Viola's POV
The ride back to the main office was fast and silent, the tension in the SUV so thick it was almost painful. I was now carrying the full, terrifying weight of Kyle Lodge's criminal empire on my shoulders, yet the fear had been replaced by a laser-like focus. I wasn't just his prisoner anymore…I was his essential asset.
The SUV deposited me right at Lodge's office door. I walked in to find him sitting behind his desk, looking impossibly calm, while Marshall paced the office like a caged animal.
"The verdict is in, Mr. Lodge," I announced, walking straight to his desk. "Larsen Acquisitions was planning to seize our East Asian assets via an anti-trust injunction tomorrow morning. Simon Vance has neutralized the block. Your empire is, for now, intact."
Lodge nodded once, a brief, sharp movement of his head. "As expected."
"As expected, because you set the trap perfectly," I retorted, letting my contempt show. "You gave me the bait, knowing I'd take it, so I could identify the real threat. You used me to save your business."
He smiled, a slow, appreciative twist of his lips. "And you used my resources to prove you're more capable than my entire team. We're even, Vi. Now, the real question: How do we prevent this 'integrity breach' from happening again?"
He stood up, walking around the desk toward me. Marshall stopped pacing.
"You've had a busy day, Head of Editorial Integrity," Lodge said, his voice dropping slightly. "A day filled with corporate espionage, high-level counter-intelligence, and the unfortunate necessity of saving my assets. I need to make sure you behave, and that requires close supervision."
He paused, then delivered the line with a cutting, professional tone: "Therefore, you're accompanying me to a formal dinner. We'll be discussing the logistics of handling the CEO of Larsen Acquisitions, who is about to be very unhappy. Since your wardrobe is currently suited for a clean desk and not a complex negotiation, we need to correct that."
He didn't wait for my agreement. He simply reached out, not touching me, but gesturing toward the door. "Marshall, call the driver. We're going to the city's most overpriced boutique. Viola needs clothes that reflect her new station. And she needs an emergency makeover. After all, she is representing the author of Unscripted Obsession."
An hour later, I was standing in a lavish dressing room, clad only in a silk robe, while a haughty saleswoman measured my inseam. Lodge stood outside the door, speaking curtly to Marshall on his phone. He never once looked at me, pretending the entire exercise was merely a matter of company expense and public relations.
The result, however, was transformative. I walked out of the salon three hours later, a complete stranger. My hair, usually pulled back in a severe ponytail, was now styled into soft, elegant waves that framed my face. My makeup was subtle but precise, emphasizing the blue of my eyes.
The final piece was the dress: an emerald-green silk sheath that was simultaneously sophisticated, powerful, and utterly unforgiving. It felt like a second skin, a suit of armor woven from expensive materials.
I met Lodge by the waiting SUV. He turned, his gaze sweeping over the final product. The silence stretched between us.
He didn't smile. He didn't compliment me. He simply raised an eyebrow and delivered a single, dismissive line: "It'll do. You look presentable for the advance team."
But I saw the truth—the slight tension around his jaw, the deep, focused intensity in his eyes that belied his indifference. For one long, silent moment, he wasn't looking at his employee…he was looking at the woman who had invaded his thoughts. I knew, with a sudden, unsettling certainty, that this was the kind of elegant, complicated, and defiant woman he invented in his bestselling novels.
The restaurant we went to was quite something. The White Glove…it was painfully chic, all white linen and hushed conversation. We were seated at a secluded table, and the evening began with the same pretense: Lodge talking about stock options and legal maneuvers while occasionally referencing the need to keep me "on a short leash" after my foray into the warehouse.
But the longer the evening went on, the more the professional facade cracked.
"Why me, Mr. Lodge?" I asked finally, setting down my fork. "You have an entire security team. Why hand your deepest secrets to the one person who just came into your life, and openly despises you?"
He sipped his wine, his gaze intense. He wasn't smiling now. "Because integrity is a myth, Vi. Everyone operates on self-interest. My security team operates on money. You, however, operate on hatred and ambition. You hate me enough to want to expose me, and you're ambitious enough to know you need my money to do it."
"And that makes me more trustworthy?"
"Infinitely," he said simply. "It makes you predictable. My life is built on anticipating every possible angle, every plot twist. But you... you're a new character in my novel, Vi. You're the one thing I didn't write, the unscripted obsession. I need to figure out your motivation, your vulnerability. And the fastest way to do that is to keep you close."
He leaned forward, his voice low and intimate. "I'm not taking you out to ensure your behavior, Vi. I'm taking you out to study you. To understand why you don't run, and why I find that so damn fascinating."
The intimacy of the confession—the casual way he admitted his obsession…left me breathless. He wasn't seducing me…he was dissecting me.
"You're a sociopath," I whispered.
"I write romance, Vi. That is, by definition, a sociopathic endeavor," he countered, a flash of genuine humor in his eyes. "Now, tell me what you found in the East Asian shipping files that Simon missed."
I told him all he needed to know and I somehow still managed to enjoy my prison dinner.
He dropped me off an hour later, the black SUV pulling silently to my curb. He didn't offer to walk me in, didn't touch me, and simply delivered a final, cold order: "8:00 AM tomorrow. Don't be late. And wear the dress."
I unlocked the door to find Angela already curled up on the couch, two wine glasses waiting.
"Don't say anything," I preempted, peeling off the beautiful, imprisoning dress. "I have to get this expensive hypocrisy off my body."
I recounted the evening to Angela—the warehouse, the anti-trust plot, and his final, chilling admission that he was studying me.
"He told me he's obsessed with me because I hate him and I'm the only thing he can't control," I said, collapsing onto the couch in my pajamas.
Angela took a long, thoughtful sip of wine. "Viola, listen to yourself. You described a man who owns a criminal empire, forces you into a dress he chose, saves you from his own trap, admits he's compelled by your hatred, and says you're the only person who can keep his life exciting."
She leaned in, her eyes wide. "He didn't take you out to control you. He took you out because you are his kink. You are the fierce, defiant heroine of his novels…in real life. And you're wearing his brand of defiance. This is not about business, Vi. It's twisted, sure, but he has a thing for you!"
I stared at her, utterly horrified. "That's disgusting. He's a monster."
"Yeah, but monsters get lonely, and they don't date cute lawyers. They obsess over the one woman who looks them in the eye and tells them they're a sociopath."
Kyle's POV
I dismissed the driver the moment I reached the penthouse garage. Marshall was already there, leaning against the fireplace in the living room, a highball glass in hand, chatting easily with two women I barely remembered meeting at a charity gala last month. They were purely decorative, Marshall's idea of unwinding.
"You're back! And you made good time," Marshall said, gesturing to the scene. "Meet Jenna and Chloe. Jenna, darling, come meet the man who's too busy saving the world to have a social life."
Jenna, a striking blonde in a low-cut velvet dress, immediately detached herself from Marshall's side and glided over to me. She was beautiful, professionally cheerful, and exuded the expensive scent of vanilla. She nestled comfortably onto my lap.
I took the glass of scotch Marshall offered me.
"Kyle, you're so intense," Jenna murmured, trailing a perfectly manicured nail across my jaw. "You look like you're plotting world domination."
I wish it was Viola. The thought was sharp, immediate, and unwelcome. I took a long drink of the scotch. Jenna's perfume, once pleasant, now seemed cheap and cloying, overwhelming the subtle scent of leather and fireplace smoke. Her expensive velvet dress, which had seemed sophisticated an hour ago, now looked cheap and tawdry. Too much cleavage. No mystery.
I kept my hand on her waist, maintaining the necessary level of engagement, but my mind was stuck in the sterile elegance of The White Glove. I was reviewing Viola's analysis of Simon Vance. I was picturing her in the emerald-green dress, her blue eyes blazing across the linen. She was a woman who offered no easy access, no simple rewards.
Jenna sighed, mistaking my stillness for passion. "You are just so deliciously dark, Kyle."
I flinched internally. Dark? I was a complicated man running an illegal logistics empire, and this woman reduced my existence to a tired, unscripted cliché. Viola had called me a sociopath…Jenna called me dark. Only one of them was engaging my intellect.
"Jenna, thank you," I said, gently but firmly setting her off my lap. "But I think Marshall and Chloe are ready to head out."
Marshall frowned, sensing the sudden shift. "We were just getting started, Kyle. Jenna was hoping to stay."
I met Jenna's disappointed gaze. "I'm afraid not. I've had a long day dealing with corporate integrity, and I need silence to plot my next book. Marshall, the driver will take you all back."
I picked up the three abandoned glasses and carried them to the bar. As Marshall ushered the bewildered women toward the elevator, Jenna looked back at me, hurt and confused.
"I thought... you seemed to like the dress," she whispered.
I didn't turn around. "Looks tacky. Good night."
The elevator doors hissed shut, leaving the penthouse quiet again. I finished my scotch in one clean gulp. I wasn't cold. I wasn't tired. I was simply empty. My world was built on meticulously crafted, predictable facades. Viola, and the exhilarating chaos she brought, was the only thing that felt worth my time…and real.