Kyle's POV
The ice rink was a disaster of command and control, yet the most exhilarating two hours I'd experienced all year. The sight of Viola's uninhibited laughter and the graceful, unarmored movements of her body had broken my focus completely. I had gone in seeking an edge… but I left feeling exposed.
We sat in the SUV, the discarded skates and the blue lilies a testament to the morning's chaos. She was quiet now, energised but thoughtful.
"Your mandatory supervision is concluded, Mr. Lodge," she said, pulling a damp curl away from her forehead. "I assume we now return to the office to prepare for Monday?"
"No," I replied instantly, making a snap decision that contradicted my entire structured routine. "My entire schedule for the day is cleared. I want lunch."
I instructed the driver to take us to a quiet, discreet bistro known for its excellent seafood and total privacy. During the lunch, the conversation stayed away from the high-stakes games of the office. She talked about film—the classics, the complex narratives, the flawed heroines. She was opinionated, witty, and entirely captivating.
But it was her softness that terrified me. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the unguarded ease of her movements now that the armor of the suit was gone—it was a vulnerability I found myself wanting to protect, not exploit. My obsession was shifting from her defiance to her humanity, and that was a weakness I couldn't afford.
If I fall for her softness, I lose my ruthlessness. I lose the core of my empire.
"Viola," I said, setting down my glass of water. "The lunch is excellent, but your Friday night was interrupted due to my excessive need for control."
She looked at me, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "It was mandatory, Mr. Lodge. We moved past it."
"No. I moved past it. You did not," I corrected. "I hate unnecessary disruption to personal life, even if I initiate it. I believe a woman who works as hard as you do deserves the courtesy of a properly scheduled social engagement. That is an issue of Editorial Integrity."
I pulled out my phone. "The supervision is over. I'm taking you home. And I'm going to correct my mistake."
Back in the SUV, I called Marshall.
"Marshall, I need you to orchestrate an unscripted social event," I commanded, my voice low and serious. "Cancel whatever pathetic Saturday evening plans Trevor the paralegal has. Send him a premium gift certificate to his favorite restaurant, and then instruct him to show up at Viola's apartment tonight at 7:30 PM. It must look spontaneous, Marshall. No direct contact with Viola. Make the arrangements through the cousin of his former law school roommate, if necessary. I want total surprise."
Marshall let out a weary groan. "You stole her date, Kyle, and now you're playing Cupid for the man you hate. This is truly deranged."
"It's about compartmentalisation, Marshall," I snapped, though I knew he was right. "I need her to have a life she doesn't hate. It will make her more effective when she's working for me. And I need to remind myself that she belongs with someone uncomplicated. Now, make it happen. I want a confirmed delivery by 7:35 PM."
I dropped Viola off, giving her no explanation for the sudden end to the day. The fear of what I was starting to feel was a cold knot in my stomach. Putting her back with Trevor was an act of emotional self-preservation.
Viola's POV
I was home, sitting on my couch in my workout clothes, still buzzing from the strange intimacy of the ice rink, when the doorbell rang at 7:30 PM.
"Pizza?" I called to Angela, who was in the kitchen.
But when I opened the door, it wasn't a delivery man. It was Trevor, looking slightly nervous but incredibly sweet, holding a single, modest red rose.
"Viola? I know this is crazy, but I just had this sudden urge to see you," he said, holding up the rose. "I managed to grab an 8:30 PM reservation at that Italian place. I figured, if the sociopath is busy, the paralegal could step up. What do you say?"
I was stunned. I looked past him into the living room. The blue lilies sat prominently on the coffee table, next to the gigantic, absurd bouquet of pink roses. He clearly noticed them but didn't comment. Lodge must have orchestrated this.
But the gesture, regardless of the puppet master, was lovely. It was an escape.
"Trevor, yes," I said, a genuine smile breaking through the day's tension. "Just give me an hour."
He settled onto the couch, pulling out a book while I scrambled to get ready. I bypassed the black dress and the blue dress entirely, choosing a stunning, elegant gold silk sheath. It was flattering and felt like pure celebration.
The Italian restaurant was charming, and Trevor was a perfect gentleman—attentive, engaging, and genuinely interested in my thoughts on contract law. It was an objective, wonderful evening.
But something was profoundly wrong.
As Trevor recounted a funny story about a court case, I found myself zoning out, my mind drifting back to the empty, echoing sound of the ice rink. I kept replaying Kyle's genuine laughter in my head—loud, unscripted, and entirely human.
I looked at Trevor. He was handsome, kind, and safe. He was the perfect, uncomplicated choice. Yet, all I could hear was the raw, challenging voice of the man.
I suddenly felt a crushing wave of disappointment. I was sitting with what's supposed to be the right man, but I realised I was craving the one who bought me my favourite flowers without me telling him. This felt utterly flat.
"Viola?" Trevor asked, noticing my distraction. "Everything okay?"
"I... I'm so sorry, Trevor," I said, looking at my watch. "I've had a truly insane week, and Angela just texted me a minor emergency. I need to get back. It's nothing huge, but... could we call it a night?"
His smile faltered, but he immediately nodded. "Of course. Work comes first."
I was home by 9:30 PM. I walked straight past Angela, who was watching me with an expectant look.
"Don't say it," I whispered, grabbing my phone.
I walked to the kitchen and dialed Kyle Lodge's private number. I needed to hear his voice—the sharp, dangerous clarity of it. I needed to remind myself who the villain was.
It rang once.
"Hello?" a woman's voice answered. It was smooth, seductive, and totally unfamiliar. "Who is this?"
I froze, the blood draining from my face. A woman. An immediate replacement. The denial shattered completely.
I hung up without saying a word.
Kyle's POV
I was stretched out on my penthouse couch, half-watching a muted documentary on my massive screen. The quiet satisfaction of orchestrating Viola's surprise date had faded, replaced by the gnawing anxiety of not knowing the outcome. I needed to hear her report on Trevor.
I had made a strategic error: I had created a vacuum. I needed to fill the space she had occupied in my mind. I had made a call shortly after dropping her off.
Jenna, the blonde from the other night, was currently attempting to be seductive on the sofa beside me, trailing those long, perfumed fingers across my chest.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the pleasant physicality of the moment, the simple, expected warmth of a woman's body. But all I saw was a flash of baby blue silk, and all I smelled was the faint, lingering scent of her perfume. Jenna's gardenia perfume was suddenly overpowering, crass, and artificial.
This is disgusting. The thought was cold and immediate. Jenna was soft, compliant, and everything I used to think I wanted. But now, she was just a placeholder—an ugly, cheap distraction from the brilliant woman who actively hated me.
Jenna leaned down, her lips finding my neck. I felt a profound sense of revulsion.
"Wait," I muttered, pushing her gently away, needing distance. "I need a refill."
I walked to the bar, my back to her, trying to regain my composure. I was addicted to chaos; comfort was repulsive.
Unless it's her.
When I turned back, Jenna had discarded her tacky dress. She was posed, waiting.
The sight of her, ready and available, was like a splash of cold water. Desperate. Cheap. It was the antithesis of the hard-won, beautiful defiance of Viola.
"Get dressed, Jenna," I ordered, my voice flat.
Jenna frowned, confused. "Kyle?"
"Get dressed," I repeated, walking toward her, my gaze hard. "I don't need company tonight. And honestly, Jenna, that dress was tacky, but lying half-naked on my sofa hoping for a handout is just pathetic. Leave."
She scrambled, shocked and humiliated, pulling the dress back on. I watched her go, waiting for the elevator doors to close on her embarrassment.
The moment she was gone, I felt the sharp, terrible ache of Yearning. It wasn't lust…it was a profound, agonising need for a specific, difficult woman.
I walked to my writing desk and slammed open my laptop:
~She is gone. I sent her away. I sent her back to the easy, simple life because she deserves to be with a man she doesn't hate. But the sheer agony of wanting her…the sharp, exquisite pain of knowing I can't have her…is making me physically ill.
I see her face. I hear her laugh. And I know the adventures, the shared jokes, the forced intimacy... it meant nothing to her. She will wake up tomorrow and forget the ice rink. But I will not forget the blue dress. I will never forget.~
How do I face her on Monday after what I just wrote? For the first time… I actually believe what I wrote about a woman.
Her coming into my life was definitely no coincidence…
I needed her.