Kyle's POV
I watched her go. Well, I watched her silhouette leave and disappear around the corner to that pathetic little kitchenette. She didn't run. Of course, she didn't. She was furious, calculating, and now utterly trapped.
Marshall was talking about the distribution lines being compromised, but his voice was background noise. The real complication was right outside the glass.
"So, the mole..." Marshall began, impatiently tapping his fingers on the desk.
"The mole will keep," I said, leaning forward to examine the papers on my desk. "The supply chains will hold. What won't hold is her silence. I needed her contained."
"Contained?" Marshall raised a skeptical eyebrow. "By taking her to a public dinner? That's not containment, Kyle. That's a witness on a leash, in the open."
"Exactly. Witnesses on leashes are safer than witnesses hidden in dark corners, waiting to call the authorities. She thinks this is a negotiation. I'm showing her that her choices are nonexistent, and that her only safety is proximity to me. Besides," I added, picking up my phone and glancing at the time, "tonight is about more than logistics. It's about setting the stage for what happens next."
Marshall sighed, scrubbing a hand over his short hair. "You mean the part where you get distracted by a skirt and the whole organization goes to hell?"
"I mean the part where I get to enjoy watching the only woman in New York who has the spine to defy me. Did you see her, Marshall? She wasn't scared…she was genuinely angry. Most women, when faced with money and power, buckle. She chose a different route."
A dry, amused chuckle escaped me. "It's intoxicating. This is why I write romance. It's the only place I can channel the sheer absurdity of human conflict. And she's giving me material for years. Tonight, she'll realise she's playing a game she can't win, but she'll look incredible while losing."
I stood up, adjusting my tie. "I'm leaving now. Tell the driver I'm ready. And Marshall, tonight, you're on cleanup duty for the mole. Find out who it is, but don't touch them. I want to see the look on their face before I dispose of them personally. And for goodness sake, put the lighter away. We need that warehouse standing."
I strode out, ignoring Marshall's bewildered stare. My mind was already picturing Viola…the furious blue eyes, the tight black hair, the sharp lines of her "office siren" attire. She was coming. And for the first time in months, I was genuinely curious about the evening ahead. The rules of my life were set in stone. She was the one beautiful, unscripted obsession that threatened to shatter the whole thing.
Violas's POV
I emerged from the restroom feeling like a weapon, not a woman. The angry energy from the chat session had fueled my transformation. I didn't own a designer wardrobe, but I knew how to fake it. I smoothed the lines of my black tailored sheath dress…professional, understated, utterly sleek. My black hair was pulled back into a severe, high ponytail, accentuating the sharp angles of my face and those blue eyes. A minimal amount of makeup perfected the look: sharp eyeliner, a neutral lip, and a furious determination that I hoped read as expensive confidence.
I looked in the mirror one last time. Viola, the well-dressed hostage.
It was 7:40 PM. Time to descend into the underworld.
I walked through the empty, silent hallway, the heels of my pumps clicking with a cold, hollow sound that seemed to mock my impending doom. The office was on the 30th floor, overlooking the pulsing, deceptive lights of the city. Downstairs, in the shadowed curb lane, the black car would be waiting.
When I reached the ground floor lobby, a sleek, nearly silent black sedan—a Mercedes, of course—pulled up to the curb. The driver, a large man with a vacant expression, opened the door.
I slid into the plush leather seat. Kyle was already inside, occupying the entire far side of the backseat, working on a tablet. He didn't look up immediately, but the scent of his cologne…sandalwood and something cold, metallic…hit me instantly, tightening the knot in my stomach.
"You're late," he said, his voice flat, still staring at the screen.
"It is 7:45 PM, exactly when you instructed me to be here," I retorted, keeping my voice low and level. "My punctuality is the only thing keeping your schedule from falling apart, sir."
He finally looked up, closing the tablet with a soft snap. His eyes swept over me, a slow, comprehensive inspection that felt like a physical violation. His gaze lingered for a beat too long on my face.
"Black is wise," he murmured, a hint of something unreadable—amusement? approval?—in his tone. "It matches your soul, and the color of your new secret life."
I held his gaze, my anger acting as a shield. "It matches the formality of a business dinner, which, I remind you, this is supposed to be."
"Suppose away, Viola. The location is the private dining room at The Obsidian Room. It's time for you to earn that future I'm graciously not destroying."
The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the traffic. I watched the city lights blur. I hated him with a clean, blinding clarity. And I knew, with a sick certainty, that he knew exactly what he was doing by forcing me into this suffocating proximity.
Kyle's POV
The moment she sat down, the air in the car changed. The leather and air conditioning instantly smelled less sterile, replaced by that dangerous, scent of hers. She was breathtaking. The black dress was simple, but on her, it was a declaration. She hadn't dressed for a dinner…she'd dressed for a battle.
Black is wise. It matches your soul...
The words were smooth, a practiced line of flirtation wrapped around a threat. It was a test. I needed to see if the defiance from the chat had survived the elevator ride.
"It matches the formality of a business dinner, which, I remind you, this is supposed to be."
She passed. Her voice was ice, controlled, challenging my authority at every turn. That fire, that raw refusal to cower…it was better than any performance I'd ever watched. This was the unscripted obsession I craved.
"The Obsidian Room," I told the driver. The name was fitting. It was one of the few places in the city where my two lives intersected…expensive enough for a publisher, secluded enough for a discreet meeting with Lighter(Marshall) if needed.
I opened my tablet again, pretending to work, but my attention was glued to the reflected image of her in the glass. She was staring out the window, her jaw set.
"Relax, Viola," I said, without looking up. "Tonight, you are the highly sought-after, brilliant assistant to the world's most successful romance author. We are here to charm a publisher into giving me a multi-million-dollar advance. Your job is to look attentive, laugh at my awful jokes, and make the publisher believe I possess the warmth and humanity I write about. Don't worry, the performance will be entirely in character for you."
"And what character is that?" she shot back.
"The one who knows when to shut up and collect a paycheck," I countered, hitting her with a cold truth that was meant to sting. "Besides, I pay you to proofread. If I tell a bad joke, you are contractually obligated to edit it into something worthwhile, which usually involves a polite laugh."
I glanced at her reflection. She hadn't laughed. Just tightened her lips.
"Good. Don't strain yourself. We're here."
The car pulled up to a discreet, unmarked door flanked by two bored-looking men. A signal, a nod, and the door opened into a dimly lit, richly appointed hallway. I got out first, and the driver immediately moved to assist Viola.
"Remember the rules, Viola," I murmured, waiting for her to step out. "You are my plus-one, and you are silent unless spoken to. And don't forget why you're here. Your future is in my hands."
Her blue eyes met mine in the dim light. They were blazing. She was magnificent.
The fire needs feeding.
I placed my hand lightly on the small of her back…a possessive…but professional gesture…and guided her toward the restaurant entrance, feeling the subtle stiffening of her spine beneath my touch.