The moment I got home, and the penthouse elevator doors hissed open, the polished marble felt cold and sterile beneath my feet. The entire space—my fortress, my sanctuary—suddenly seemed too large, too quiet, and utterly hollow. The scent of her perfume, light and defiant, was still in my memory, a jarring contrast to the silence.
I walked straight to the bar and poured a double scotch, but the drink did nothing to quell the internal combustion. I was furious, exhilarated, and entirely consumed by the image of her in that baby blue dress.
She wore blue. It was a slap in the face. A beautiful, arrogant rejection of my command. She didn't just refuse the black dress; she chose the color of innocence and trust, deliberately mocking the criminal context I had imposed on her. And I had liked it. The sheer, magnificent defiance had been more intoxicating than any compliance.
I slammed my hand down on the bar. I was supposed to be the one dictating the pace, controlling the variables. But the truth was, she had taken over the narrative. She had forced me to give her a genuine compliment, and I had left the dinner feeling like the one who had been studied.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Marshall.
"Get your ass over here, Marshall. Now," I barked into the phone, ignoring the fact that it was nearly midnight.
"Kyle? The Larsen file is clean. We won. What the hell is—"
"I don't give a flying shit about Larsen!" I interrupted, my voice rising to a shout. "Just get over here, now!"
Marshall arrived twenty minutes later, looking rumpled and deeply concerned. He walked in to find me by the fireplace, pacing like a caged panther.
"Wtf , Kyle, what the hell is wrong? Did the deal collapse?" Marshall asked, cautiously setting his briefcase down.
I turned on him, my entire body rigid with frustrated energy. "No, the deal is perfect! She is the problem! I told her black, Marshall! Black! The color of ruthless corporate power, the color of our secrets! And the little viper showed up in baby blue silk!"
Marshall blinked, processing the complaint. "Blue? Oh. That's... a very strong passive-aggressive move. Did she at least wear the expensive shoes?"
"She was magnificent!" I screamed, grabbing the heavy scotch glass from the mantel. "She was absolutely breathtaking! She looked like the muse of a poet, not the head of my damn illegal logistics division!"
I hurled the glass across the room. It shattered against the far wall with a violent crash. "WHAT IS SHE DOING TO ME!?"
Marshall didn't flinch. He walked to the bar and calmly poured himself a drink, stepping over the shards of glass.
"She's making you feel something, Kyle. Something you can't control," Marshall said, taking a slow sip. "It's called obsession, you dimwit. She's not just defying your dress code; she's defying your entire emotional structure. You're turned on because she's the only woman in your life who has the balls to risk your wrath over a fashion choice. You want to devour her and fire her simultaneously."
I let out a harsh, involuntary laugh. "It's worse than that, Marshall. I want to fire everyone else and just keep her. And I hated myself for loving the way that damn blue fabric flowed when she moved."
"Well, stop throwing glassware and start plotting, you maniac. What's the next move?" Marshall asked, gesturing toward the mess. "You can't fire her, so you have to contain her."
"I'm not containing her," I decided, finally calming down. The explosion had cleared the air. "I'm escalating. Get the cleanup crew here. And clear my schedule for tomorrow morning. All of it. I need to take her somewhere she can't wear a three-hundred-thousand-dollar mask."
Viola's POV
I was still reeling from the evening, sitting on the couch in my pajamas, while Angela meticulously analysed my account of the dinner. The black dress hung like a limp trophy in the corner, and the baby blue silk was already safely sequestered in my closet.
"He told you you look spectacular in blue," Angela summarised, holding up her fingers. "He got angry, then obsessed, over a color choice. He broke protocol and complimented your body, not your work. And he admitted his main vulnerability is craving 'something real'—which is you, by the way."
"It's psychological manipulation, Ange," I argued stubbornly, swirling the wine in my glass. "He's a romance author. He knows exactly which buttons to push. He wants me to believe I have leverage so I'll stay focused on fighting his enemies."
"Vi, he screams at Marshall and throws furniture when a multi-million-dollar deal goes sideways," Angela countered. "When you defy him in a beautiful dress, he gets quiet, pays you an intimate compliment, and gets so distracted he can barely eat his own mandatory supervision dinner. That's not business. That's infatuation!"
I shook my head, the denial hard and cold. "He writes about devotion, about complex, fierce women. But that's fiction. Kyle Lodge only sees women as commodities—as props for his persona. He doesn't genuinely see me the way he writes about me. He sees a highly effective asset with a challenging aesthetic."
"And you think a highly effective asset gets stalked to a bar with two paralegals named Trevor and Marcus?" Angela challenged gently. "He's trying to rewrite his own ending, Vi, and you're the only pen he trusts. He wants a piece of you, whether it's your mind or your mouth."
"We'll see," I sighed, rubbing my temples. "I have to be ready for his next move. The escalating control is the point."
Kyle's POV
I woke up energized, the remnants of last night's destructive fury channeled into pure, kinetic drive. The penthouse smelled faintly of cleaning fluid and scotch. I needed to burn off the restless energy that Viola had infused into me.
I spent the next hour in my private gym, savagely lifting weights, the metal clanging rhythmically, driving out the last thoughts of Trevor and the blue dress. I needed to re-assert physical control before re-asserting strategic control.
After a cold shower, I consulted my new plot—the plot that involved forcing Viola out of her armor and into a space where her sharp mind couldn't protect her.
I called the driver. "Bring the SUV around. I need a stop at a specialty florist first. Get me a bouquet of blue lilies."
The blue lilies. They were rare, expensive, and a direct acknowledgment of the color she had chosen. A subtle, silent communication that I was paying attention to her rebellion, and I found it captivating.
At 8:00 AM sharp—punctuality was non-negotiable—I stood on the curb outside her apartment, holding the lilies.
Viola appeared, her expression professional, though clearly surprised by the unexpected weekend visit.
"Good morning, Vi," I greeted her, handing her the bouquet. "They match your defiant aesthetic from last night."
She took the lilies, her fingers brushing mine—a brief, electric contact. "Thank you, Mr. Lodge. I was expecting an urgent meeting about the East Asian assets, not flowers."
"The assets are secure for now. But your energy levels are not," I explained, gesturing toward the SUV. "We have an appointment. And before you object, this is mandatory supervision for your emotional well-being after such a taxing week. You can't fight a criminal empire if you're stressed. Get in."
As she slid into the back, I tossed a black sports duffel bag onto the seat beside her.
"I took the liberty of packing you a change of clothes. The dress code is 'uninhibited.' We're going to the rink. I need you energised."
Viola's POV
"The rink," I repeated, staring at the sleek black duffel bag on the seat beside me. "You booked an ice skating rink. For mandatory supervision."
"Correct," Kyle replied from the passenger seat, not looking at me. "I found that your mental acuity increases after bursts of physical activity. Besides, I need to ensure you don't spend your Saturday consorting with any unvetted paralegals."
I clenched my jaw, but the absurdity of the situation—the blue lilies, the duffel bag, the entire forced recreational activity—was too much. He had booked an entire ice rink to surveil me.
We arrived at a downtown rink. It was completely empty. Lodge had clearly paid a small fortune for private access.
"Change quickly," he commanded, leading me to a private locker room.
I emerged five minutes later, wearing the clothes he had packed: black leggings, a simple, fitted gray thermal shirt, and thick socks. They were practical, comfortable, and, I had to admit, flattering. I laced up the rented skates, feeling awkward and off-balance.
When I stepped onto the ice, Kyle was already gliding across the center with an unnerving, practiced ease. He was graceful, powerful, and utterly in control, the very essence of the charming villain.
"Get moving, Vi," he called out, circling me. "You can't plot revenge standing still."
I pushed off, immediately wobbling. I managed two precarious steps before my ankle twisted, sending me lurching forward. I braced for the humiliating impact, but strong, warm hands instantly seized my arms, steadying me.
"Careful, Vi," he murmured, his breath warm near my ear. His touch was firm, professional, yet dangerously intimate. "I need your mind intact. I don't need a Head of Editorial Integrity with a concussion."
He slowly guided me forward, his large hand resting lightly on the small of my back, his presence a constant, electric current. I hated the contact, yet I clung to his arm, terrified of falling.
Then, about ten minutes in, something unexpected happened. I finally managed a clumsy, stable glide across the ice, releasing his arm in a triumphant moment of freedom. He was watching me from the center, a look of profound amusement on his face.
I saw his chest shake, then his shoulders. He threw his head back and let out a sound I had never heard before: a deep, rich, genuine laugh.
It wasn't the practiced, charming chuckle from the book signing. It was uninhibited, loud, and utterly contagious. The sound reverberated across the empty rink.
I stopped skating, watching him laugh—the sound of pure, unscripted joy. The sheer humanity of it was a shock. It broke the carefully constructed image of the ruthless monster, replacing it with a brief, terrifying glimpse of the man beneath the armor. I found myself smiling back, completely disarmed.
"You look ridiculous!" he managed to gasp out, wiping a tear from his eye. "Like a baby gazelle learning to walk!"
"And you look like a synchronised swimming champion!" I retorted, the words coming easily, fueled by the unexpected lightness of the moment.
The contempt was gone. For the first time, the energy between us wasn't hatred or control. It was something closer to play. And in that moment of shared, genuine laughter, I realised…Angela might have been right.