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.

Violeta Reynolds’ chest twisted with a sharp pang of guilt. "Why don’t we sit down and grab something to eat first?"

Leighton Howell’s face lit up. "Is your husband joining us? Last time we talked, you said he didn’t want to come to work events anymore."

Violeta flinched. She hated digging into the messy, ugly details of her marriage. High society has an unspoken rule—you keep all your dirty laundry locked behind closed doors. It was a lesson her family had drilled into her since she was a kid.

She tugged up a small, forced smile. "He’s not coming. What was his name again, anyway?"

Leighton blinked, confused for a second—before another voice cut through the awkward silence.

"It’s Quincy Lawrence."

Quincy stated the name flatly, not meeting anyone’s eye.

Violeta’s lips twitched up just a little. "Ah, right. Quincy. I’ll be sure to remember this time."

Leighton leaned in and whispered, "How do you forget? You’re the one who introduced him! How on earth do you blank on his name?"

Heat crawled up Violeta’s neck. To be honest, she really had forgotten. Lately, every thought in her head had been swallowed whole by Raiden Evans. She hadn’t had any brain space left for anyone else.

She took a deep breath, her smile staying steady. "Leighton, should we order some food to go for later?"

Leighton hesitated, then nodded. "I’ve lived in high society long enough—anything works for me."

Leighton was always blunt; she hadn’t meant that to come off sarcastic.

It hit Violeta then—over the years, she’d drifted so far from regular social life she barely felt like she fit in anymore.

As they walked toward the exit, she asked, "This new gym setup—was that Quincy’s idea?"

"Yep, Quincy hates going out much. He owns the whole top floor, so we just converted it. Kids these days, always full of energy, y’know?"

Quincy walked silently right beside her, tugging a hat on casually. Even with him saying nothing, that jaw-dropping good looks of his made him impossible to miss.

When they got to Violeta’s car, Leighton gestured playfully at the passenger seat, and Quincy immediately stepped back, politely waving Violeta forward.

He paused for a split second, glancing at Violeta, then just stood by the open door waiting.

Violeta smiled. "Hop in. It’ll be good for us to get to know each other better anyway."

He dipped his lashes, and slipped quietly into the seat.

Raiden Evans always took that passenger seat. Out of pure muscle memory, Violeta reached over to buckle Quincy’s seatbelt for him.

His whole body went rigid. His fingers curled tight at his side, and he just stared out the window, not saying a word.

When Violeta clicked the buckle into place, it hit her what she’d done. This wasn’t Raiden. He didn’t need her to do that for him.

She pulled her hand back quickly, typed Leighton’s address into the GPS, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Leighton was never one to shut up, and she piped up right away: "Quincy, are you working on a new show? You’ve booked so many gigs lately. Even if they’re not lead roles, the hype’s real—our whole studio’s staying afloat because of you, kid."

Violeta felt a twist of regret. If she’d known how much raw talent the studio had, she would’ve connected him with some of her director contacts ages ago.

But ever since she got married, she’d completely checked out of the entertainment industry.

Quincy, the man in the passenger seat, kept his head down. He probably hadn’t even picked up on Violeta’s little moment of regret.

Leighton threw her hands up dramatically. "Seriously, Violeta—are you just done with film and TV now? This was your passion! Why throw it all away for a marriage? Does your husband even care that you’re giving up the thing you love most?"

Violeta’s knuckles went white where she gripped the steering wheel. A heavy, helpless feeling settled deep in her chest. She had nowhere to put all that weight.

As the car rolled up to a red light, Violeta opened her mouth to change the subject—then she noticed another car pulling up right beside them.

Through the half-down window, she spotted a sharp, distinguished-looking man with a white carnation pinned to his lapel. A woman was perched on his lap, murmuring something against his neck and kissing a slow path up to his Adam’s apple.

He laughed and tilted his head out of the way, his gaze soft and full of adoration.

Violeta knew that man. She wrenched her gaze away, shoving down the sharp, burning ache in her chest.

Raiden Evans had always been all business, never let anyone distract him from work. And here he was, making out in a car like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Leighton glanced over, clicked her tongue. "That car’s at least two mil. Some people really do have too much money. And they look good together—handsome guy, pretty girl. Wait, Violeta—isn’t that… your husband?"

The light turned green. Violeta pressed her foot down on the gas.

Leighton’s mouth dropped open, and she repeated, "Violeta, that was your husband, right?"

Violeta let out a slow breath. Surprisingly, she felt a little lighter. At least now she didn’t have to hide it anymore. "Yeah, I saw him. He’s cheating."

Leighton made a small, awkward "oh" sound, then fumbled for the right words. "When did you find out?"

She’d just finished asking when Violeta pulled up to the rented house they were heading to.

"Last night. Somebody sent me a text."

Quincy’s hand was already on the car door handle. He paused, then quietly pressed the lock button down again.