Kyle's POV
I woke up Friday morning feeling sharp, focused, and profoundly amused. The chaotic, slurred confession from last night had burned away any remaining vestiges of professional distance. She was hot for the villain, and she hated the businessman. That was the purest data I could ask for.
I sat at my desk, the massive windows of the penthouse reflecting the cool morning light. I opened my manuscript. The dialogue flowed easily, energized by her raw, drunken honesty. I needed to capture the beautiful illogic of her mind.
~He knew the depth of her repulsion, yet he saw the fire in her eyes when she looked at him. She was attracted to his power, not his persona. She hated the gentleman…yet she craved the predator.~
I took a moment to review the security log from the previous night, just for the final confirmation. Her dot hadn't moved. She was safe. The fact that I had checked her location at 2:00 AM bothered me—it was a personal response, not a professional one. I needed to channel that possessiveness back into the work.
My morning was packed with high-level logistics: coordinating the legal team to leverage the tax fraud on Larsen, and prepping for the mid-day book signing event—a televised monstrosity dedicated to selling the lie of my sensitive soul. I had to ensure the facade was pristine for the cameras.
The memory of her voice—"You're a big, fat, f-f-fake"—only fueled my disgust for the performance ahead. I looked in the mirror, adjusting my tie. The charming, gentle smile was practiced, ready for deployment. But the eyes…the eyes were looking forward to 7:00 PM tonight, and the woman who had breached my defenses with a slurred declaration of attraction and hate.
Viola's POV
I woke up with a dry mouth, a pounding headache, and a single, mortifying question: What did I say to Kyle Lodge last night?
Angela, sipping coffee and looking far too cheerful, provided the answer. "You called him a handsome villain and a furniture-smelling sociopath, all while demanding he stop being 'ugly' and telling him you hated it."
I groaned, burying my face in my pillow. "I'm going to be fired. Or worse, he's going to use this against me."
"He's going to use it against you, but not in the way you think," Angela said, tapping my shoulder. "Now, get up. You have a monster to fight. And you need to look professional while you deal with the consequences of your drunken honesty."
My morning routine was performed with a renewed sense of fatalism.
My afternoon was dedicated to coordinating with Vance on the legal maneuvers against Larsen. The work was absorbing, but at 2:30 PM, the atmosphere in the apartment shifted. My new conference console displayed a muted live feed of the "Kyle Lodge: A Gentleman's Code" book signing event at a major New York bookstore.
I pulled the feed up on my tv. There he was: Kyle Lodge, the Gentle Author.
He was sitting at a table piled with copies of his novel, wearing a soft gray sweater and a sincere, earnest expression. He leaned forward, listening intently as a middle-aged woman tearfully confessed that his book had saved her marriage. He reached out and gently squeezed her hand, his expression radiating compassion and quiet humility.
KYLE LODGE (on screen, voice soft): "That is the greatest gift you could give me. Love is about vulnerability, about trust, and about showing up. I just try to write what's true."
I leaned back in my couch, a wave of profound disgust washing over me. The camera focused on his profile: the strong jawline, the intense eyes, the expression of pure, empathetic honesty.
"Liar," I muttered, staring at the screen. The contrast between the man on the screen—the writer of devotion, the soft-spoken source of comfort—and the man in the corner office—the criminal mastermind who trafficked in threats and contempt—was nauseating. He wasn't just faking compassion…he was performing his own humanity. It was the purest embodiment of his fraudulent existence.
I abruptly muted the feed. I had to stop watching. The lie was too potent, and the man behind the lie was too dangerous.
At 4:00 PM, my door opened, and Gail—looking flustered and bewildered—carried in an enormous bouquet of pink roses and baby's breath. The colors were soft and feminine.
"Viola, these are for you," Gail whispered, depositing the monstrosity on my kitchen counter. "They're... lovely. And this envelope was attached."
I picked up the small, expensive cream-colored envelope. The card inside contained Lodge's elegant, demanding script:
The Head of Editorial Integrity needs a proper uniform for mandatory supervision. Tonight, you wear black. Find something that reflects your strength and your undeniable sharpness.
Use the card wisely. And do not, under any circumstances, try to sneak in a 'personal' item that contradicts the mission I'm giving you.
—K. Lodge
I threw the card back onto the counter. He wasn't just dictating my attire; he was dictating my color palette, turning my choice into an extension of his will. He was paying for the performance he demanded.
"Gail," I said, pointing to the roses. "We're going shopping."
I spent the next hour in a high-end designer district, the unlimited black card burning a hole in my wallet. I selected a beautiful, sharp black column gown—exactly the sophisticated, ruthless look he would expect. I bought diamond stud earrings and sleek, silver accessories. I followed the rules precisely.
Until the very end.
I was walking past a small ice cream parlor, utterly exhausted, when I had a moment of pure rebellion. I marched inside and bought the largest, most expensive waffle cone covered in sprinkles and caramel. I paid for it with the Lodge corporate card. Let him track that, you condescending monster.
I finished the cone before the driver could pull up, leaving only a satisfied, sticky mess on my hands.
Back at the apartment, I laid out the black dress. It was stunning. It was exactly what he wanted.
But as I applied the final touches of makeup, my gaze fell on the other dress hanging in my closet. It was a beautiful, deeply feminine baby blue silk sheath dress. It was soft, it flowed elegantly, and it made my body look curved, vibrant, and entirely not like a ruthless corporate assassin. It was feminine, eye-catching, and entirely unapproved.
He wants black. He wants control. He wants my uniform to reflect his narrative.
I picked up the baby blue dress. It was a risk—a flagrant act of defiance designed not to annoy him, but to fundamentally alter the dynamic of the evening. I wasn't just ignoring his instructions; I was wearing the antithesis of his expectations. I was choosing vulnerability over armor.
I slipped it on. The silk felt cool and luxurious against my skin. It was the color of a clear morning sky, and it announced that I was a woman who was tired of wearing black. I pinned the baby's breath—stolen from the ridiculous bouquet—into my hair.
Let him study this new character.
Kyle's POV
The black SUV pulled up to Viola's apartment at 6:58 PM. I was sitting in the back, the file on Larsen Acquisitions open, pretending to be fully immersed in business. But I was reviewing the last corporate card purchase: Ice Cream Palace, $18.50. I smiled. A tiny, pointless act of rebellion. Predictable, but charming.
The door opened, and she stepped in.
I was prepared for the severe black column dress. I was prepared for the sharp angles and the cold confidence. I was prepared for the professional distance.
I was not prepared for the baby blue silk dress.
It hit me like a physical shock. The color was soft, vibrant, and utterly wrong. It was defiant femininity. The dress was cut to emphasize the beautiful, sharp curves of her body—her waist, the gentle slope of her hips, the bare, elegant line of her neck. She wasn't armored; she was presented. The tiny pins of baby's breath in her dark hair were a small, infuriating wink of defiance.
My throat suddenly felt tight. She looked exactly like the kind of woman I would make up in a novel—the impossible, dazzling muse who refused the expected script. She was breathtaking.
"You're late, Vi," I managed, my voice rougher than intended.
"No, Mr. Lodge," she countered, her voice cool, sliding into the seat. "It is precisely 7:00 PM. And I am wearing my best dress for this mandatory supervision."
I didn't comment on the color. I didn't comment on the dress. I couldn't. The sheer audacity of the choice had rendered my prepared dialogue meaningless.
The Belvedere was perfect: dark, intimate, and designed for discretion. We were seated in a secluded booth draped in heavy velvet. The single rose on the table seemed pathetic next to the woman sitting across from me.
I ordered the wine—a powerful, complex Bordeaux—and handed her a clean copy of the Larsen file.
"The work is exceptional, Vi," I began, my voice purely professional, forcing myself to look at the papers, not the shocking blue fabric. "You found the tax fraud. Now we plan the extraction."
We spent the next hour in a tense, intimate dance of corporate strategy. She was brilliant, articulating the next steps with ruthless clarity. Her mind, as always, was a weapon.
VIOLA: "We hit them with a sealed criminal complaint, simultaneously with the injunction withdrawal. Larsen needs to feel the fear of prison, not just financial ruin. We need to scare the CEO into thinking he needs to disappear."
She was utterly focused on the task, but every time she shifted, the blue silk caught the light, distracting me. The air was thick with the scent of her perfume and the unspoken electricity of my gaze. I was studying her, just as I'd promised, but not for tactical flaws. I was studying her beauty.
Her cheekbones are sharper than her language. The curve of her neck is a distraction. She chose blue, the color of trust, to signify her utter contempt.
"You're not eating, Mr. Lodge," she observed, finally setting down her fork. "Is the mandatory supervision too exhausting?"
I looked up, meeting her challenging blue eyes. "I'm distracted, Vi. Last night, you told me I was hot. Now you are wearing the most distracting, inappropriate dress you could possibly find. You are actively trying to sabotage the mission."
She smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of her lips. "I am trying to remind you, Kyle, that I control the variables you think you've contained. You wanted to study me. Well, I'm the textbook. And I am not wearing black."
I leaned forward, the noise of the restaurant fading away entirely. "And the conclusion of your study, Vi? What is my main vulnerability?"
She didn't hesitate. "Your arrogance. And the fact that for all your money and control, you desperately crave something real. You crave the truth I screamed at you last night."
I reached across the table, my hand closing around the cool glass of her wine goblet. I didn't touch her, but the proximity of my hand was a deliberate invasion of her space.
"You're right," I admitted, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "I crave the truth. And Vi, you look spectacular in blue."
It was the first genuine compliment I'd given her. Her sharp, defiant expression wavered, replaced by a flicker of surprise and a faint blush. I watched the reaction—the small, unscripted moment of vulnerability I had been searching for all night.
She is magnificent. And she is mine to control. The conviction was absolute.
The drive home was silent. When the car stopped at her curb, I simply leaned over, reached into the backseat pocket, and pulled out the empty, silver paper bag that had held the black dress she hadn't worn.
"You forgot your prop," I said, handing her the empty bag. "But keep the dress. And be ready for the debrief tomorrow morning. 8:00 AM."
I didn't wait for her to exit. I simply watched the blue silk slide out of the car and disappear into the night. My chest felt tight, energised by the complicated victory of the evening. She was challenging me at every turn, and I had never felt more alive.