Viola's POV
The drive home was worse than the dinner. The Obsidian Room had at least offered the distraction of Mr. Thorne's booming voice and the necessity of my performance. Now, there was just the suffocating silence of the black sedan and Kyle Lodge's presence beside me.
He hadn't stopped working since we left the restaurant, the blue light of his tablet casting cold highlights on his sharp features. My leg still tingled faintly where his hand had rested, a deeply unpleasant sensation that left me feeling dirty and violated. I couldn't move too far to the side—the confines of the car made sure of that.
"The publisher was quite pleased," I managed, breaking the silence with a purely professional tone, just to prove I wasn't cowering.
He didn't look up. "Of course, he was. I am a machine designed to generate millions. Your little stunt only confirmed the 'troubled genius' narrative. You should be happy… your impromptu performance just sealed your promotion."
"I am neither troubled nor happy about being forced to participate in your deceit, Mr. Lodge. And I accepted the promotion under duress."
He finally lowered the tablet, turning his head slowly toward me. "And yet, you performed beautifully. You didn't flinch when I touched you, Vi. You didn't scream when I threatened your life. You chose the paycheck and the future. That's not coercion…that's called choice."
His lips curled into a half-smile that was completely devoid of warmth. "You see, for all your bravado, you're exactly like everyone else. You can be bought, or at least, rented. The only difference is, you hate me for it."
"I don't hate you because you're rich," I countered, my voice tight. "I hate you because you're a liar and a hypocrite who preys on people, and now you think you can control me because you know my roommate's name."
His smile disappeared. He reached out, not touching me, but lightly tapping the glass divider separating us from the driver.
"Address?" he asked the driver, his voice a low command.
The driver stated my address.
"Good." Kyle turned back to me, the air in the car suddenly electric with danger. "Consider this your orientation, Viola. I didn't ask for your address because I needed the GPS. I asked for it because I needed you to understand that I know where you sleep. Do your job, stay quiet, and you can buy a nicer apartment for yourself and Angela. Cross me, and all of this—" he gestured dismissively to the leather and chrome surrounding us—"will disappear. Understand?"
I met his gaze, my blue eyes fixed on his. I didn't dare nod, but I didn't break contact either. "Perfectly, sir."
The car pulled up silently to the curb outside my building.
"Tomorrow, 8:00 AM," he said. "Don't be late. And you are welcome for the promotion."
I didn't reply. I yanked the door open and practically dove out onto the sidewalk, inhaling a huge breath of cool night air, finally free of the gilded cage.
I ran into my apartment.
The lock clicked behind me, and I sagged against the door. I peeled off the black dress, tossing it in a heap.
"You look like you just escaped a bank heist," Angela said, looking up from the couch where she was scrolling through a cooking video. "And why are you hyperventilating?"
"Because," I gasped, heading straight for the wine rack. "I think I just sold my soul to a psychotic crime boss who writes about 'heroic devotion.'"
Ten minutes later, I was nestled on the couch next to Angela, wearing my worn flannel pajamas and fuzzy socks. Two generous glasses of Sauvignon Blanc sat on the coffee table.
"Okay," Angela said, taking a slow sip. "Start from the part where you said 'Ink and Obsidian' and threatened to call the police. And go slow."
I recounted the entire night: the glass office, the chat exchange, the fear, the ridiculous promotion, and the chilling threat in the car.
"He put his hand on my knee, Ange," I finished, shuddering. "In front of the publisher! And he told me he knows where I live just to keep me quiet."
Angela put her wine glass down, her face drawn. "Viola, this is not a job. This is not even normal harassment. This is genuinely dangerous. You have to go to the police."
"No!" I hissed, clutching her arm. "That's exactly what he wants. He's rich enough to bury me. If I go to the police, the best-case scenario is I lose my career, and the worst-case scenario is I end up as 'logistics cleanup.' If I stay, I'm his 'Head of Editorial Integrity.' I'm in the room. I can gather proof."
"Gather proof for who? Viola, you are not some movie vigilante!"
"Maybe I am," I said, taking a defiant sip of wine. "I refuse to let that condescending monster control my future. I'll take his money, I'll take his promotion, and I will be the one who finally exposes the fraud. I hate him, Ange. And that hatred is going to be my armor."
Angela stared at me, then slowly picked up her wine glass. "Well, I guess if you're going to wage war on a crime boss, at least you're wearing your power pajamas." She raised her glass. "To the Head of Editorial Integrity. May you survive the next quarter."
I clinked my glass against hers. "Cheers."
Kyle's POV
My penthouse was dark and silent, the city lights below my window spread out like a captive audience. I wasn't tired. How could I be, when every nerve ending was still humming with the residue of her anger?
I settled into my writing chair, the leather cool beneath my shirt. I wasn't meant to write tonight. I was meant to review the security footage of the raided warehouse. But the file remained unopened.
I opened a new document, the cursor blinking impatiently. I typed the opening line: She didn't know the protocol for hate.
I usually write about devotion…the slow, comfortable, and ultimately predictable growth of affection. But Viola... Viola was chaos. She was a glitch in the elegant code of my life.
I typed rapidly, channeling the raw energy she had left on my doorstep.
I was looking at a fuse. A beautiful, furious filament that was about to ignite everything I had built on careful lies.
It wasn't romance. It was compulsion. It was the thrill of having something completely outside my control…a woman who wouldn't be impressed by the millions, who saw the black heart beating beneath the silk suit. That defiance, that lack of fear, the way her blue eyes refused to drop their challenge even when I cornered her in the car…it was the most compelling thing I had ever encountered.
I should have fired her. I should have made sure she disappeared quietly. But the thought of her silence was unbearable. I needed the noise. I needed the fight.
I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. Marshall called her an accessory. Thorne called her magnetic. I knew the truth: she was a necessary addiction. My literary career was built on a lie…my organisation was built on violence. She was the one honest thing in my world, and she hated me.
And the thought of her waking up, thinking she had bested me, only fueled the fire.
I closed the file, saving the new chapter under the working title: The Hostage Muse.
I looked at the clock. 4:00 AM. Time to get a few hours of sleep before I went to collect my new Head of Editorial Integrity.
Viola's POV
The persistent ringing of my doorbell yanked me out of a dark, dreamless sleep.
"Angela! Get that, please!" I yelled, pulling the pillow over my head. It was 7:45 AM. I had just enough time for a quick shower and a war-paint session before catching the train.
"Viola," Angela said, suddenly standing over me, her face a mixture of confusion and panic. "You need to see this."
I groaned, pushing myself up. Angela stepped aside, revealing the terrifying, immaculate scene outside my open apartment door.
Standing in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe as if he owned the entire apartment complex, was Kyle Lodge.
He was dressed in a sharp, light-gray suit—a different kind of armor than the black from last night, but just as imposing. He was holding a takeaway coffee cup, steam curling around his perfectly composed face. He looked relaxed, amused, and completely out of place.
"Viola," he said, his voice carrying the effortless authority that demanded attention. "I understand you have an important meeting at the office. As the new Head of Editorial Integrity, punctuality is paramount, and I cannot allow you to risk losing the multi-million dollar advance your efforts secured."
He pushed off the doorframe, taking two steps into my apartment hallway.
"Your car service has arrived," he said, gesturing toward the unseen elevator. "And I took the liberty of getting your coffee." He raised the cup slightly. "I believe you prefer it black, like your wardrobe and your soul."
I scrambled off the couch, clutching the flannel pajamas to my chest. He hadn't just arranged a car service…he had come himself. He was here, in my home, violating the one final boundary I had left.
"Mr. Lodge," I stammered, fury instantly overriding my shock. "What the hell are you doing here? You can't just…"
"I can, and I did," he cut in smoothly, a cold triumph in his eyes. "You're on the clock, Viola. The Head of Editorial Integrity travels with the author. Now, get dressed. We have an empire to run."