Viola's POV
The clock read 6:00 AM. I didn't need an alarm anymore, because the knot of dread mixed with adrenaline was enough to launch me out of bed. The silk robe from last night lay on the floor, a shimmering reminder of my gilded captivity.
I headed straight for the kitchen, where Angela was already making coffee. She handed me a mug…strong, black, and necessary.
"Good morning, Head of Editorial Integrity," she said, her voice laced with amusement.
"Good morning, Accessory to Corporate Espionage," I shot back, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "The monster didn't call, text, or send a carrier pigeon, so I'm assuming he'll arrive precisely at 8:00 AM to violate my personal space."
My routine had become a ritual of self-defense. I spent twenty minutes on my appearance, transforming back into the sleek, unreadable executive. The black pencil skirt, the crisp white blouse, the black blazer. It was armor. I tied my hair back so tightly it felt like a psychological lift.
As I dressed, Angela, who was scrolling on her phone, gave me her final assessment from last night.
"Look, I'm sticking to my theory. Sociopath or not, he's obsessed," she said, not looking up. "You're the only person who hasn't tried to sleep with him or scam him, and that's confusing his little crime-boss brain. He's not trying to kill you…he's trying to impress you. It's the most twisted dating ritual ever!"
"It's not a dating ritual, Ange," I argued, pulling on my heels. "It's containment. And I will not spend one second analysing his psyche. I will spend every second analysing his network. I need to find the final, undeniable proof."
I grabbed my bag, making sure the flash drive was secured. As I approached the door, I paused. This morning, I was going in with a new piece of information: Lodge's attraction. If it was true, it wasn't a danger… it was an exploit. I could use his twisted interest against him.
I took a final, deep breath. Game face on. I walked toward the front door to wait for the inevitable arrival of my oppressor.
Kyle's POV
I was awake at 5:30 AM, dressed in a custom-tailored charcoal suit before the sun had cleared the Manhattan skyline. I ran two miles on the treadmill, reviewing the latest sales data for the Japanese edition of The Gentleman's Code. Predictable, profitable, boring.
I stood by the vast window, sipping my black coffee. The penthouse felt sterile and empty without the scent of cheap perfume and the headache of forced small talk from last night. All I could think about was the cold, expensive scent of Viola's hair and the sharp, clean lines of her hatred.
I opened my private writing document. The new chapter on The Hostage Muse was already demanding attention.
~He didn't want affection. Affection was fragile, easily broken, and messy. He wanted the challenge, the defiance, the clean, undeniable truth in her eyes that told him she was the only real thing in his carefully constructed life.~
I chuckled quietly to myself. The fictional hero was becoming disturbingly honest.
"Marshall," I called into the intercom. "Bring the car around. We have a Head of Editorial Integrity to collect. And call ahead to that artisanal coffee shop near her address. She takes hers black, no sugar, correct?"
I knew the answer, of course. Marshall, who handled my schedule, confirmed it.
"And Marshall," I added, a slow smile touching my lips. "The office is becoming stale. Have the team clear out every piece of furniture from Viola's new corner office. Every single thing except the desk. Send the instructions to the cleaning crew immediately."
I knew what I was doing. It was an extravagant, inappropriate display of power, disguised as a perk. I wanted to see her reaction when she saw the empty space. Would she panic? Would she buy the cheapest furniture as a passive-aggressive act? Or would she build an environment that reflected her own sharp, challenging mind? I was conducting an experiment.
It was time to collect my muse.
The driver pulled the black SUV up to the curb of Viola's apartment building precisely at 7:58 AM. I sat in the backseat, a leather briefcase open on my lap, though I wasn't reading. I was waiting.
Marshall, ever the logistics expert, emerged from the car with two to-go cups from the expensive, pretentious coffee shop I knew she frequented. He handed one to me and held the other.
At 8:00 AM on the dot, she appeared. She was magnificent, her clothes severe, her posture perfect. She looked ready to argue with the IRS.
I lowered the window as she approached the curb.
"Good morning, Head of Editorial Integrity," I said, my voice smooth. "Punctuality is a virtue. Especially when you're traveling with the man who controls your career trajectory."
Marshall stepped out and held the passenger door open.
"We have your coffee, Viola," Marshall offered, presenting the cup with unnecessary ceremony. "Black, no sugar. Kyle was quite specific."
Viola's blue eyes flickered between the cup and me. The surprise was faint, but I caught it. It was a calculated display of personalised knowledge…a violation of her professional boundaries, disguised as thoughtfulness.
She took the cup. "Thank you, Marshall. That was unnecessary, Mr. Lodge."
"On the contrary, Vi," I countered, leaning slightly toward the open window, my eyes fixed on hers. "It was entirely necessary. I need you running at peak efficiency, and that requires premium fuel. Besides, Marshall was getting lonely. He appreciates the opportunity to play 'errand boy' for his boss's beautiful and highly volatile new asset."
Marshall winced visibly at the phrasing. Viola, however, just tightened her grip on the coffee cup.
"I am an employee, Mr. Lodge, not an asset," she stated, her voice icy.
"Tomato, tomato," I dismissed, a smile playing on my lips. "Now, get in. We need to discuss how you're going to leverage Simon Vance without scaring the poor man into a nervous breakdown."
She gave me one final, withering stare, then slid into the backseat. The scent of her expensive, cool perfume immediately flooded the car. The ritual was complete. She was contained.
Viola's POV
The moment I stepped out of the elevator onto the 30th floor, I knew something was wrong. The air felt charged with fresh varnish, and the staff were all glancing toward the southeast corner with exaggerated expressions of curiosity.
I marched straight to my office. The glass door was standing slightly open. I pushed it open and stopped dead, my jaw slackening in genuine shock.
The room was completely empty.
Every single piece of furniture—the enormous mahogany desk, the guest chairs, the towering file cabinets—was gone. The walls were freshly painted a stark, neutral white. The floor was new, polished hardwood. It was a vast, echoing blank canvas.
My old, much smaller desk—the one I used as an intern—was centered right in the middle of the room, looking utterly pathetic and out of place.
My eyes fell on a pristine white note card propped against my monitor, next to a sleek, metallic credit card.
I walked over and picked up the note. Kyle Lodge's sharp, elegant handwriting stared up at me:
Viola,
Integrity requires a foundation built on your own design. Your old office was furnished with the failures of your predecessor. This is your space now. Build a fortress worthy of the Head of Editorial Integrity.
The card has no limit. The budget is your imagination. I expect full functionality and aesthetic superiority by 5:00 PM. Failure to comply will result in another 2,000-word essay on the philosophical implications of beige office decor.
P.S. The budget is an expense, not a reward. Don't mistake the two.
—K. Lodge
I stared at the note, then at the shiny black corporate card. It was an unprecedented, outrageous, and entirely typical display of his power. He wasn't giving me a gift… he was giving me a test of command. He wanted to see how I would spend his money, and what kind of environment I would create to wage war on his behalf.
I looked at the empty room, then at the glass walls separating me from the rest of the office. He had given me a space to define myself.
I immediately dialed Gail's extension.
"Gail, this is Viola. Cancel all my meetings for the day. I need you to research architectural firms that specialize in minimalist, high-security executive offices. And I need a driver immediately. We are going shopping. Bring your largest notebook. We're building a fortress."
Kyle's POV
I watched the whole performance from my office—the visible shock of the staff, Viola's moment of frozen horror in the doorway, and the deliberate way she read the note. She didn't scream, she didn't call Marshall to complain, and she didn't throw the card across the room. She simply went into action.
I waited five minutes, then called Marshall.
"She's gone," Marshall stated, his voice laced with amusement. "And she took Gail. Gail looks terrified but also incredibly energised. Viola told her to find architects for a 'high-security executive office.'"
"High-security. Of course," I murmured, a smile playing on my lips. "She's not buying furniture… she's building a bunker. That's my girl."
"Your girl?" Marshall choked out.
"My Head of Editorial Integrity," I corrected smoothly, though the slip was telling. "She's defining her territory. I gave her chaos, and she will respond with structure. It's what she does. Check the corporate card frequently, Marshall. I want to know exactly what she is purchasing. This isn't just about office supplies… it's about her priorities."
I returned to my writing document. The new scene was forming perfectly: the heroine, given a blank canvas, choosing to build armor instead of comfort.
I typed rapidly:
~He watched her rebuild the world he had destroyed. She wasn't choosing velvet or silk… she was choosing steel and glass. She was building a fortress, not a home, and the sight of her defiance…her elegant, precise counter-attack…was the most exhilarating form of foreplay he had ever experienced~
I leaned back, satisfied. I had ruined her day, forced her into a compromised position, and demanded she spend my money. And in return, she was providing me with endless material and, soon, a beautifully designed office to house my most valuable asset. The expense was irrelevant. Her response was everything.