Viola's POV
I spent the next ten minutes of the drive staring straight ahead, my jaw aching from clenching my teeth. He had done it again. Not only had he demanded my attendance for a mandatory dinner, but he had explicitly targeted my date with Trevor. The specificity of his knowledge—knowing I had a "personal engagement" and then linking it to the need to vet "unvetted individuals"—was a terrifying display of surveillance.
He knew about Marcus and Trevor. He knew about my desperate, pathetic attempt at a normal social life. And he had crushed it with the casual swipe of a corporate credit card.
"Understood, Mr. Lodge," I had said, my voice barely a thread. I will cancel my personal engagement.
I didn't speak again until the car stopped at the office. The moment I was alone in the elevator, I pulled out my phone. I needed to act fast, before he could spin a tale about a last-minute flight to Tokyo.
I messaged Trevor first, composing the message with agonising care, trying to sound genuinely apologetic without revealing the criminal-conspiracy truth.
VIOLA (8:08 AM): Trevor, I am SO incredibly sorry, but I have to cancel Friday night. My boss—the infamous one—just dropped an emergency, mandatory dinner on me to handle a major corporate crisis. It's a non-negotiable, all-hands-on-deck situation that only my department can handle. I was really looking forward to it. I'm truly bummed.
I pressed send, feeling a sharp pang of regret. There went my sliver of normalcy.
Next, I messaged Angela. This message was shorter, fueled by pure, white-hot fury.
VIOLA (8:09 AM): He knows about Trevor. He saw my life outside this job, and he cancelled it. Mandatory dinner at The Belvedere tomorrow night. He told me to wear a black dress. I'm not trapped, Ange, I'm being punished.
I walked into my new office—the beautiful, cold, black-glass fortress—and slammed my briefcase onto the desk. The silent room absorbed the sound, but did nothing to absorb my rage. I looked out the window at the city, plotting.
I might be forced to cancel my date, and I might be forced to wear his chosen uniform, but I would not be passive. The Friday night dinner would not be a strategic planning session; it would be my next intelligence operation.
If he wanted to study me, I would give him something to study. I would use the entire dinner to analyse his vulnerabilities. I would use the dress, the expensive food, and his own twisted attention to find the hole in his firewall that Simon Vance couldn't.
My phone vibrated with a reply from Trevor:
TREVOR (8:11 AM): That's a total bummer, Viola. Totally understand—corporate emergencies suck. Tell the sociopath I said hello. Seriously, though, let me know when you resurface. I'm taking you out next week. Promise.
His simple kindness made the situation worse, reminding me exactly what I was sacrificing. I shoved my phone into the desk drawer. The brief moment of normalcy was over.
It was time to focus on Larsen Acquisitions and the monster who controlled my life. I had a long day of corporate espionage and strategic revenge ahead of me.
The day was a relentless, focused blur. The only way to survive Lodge's control was to be better at his game than he was. I spent the morning in my new fortress, my digital command center, coordinating with Simon Vance. Vance, cautious but impressed by my keycard and my immediate grasp of the anti-trust threat, had warmed slightly.
"Lodge wants us to find the pressure point on Larsen Acquisitions," I instructed Vance over a secure line. "They thought they had him cornered legally. We need to find their weakness—something illegal, or at least, something embarrassingly compromising."
Vance was excellent. He quickly pulled up the executive history of Mr. Julian Larsen, the CEO of Larsen Acquisitions.
By mid-afternoon, we had found it: Larsen was funneling corporate funds into a series of shell companies in the Caymans. Not strictly illegal for an acquisition firm, but the funds were routed through a private, non-corporate travel agency in the Midwest—a major red flag for tax evasion and potential money laundering.
"The travel agency is the key," I told Vance. "It's a tiny, family-run operation. They would never handle the volume of money Larsen is routing. Find out who runs it and look for a personal connection to Larsen."
Vance worked his magic. Thirty minutes later, a frantic message popped up on my console: Owner of travel agency is Larsen's estranged cousin. Massive paper trail of transfers labeled 'consulting fees.'
I had my leverage. The kind of leverage that would make Julian Larsen forget all about anti-trust injunctions.
I closed the file, feeling a surge of potent victory. I was beating Lodge's enemies, not for him, but for myself. My survival depended on my success.
Kyle's POV
I watched the clock. 4:00 PM. The corporate card, which had been silent all afternoon, confirmed Viola was still locked down in her new office—my beautiful, custom-designed fortress. Marshall reported zero unscheduled movement.
"She's found something," I stated, walking over to the glass wall to gaze at her office. She was a focused shadow behind the smart glass, bathed in the cool blue light of her monitor.
"How do you know?" Marshall asked, looking baffled.
"Because the quiet is too loud," I explained. "When she's struggling, she argues with Gail. When she's winning, she goes silent. She's closing in on Larsen's weakness."
The thought of her brilliance sent a familiar, addictive rush through me. She was doing exactly what I needed, leveraging her mind to protect my interests. Yet, the thought of her, triumphant and alone in her bunker, made the victory taste flat. The success belonged to both of us, but I was outside the glass, separated by the professional boundaries she insisted on maintaining.
I was contemplating an excuse to enter her office—perhaps feigning an urgent question about the Tokyo hotel linens—when the phone on my desk rang. It was Vance.
"Report," I answered instantly.
"It's done, Mr. Lodge. Viola—I mean, the Head of Editorial Integrity—she found the connection. Larsen is laundering funds through a shell travel agency owned by his cousin. It's a goldmine of tax fraud. It'll bury the anti-trust case instantly." Vance's voice was filled with a mix of awe and relief. "She's incredible, sir."
"I concur," I said, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Thank you, Simon. Keep the files ready."
I hung up and looked at Marshall. "She won. Larsen is neutralised."
I felt the immense professional satisfaction, but it was quickly overshadowed by the need to confront her, to witness the victory in her eyes, and to assert my command over her success.
Viola's POV
It was 5:30 PM. I had just finished compiling the highly incriminating file on Julian Larsen, complete with bank transfer dates and the cousin's signature. I printed the file, secured it in a binder, and stood up. Time to present the victory to the dictator.
I walked the short distance to Lodge's office. Marshall was standing near the door, looking genuinely relieved.
"Mr. Lodge is expecting you, Vi," Marshall said, stepping aside.
I walked into his office, the binder held firmly in my hands. Lodge was standing by the window, scotch glass in hand. He didn't turn around immediately.
"The file on Larsen Acquisitions," I announced, placing the binder on his desk. "Their weakness is not legal…it's criminal. Tax fraud via a cousin's shell company. You can use this to force an immediate withdrawal of the anti-trust injunction and secure a non-disclosure agreement protecting the East Asian assets."
He turned, the evening light illuminating the sharp lines of his face. He walked slowly toward the desk, his eyes fixed on the binder.
"And how did you acquire this information, Vi? Did you use the premium coffee as leverage, or was it the smart glass?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes glinting with amusement and triumph. He wasn't praising my work…he was mocking my methods.
"I used my brain, something your security team apparently lacks," I snapped, my exhaustion and the built-up tension of the day finally boiling over. "And I did it while fielding your impossible demands and dealing with your constant, calculated surveillance. You cancelled my date, you gave me a job that could land me in prison, and you sit here, casually while my life falls apart!"
I slammed my hand down on the desk beside the file.
"I am not a character in your novel, Kyle!" I yelled, the formal 'Mr. Lodge' utterly gone, replaced by his bare name, spat out in pure, unadulterated fury. "I am a person! A person you are using and threatening because you are a pathetic, arrogant--"
I stopped abruptly, my chest heaving. The room went dead silent. Marshall, in the corner, looked like he was contemplating a career change.
I had used his first name. His real name. The ultimate breach of protocol.
Lodge stared at me, his smile utterly gone. His eyes, usually glittering with amusement, were now dark, intense, and shockingly arrested. The formality of the suit, the expensive furniture—it all vanished, leaving only a dangerous, primal energy.
He leaned forward, his hands resting on the desk, his body language entirely focused on the sound of his name on my lips.
"My name," he repeated, his voice barely a rough whisper. "You used my name."
He didn't look angry…he looked fascinated. And…turned on?
"Thank you, Vi," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slow, dangerous smile. "The file is excellent. Now, go home. And be ready at 7:00 PM tomorrow. You can have the whole morning and afternoon off as a reward for your great work."