playing the perfect trophy wife, and she’d have nothing to show for it— no payout, nothing at all.

Raiden wrapped his arms around her, that innate, entitled authority rolling off him in waves. “Have I been all work and no play lately? Left you feeling forgotten, baby?”

She hit the power button on the tablet and twisted away from him. “I don’t care anymore.”

To Violeta, this marriage barely even mattered now. Staying together just meant keeping her family’s connections intact.

Raiden slid into bed behind her and tugged her back into his chest. “When we tied the knot, feelings weren’t part of the deal. It was always about what you represented.”

Violeta went rigid, bitterness bubbling up her throat. Two years in, and these grand, cold lines just felt ironic. Humiliating, even.

Raiden was incapable of warmth or real affection. He’d gotten sick of everyone kissing his boots, and never cared for anything sincere. Maybe a lifetime of luxury had blunted him. And Violeta, molded by the Reynolds family from the day she was born, paled in comparison to whatever he craved.

She really had been groomed for this exact life. Why else would the Reynolds have dumped so much money into raising her? Her family had shaped her into a strategic asset, a beautiful trap laid out just for the taking.

She shut her eyes, blocking out his lazy, mocking drawl. He must’ve gotten his rocks off with someone else tonight. That was the only reason he was this chatty.

“Violeta, even the prettiest flower wilts if no one waters it. Lonely? Maybe you should go find someone else to keep you warm.”

Her face went slack, draining of all color.

He had some nerve. He knew exactly how she felt about this sham of a marriage, and still he stood there, all cold and calculating, throwing this in her face.

This stupid emotional chess game? She’d already lost, bad. Pushing back would only make her look like a fool.

Raiden closed his eyes, brows lifting just a fraction. He’d said way worse to her lately, and still she just sat there, unresponsive as a stone statue.

The bed suddenly felt less welcoming, choked with monotony and the same old boring routine.

He laid back and shut his eyes.

Violeta waited until his breathing went soft and slow, then quietly pushed herself up. Sometimes she wondered if ending it all would save her from wasting half her life on this.

She picked up her tablet again. Raiden wouldn’t agree to a divorce because their families’ interests were all tangled up together. A messy public split would tank both their companies.

Lost in her own head, she decided to just get back to work for now, and figure a way out later.

Right as she got settled, a phone pinged with a new text. Instinctively, she reached for it, assuming it was hers.

The screen lit up with a private, compromising photo. Her heart kicked into double time when she realized it wasn’t her phone. It was Raiden’s.

She set it back down slow, careful not to make a sound. So that was his type: women who looked like angels, but didn’t give a damn about the rules.

Just as she shifted back against the pillows, his hand snaked out for the phone.

His voice was thick with sleep, rough around the edges: “Did you go through my phone?”

“Picked it up by accident,” she answered, keeping her voice totally even, calm as can be.

Raiden turned away to answer the message, then stepped out into the hall to take the call.

The next morning, Violeta Reynolds was heading out when she ran straight into Raiden Evans on her front steps. At six-foot-two, Raiden towered over her, his tailored dark suit cutting an imposing figure that commanded every bit of the space he stood in. When he stepped toward the door, his dark brows pulled down just a fraction.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked.

Violeta was bent over in the foyer slipping on her heels, her posture steady and no-nonsense. "I’m heading to the studio," she answered simply.

She’d co-founded the talent development studio years ago, but stepped back almost entirely after marrying Raiden. Now, with her own savings stashed away, she’d decided to put money back into the place and sign new artists. She was curious to see how it would all play out.

Raiden’s face hardened. "Isn’t the three thousand a month I give you enough?" he asked, voice icy.

He’d always expected her to stay home, a pretty trophy waiting for him to come back each night. That was how their life had worked for the past two years.

A lump swelled in Violeta’s throat, but she swallowed it down and finished lacing her shoe. "I’m going to work," she repeated.

Raiden’s gaze held hers for a long few seconds before he looked away, tone flat and unconcerned. "Suit yourself."

He was dead sure once she hit the hard edges of the real world, she’d come crawling right back home, begging to be taken care of.

When he sat down at the dining table, he noticed the breakfast spread was off. "Who made this this morning?" he asked. It tasted nothing like Violeta’s usual cooking—definitely someone else’s handiwork.

"We did, sir. Mrs. Reynolds asked us to prepare it," one of the house staff answered.

Raiden said nothing more. He didn’t see the point in picking a fight. Maybe he had been neglecting her lately, and this was just her way of acting out. He figured he’d pick up some fancy jewelry later to smooth things over.

Violeta drove toward the studio, her thoughts cutting off abruptly when she spotted a giant billboard outside the mall. It was Lenora Kelly, the new face of the perfume line Raiden’s company had just launched. Lenora, who’d been spotted out with Raiden just the night before. The girl he’d poured millions into, building her up from nothing to be his newest star. Violeta’s grip on the steering wheel tightened. She drew in a slow breath, then pressed her foot harder on the gas.

The studio was only a ten-minute drive from Raiden’s company, tucked on the top floor of an old downtown building. When she reached the door, she could hear it already—the steady, rhythmic thud of a fist hitting a punching bag.

Rounding the corner, she caught sight of him: a young guy in a black short-sleeve, gloves strapped on, pummeling the bag over and over. His hair fell just over his ears, his muscles cut sharp and defined, but there was still a soft, boyish edge to his face. He stood a full six-foot-three, taller than Raiden even.

Violeta snuck a look at his profile. He was younger than Raiden, for sure, but quieter, more contained. Almond-shaped eyes and sharp, angular bones held a quiet intensity that made it hard to look away.

"Excuse me…" she started.

When he heard her voice, he spun his head around—only for the swinging punching bag to catch him square in the side of the face.

She shoved the glass door open quickly. "Are you alright?"

He shifted a little, rubbing the red mark blooming on his cheek, his lips pressed tight in a silent line.

Violeta glanced around. This was definitely the five-year lease she’d paid a fortune for, but right now it looked more like a run-down boxing gym than a talent studio.

She felt weirdly out of place, like a duchess wandering straight into a crowded street market, as she scanned the messy room.

The man dropped his gaze, unclipped his gloves, tossed them hard onto a nearby bench, and headed straight for the door. His hair was damp with sweat, every step thrumming with restless, coiled energy.

He nearly slammed right into the person coming in. The newcomer’s eyes went wide with curiosity first, then lit up bright when they landed on Violeta. "Violeta! What a surprise seeing you here! Am I dreaming? You’ve barely stepped foot here since you got married!"

It was Leighton Howell, her old friend and business partner. Relief washed through Violeta. She hadn’t walked into the wrong place after all.

Leighton playfully shoved the younger man back inside, chuckling. "Where d’you think you’re going? Weren’t you asking when the boss would show up? Well, here she is!"

The man’s wrists were still wrapped in padded tape. He tilted his head just a little, and mumbled one quiet, "Oh."

Violeta looked closer at his face. He was devastatingly handsome, but nothing like Raiden’s polished, cold aloofness. He was a lone pine perched on a mountain peak—pale, cool skin, lips so bright and red they looked like they’d been tinted with rouge. That strange, inherent mix of soft and sharp made it impossible to look away.

Leighton pulled Violeta off to the side, voice dropping low. "I’ve had nothing but bad luck since you left. All our artists bailed one by one. Thank god Quincy stayed, otherwise I’d be panhandling on the sidewalk by now."

Guilt pricked at Violeta’s chest as she glanced over at Quincy Lawrence, standing off to the side with his head down, lost in his own thoughts.

"Why did he stay?" she asked.

Leighton scratched her chin, thinking. "Beats me. The kid’s only twenty-three, with looks like this? Any other agency would have turned him into a household name by now. Directors are dying to cast him just for his face."

Back when they first opened the studio, they’d pulled out all the stops, using Violeta’s connections to get every big director in the room. Then she got married, lost all interest in running the place, and let it spiral right to the brink of closing. Only one artist stuck around.

And what an artist he was.

Violeta’s eyes locked back on Quincy. She watched him slowly lift his head, catch her staring, and glance away just as fast. His expression was closed off, guarded… and more captivating than anything she’d seen in years.