Kyle's POV
I didn't move for a long moment after the door clicked shut behind Viola. The silence she left behind wasn't sterile…it was electric, humming with the force of her unexpected eruption.
I am not a character in your novel, Kyle!
She had screamed my name. Not "Mr. Lodge," the professional shield, but Kyle. The sound of it, ragged with fury and frustration, had cut through the facade of my command center like a blade. I felt a tremor of something dangerously close to satisfaction. She hadn't broken…she'd combusted. And in that combustion, she gave me the most valuable thing she possessed: a raw, unscripted piece of her truth.
Marshall, ever the cautious observer, coughed discreetly. "I believe that concludes the mole investigation, sir. She seems… stressed."
"Stressed?" I finally stood, walking to the window. "No, Marshall. She's challenged. She just spent a day proving she's smarter than everyone in this building combined, and I rewarded her by cancelling her social life and giving her a dress code. She vented. She used the correct name to do it."
I picked up the scotch glass, draining it. The entire exchange had been a performance, but her slip—her use of my first name—that was a genuine, beautiful crack in the marble. It meant the professional distance, the only thing keeping our relationship in the realm of employment, was dissolving.
"Send the file on Larsen Acquisitions to legal," I instructed Marshall, my mind already racing through the implications of the name. "Have them prepare the formal demand for withdrawal tomorrow morning. The injunction is dead."
"And Viola?" Marshall asked, hesitant. "What about the outburst? Should we... offer a mental hospital trip? Or maybe a disciplinary warning?"
"Absolutely not. Her outburst was a direct consequence of excellent performance. She is to be commended. But Marshall, double-check the security detail for tomorrow night's dinner at The Belvedere. I want an entirely private section. No distractions. And ensure the wine list has several high-end, extremely smooth Bordeaux options."
I needed the environment to be controlled. I needed the setting to be conducive to drawing out more of that raw honesty. I needed to see what else she would break when the professional armor was weakened by alcohol and the intensity of my focus.
I walked to my inner office, the thrill of the upcoming confrontation already sharpening my focus. The novel was writing itself.
Viola's POV
The moment I got home, I ripped off the severe work clothes and threw them into the corner. I needed to decompress, and I needed it badly.
"I need wine, Ange," I called out to my roommate, kicking off my heels. "And I need a movie where the rich, arrogant man gets emotionally eviscerated by the beautiful, smarter woman."
Angela, bless her heart, had already poured a generous glass of Pinot Noir. "Got you covered. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days is queued up. Yellow diamonds, baby."
I settled into the couch in my softest pajamas, nursing the wine and watching Kate Hudson systematically torment Matthew McConaughey. The plot felt disturbingly relevant. By the time the credits rolled, I was on my third glass, feeling the comforting, fuzzy warmth dulling the sharp edges of my fury.
"See, Ange?" I slurred slightly, gesturing dramatically at the screen. "That's what I need to do to Kyle. Make him lose his mind. Make him write an essay on why he's not good enough for me."
Angela laughed. "You kind of did that today, Vi. You screamed his first name. That's practically lighting the yellow diamonds on fire."
I picked up my phone, feeling a dizzy rush of wine-fueled confidence. I am not afraid of him. He thinks he controls the narrative. I need to tell him what the real narrative is.
I scrolled through my contacts. Kyle Lodge.
I hit the call button before Angela could stop me.
It rang twice.
"Hello," I mumbled when he answered.
"Viola," his voice came back, sharp and clean, a stark contrast to my fuzzy state. "What is it? Is there a problem?"
"Y-yeah. Th'problem is you. You're a…you're a big, fat, f-f-fake. Mr. Gentleman Author. Y'know what?" I hiccuped, struggling to form the words. "Y'make me sick, but you're so…so hot when you're being a bastard. It's confusing."
I paused, struggling to re-center my thoughts. "But when you're being so Kyle, you're ugly! Your attitewd is ugly. Like a really, really expensive antique piece of furniture that smells like shit. Y'know?"
I let out a loud, frustrated sigh. "You cancelled my date, Kyle! With Trevor! He's nice. You're not. You're a villain, but a very, very handsome villain, and I hate it." I dissolved into a fit of giggles.
"Go to sleep, Vi," he commanded, his voice suddenly hard. "I'm hanging up now."
He hung up. I stared at the phone, feeling the sudden, dizzying drop of adrenaline. Did I just call my criminal-mastermind boss hot and then he hung first?
"I'm going to be fired, aren't I?" I whispered to Angela.
"Or promoted," she muttered, already pulling a glass of water toward me.
Kyle's POV
I was at my writing desk, scotch half-finished, typing the last lines of the scene where the heroine breaks protocol, when my phone screamed with her contact information.
I answered, instantly alert. Her slurred words hit me like a physical wave of unexpected domestic chaos.
"Hello," she mumbled.
"Viola," I said, my voice sharp. "What is it? Is there a problem?"
I listened to her intoxicated rant—the slurred accusations, the nonsensical insults, the comparison to "a really, really expensive antique piece of furniture that smells like shit." But then the words landed with the precision of a scalpel: "...but you're so—so hot when you're being a bastard. It's confusing."
My focus narrowed. The sheer, intoxicating honesty of the moment rendered me momentarily speechless. She thinks I'm hot.
Then, the worry—the parental, possessive worry I despised in myself—kicked in. I didn't care about the insults…I cared about her safety.
"Viola, where are you?" I demanded, my tone instantly shifting from amusement to command. "Are you alone? Are you safe?"
I quickly opened the Lodge Command App on my secondary monitor, pulling up the GPS feed from the driver's overnight surveillance system. The familiar dot representing her phone was exactly where it should be: stationary, inside her apartment building.
A wave of tension I hadn't realised was there left my body. She was safe. She was simply drunk and venting her complicated feelings toward her boss/enemy/romantic subject into my private line.
I relaxed against the chair. "Go to sleep, Vi," I commanded, allowing a faint thread of amusement back into my voice. "I'm hanging up now."
I waited for the click, then immediately opened my writing file. My heart was beating faster than it had all week.
I typed rapidly, capturing the chaos of the call:
~She wasn't just beautiful…she was a damn whirlwind, capable of tearing down a multi-million-dollar acquisition in the afternoon and screaming her messy, complicated attraction at me by night. She was drunk, she was furious, and she was the most honest, compelling creature he had ever encountered.~
I looked at the blank space in the script where I needed to justify the hero's sudden, illogical shift toward the heroine.
I typed the answer:
~He realized he needed her not in spite of her hostility, but because of it. Her hatred was his devotion, and her chaos was his center.~
I chuckled quietly, editing the last line. She'd called me a villain. She'd called me hot. And she'd done it on my private line.
I finished the scene, closing the file.
"Viola Cage…my beautiful, lethal, addictive poison…you've earned my attention."