Viola's POV
I ignored the chilling implication of the 'Integrity Review' file for five minutes, forcing myself to attack the Tokyo tour itinerary first. If I missed this impossible deadline, Mr. Lodge would have a legitimate, professional reason to destroy my career, rather than just a criminal one.
The tour was a logistical nightmare: private jet schedules, requests for specific artisanal mineral water only available in Northern Italy, and hotel suites that had to be "free of any reflective surfaces"—a detail that made me pause. No reflective surfaces? Was he paranoid about surveillance, or just a vampire?
I was deep into arranging a last-minute contract for the Italian water shipment when my new subordinate, Gail, appeared in my doorway, clipboard clutched to her chest like a shield.
"Viola? I finished the style guide discrepancy report, but I also wanted to tell you something... private." She fidgeted, glancing nervously down the hallway toward the executive offices.
"Come in, Gail," I said, leaning back in the chair. "And close the door."
She rushed in and shut the glass door, then lowered her voice to a desperate whisper. "It's about the security logs. I saw your screen—the network anomalies."
I kept my expression neutral. "Go on."
"The previous Head of Editorial Integrity... he resigned right after flagging a large server access spike at 3:00 AM two weeks ago. It was traced to a defunct warehouse address, not corporate. He thought it was a virus. Mr. Lodge just told him to ignore it."
My blood ran cold. A defunct warehouse address accessing the corporate server. That sounded less like a virus and more like the very criminal activity Kyle Lodge and his hitman brother were trying to cover up.
"And where is that server spike logged?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
"It's buried deep in the archived security files. But I copied the trace logs to a flash drive before the old editor deleted them. I thought... maybe you should have it. I need this job, Viola, and I'm terrified." She quickly slid a tiny, innocuous black flash drive across the desk.
"You've just proven to be an invaluable member of my team, Gail," I told her, my mind already racing. "Go back to your desk. And Gail... you never told me any of this."
"Never," she vowed, her face white.
As she slipped out, I picked up the flash drive. The mole investigation wasn't just about money; it was about the physical location of Lodge's illegal business. He dared me to find the mole; he never expected me to find his entire hidden operation.
I opened the 'Integrity Review' file and quickly plugged the flash drive into a hidden USB port beneath the desk. The logo on the drive—a tiny skull—was a nice touch. I knew exactly where to start looking.
Kyle's POV
I didn't need the security camera feed to know exactly what Viola was doing. I knew the moment Gail scurried out of that corner office, her shoulders slumped in a posture of relieved compliance. Gail was easily terrified; Viola was excellent at leveraging it.
I stood by the window of my office, sipping the third black coffee of the morning. From my vantage point, I could see right into the glass box where I had placed my little saboteur. She was currently hunched over her keyboard, her sleek black hair hiding her face, her concentration absolute. She hadn't left the office since I dropped her off, which was exactly the obedience I required.
I opened a file on my desktop—not the budget review Marshall wanted, but a private communication log.
KYLE (9:45 AM): Report on the Head of Editorial Integrity.
MARSHALL (9:46 AM): She's working. Hasn't stopped. She terrified Gail into submission and is now scrolling through the Tokyo flight manifests. She looks like she's planning a hostile takeover of Asia.
KYLE (9:47 AM): Excellent. The flight manifests are a distraction. Did she open the Integrity Review file?
MARSHALL (9:48 AM): Yes. Right after Gail left. She's in the deep financial logs now. She didn't ask Damian for any help. She's a lone wolf.
I smiled, a genuine, private twist of the lips. My instincts about her were correct. Most people, when faced with an impossible workload and a death threat, would panic. Viola chose to investigate. She was an analyst, a strategist. She was the only person in this building with the mental acuity to actually find the mole.
And that was precisely why I needed her. My internal security had been breached. She was the one weapon I could trust to fight the unseen enemy, because I had already guaranteed that she had more to lose by failing me than by succeeding.
I watched her through the glass. She suddenly paused, her body language stiffening, and I knew she'd found something interesting in the financial logs.
"Go on, Viola," I murmured to the glass. "Dig. Break the protocol. Find the truth. It's the only honest thing you're allowed to do here."
I returned to my desk, sitting down to review the daily sales figures for The Gentleman's Code. The entire office was running on the high-octane anxiety she was generating. And me? I felt sharper, more focused, and entirely awake. The unscripted obsession was proving to be a highly effective management tool.
I typed a final instruction to Marshall.
KYLE (9:55 AM): Increase her daily allowance for incidental expenses. She'll need it for the trip. And have the driver follow her home tonight. Discreetly. I need to know where she's taking that flash drive.
Viola's Pov
The digital trail was frustratingly sparse, but Gail's flash drive held the single, critical clue: the server access spike traced to an external, non-corporate address.
I opened the trace log from the flash drive and pulled up the IP address. A quick cross-reference with public records using the company's excellent—and apparently, now my—network tools yielded a physical location: 419 Bridge Street.
I checked the clock: 1:30 PM. The Tokyo itinerary was 90% finalized; the publisher's Italian mineral water was secured. The last item on the impossible list was the mole assessment, and I had just found the mole's digital fingerprint.
I leaned back, a rush of cold triumph washing over the lingering fear. 419 Bridge Street. That was the defunct warehouse address Marshall had been discussing with Kyle Lodge on my first day. The location of Lodge's entire criminal operation. The mole wasn't some accountant stealing funds; they were a network ghost, accessing Lodge's servers from his very command center.
This is a trap. The thought was instantaneous. Kyle Lodge didn't give me access to this information by accident. He gave it to me because he knew I'd find it, and he wants to see what I do next. He's testing me, waiting to see if I'll walk straight into his hands.
My original plan—to stay, observe, and eventually expose him—just got a lot more dangerous. I could write up a report: The mole is located at 419 Bridge Street and has accessed the network. But that wouldn't prove anything; it would just confirm his suspicions that I was listening.
If I wanted proof—the kind of evidence that could bring down his empire—I needed to see what was at 419 Bridge Street.
I quickly minimized the security files and pulled up a shipping manifest. I needed a reason to be out of the office, and a valid excuse if Lodge were watching.
I typed out an email to Tori, the conference logistics manager.
Subject: URGENT - Tokyo Pre-Trip Gift Compliance Review
Tori,
The itinerary requires a review of all pre-trip gift baskets. Specifically, the sake shipment. I need to personally verify that the bottling and labeling comply with Japanese customs laws before the flight. Please arrange for a courier to deliver the sample crate to the corporate lockbox near the old shipping depot. I will meet the courier there at 3:00 PM for the inspection.
It was a flimsy excuse, but believable in the context of ridiculous executive demands. The "corporate lockbox near the old shipping depot" was close enough to 419 Bridge Street to be plausible.
I stood up, smoothing the lines of my black dress. I opened the door to my corner office and paused, letting my eyes sweep down the hallway, past the reception area, and toward Lodge's glass fortress.
He wasn't visible, but I knew he was watching.
"I'm stepping out for an hour," I announced to no one in particular, loud enough to carry. "I need to confirm the Tokyo gift compliance. Gail, please monitor the main line."
I grabbed my purse, slipping Gail's flash drive inside. I hadn't dressed for a crime scene, but my black heels would have to do.
You want to see what I do, Mr. Lodge? Fine. Let's see who is the better strategist.
I was walking directly into the fire, but I was going in with my eyes wide open.
Kyle's POV
I smiled when I saw the courier request.
Viola hadn't bothered to email me; she'd emailed Gwen, but that didn't matter. Everything goes through my filters. The request to meet a courier to inspect "sake bottling" was one of the most gloriously transparent lies I'd heard all week. She might as well have scheduled a meeting labeled: 'Viola Goes to Find the Mole's Lair.'
"Well, Marshall," I said, leaning back in my chair and gesturing toward the main security monitor. Viola was just stepping into the elevator, her expression a perfect mix of corporate annoyance and hidden tension. "I told you she was clever. It took her less than five hours to zero in on 419 Bridge Street."
Marshall, who had been reviewing the building blueprints on the holographic display, scowled. "She's not clever, Kyle; she's predictable. You gave her the precise ingredients to make the soup, and now she's going to taste it. Send someone to intercept her. She can't go to the warehouse."
"Of course, she can." I steepled my fingers, my gaze fixed on the monitor. "Why else would I give her the access log? The mole is inside the organization, Marshall, using old code that only someone at this level would recognize. I have security sweeping the grounds for the network ghost, but I need proof. And Viola is going to get it for me."
Marshall looked incredulous. "You're sending your Head of Editorial Integrity—the witness you're trying to contain—into an active criminal warehouse?"
"No, Marshall. I'm sending my Head of Editorial Integrity on a very important, highly unscripted fact-finding mission," I corrected, enjoying the dramatic flair of it all. "If she goes there, she'll see the scale of the operation—the very thing that terrifies her. She'll realize she's trapped in something far bigger than a publishing company. And if she finds the mole's laptop or file, she hands the problem to me."
"And if she runs?"
"She won't." I picked up my phone, my thumb hovering over a contact. "She hates me, Marshall. And she's pragmatic. She knows that escaping the warehouse is easy; escaping my revenge is impossible. I just need to make sure she has enough motivation."
I typed a message into the internal system, sending it to my driver.
KYLE LODGE (2:15 PM): Meet Miss. Viola's taxi. Follow her to the destination. Do not allow her to enter 419 Bridge Street. Divert her to the 411 building. Have a crate of sake waiting. When she is finished, bring her directly to me. Unharmed.
Marshall raised an eyebrow, finally understanding the complexity of the maneuver. "You're stopping her at the last second."
"I have to show her two things, Marshall: First, that I am watching her every step. Second, that I can stop her from making the fatal mistake. She needs to understand that I am not just her boss; I am her fate. And if she wants to live, she stays on my leash."
I leaned back, tapping my pen against the desk, a feeling of deep satisfaction washing over me. "The mole is predictable. Viola, however, is not. That's why this is so much fun."