Viola's POV
I stood in the kitchen, the phone still clutched in my hand, the dial tone a buzzing accusation in the silence. The smooth, intimate sound of that woman's voice—Hello? Who is this?—rang in my ears, chilling me more effectively than the cold ice of the rink had that morning.
I slowly lowered the phone, the sudden, sharp pain of betrayal cutting through the mild disappointment I'd expected from the date with Trevor. I hadn't wanted Trevor, but I had wanted Kyle. I had wanted the intense, dangerous focus that had been directed solely at me all day.
I had read the entire day wrong.
The ice rink, the genuine, unscripted laughter, the shared exhilaration of skating together, the unsettling compliment on the baby blue dress—all of it had been a calculated performance. A way to lower my guard, to make me feel uniquely seen and valued, only for him to immediately retreat to a familiar comfort: a compliant, disposable woman.
He's a villain, but a very, very handsome villain... My own drunken words echoed back, mocking me. The villain didn't have a sudden change of heart…he just took a break from the script.
I walked into the living room, my gaze falling on the twin vases sitting on the console table. The large, ridiculous bouquet of pink roses and the smaller, more refined arrangement of blue lilies—the rare, expensive flowers he had chosen specifically to acknowledge my defiance.
I stared at the lilies, the perfect, sky-blue petals now looking like a cheap, sickening trick.
"Why?" I whispered, the question directed at the silent room, the empty air. "Why would you get the blue flowers if it meant nothing?"
I picked up the vase holding the lilies. They were beautiful, exquisite—a tangible symbol of the unique attention I thought I had earned. I thought they were an acknowledgment of the woman he saw beneath the armor, the woman he had laughed with.
But the woman on the phone proved they were just another prop. A high-end tool of seduction and distraction, used to keep the "asset" entertained until he could trade her for something easier. He didn't care about my softness or my defiance; he cared about the challenge, and once the challenge was met (or too emotionally complicated), he discarded it for simple physical release.
The gold dress I was still wearing, the one I had chosen to celebrate my small victory and femininity, suddenly felt heavy and ridiculous.
"He doesn't see women, Ange," I said, my voice cold and hollow, confirming the fear I had expressed last night. "He only sees commodities. I was the commodity he couldn't acquire until he realised he could just substitute me for one he could."
I put the lilies down, the vase clattering slightly on the wood. The betrayal wasn't about intimacy…it was about the intellectual honesty I thought we had established. He had treated the ice rink, the laughter, and the blue lilies as a fleeting, fun exercise, while for me, it had felt like a dangerous, profound breach of my armor.
I walked to my room, stripped off the gold dress, and pulled on the most severe, shapeless pajamas I owned. The war wasn't over, but the rules had just changed. I was no longer fighting for my freedom…I was fighting to prove I was smarter than his cynical, disgusting game.
I looked at my phone. I deleted Trevor's number. I didn't have time for men at all.
The next day is a beautiful Sunday and I just knew I needed to get out of the apartment with the girls.
The wine tasting was a welcome balm after the emotional chaos of the week. The event was held in a stunning botanical garden—all lush green ferns, blooming roses, and quiet, sun-dappled paths. The air was soft, carrying the scent of rich earth and fermenting grapes.
I was with Angela and Gail, and the dynamic felt wonderfully normal. Gail, freed from the crushing anxiety of Lodge's office, was funny and surprisingly witty. Our forced collaboration on the office redesign and the subsequent criminal intelligence gathering had somehow forged a genuine friendship.
"You know, for a woman who spends her day hiding evidence of tax fraud, you've got excellent taste in Pinot," Gail commented, swirling a glass of deep burgundy wine.
"It's about contrast, Gail," I replied, taking a slow sip. "The sharper the contrast, the more effective the operation. And after seeing that baby blue dress, I think Kyle Lodge understands contrast better than anyone."
Angela, who had been listening with an amused smirk, chimed in, "The man spent his entire Saturday morning renting an ice rink and then immediately called a disposable woman. He's a study in self-sabotage, but at least he gifted us Gail."
Gail blushed slightly. "Well, I appreciate the promotion. And the ability to shop for black glass desks. But honestly, Viola, I think he gave you the lilies because he likes you."
"He wants control," I corrected, the memory of the woman's voice still stinging. "The flowers are an acknowledgment of the challenge, not affection. And I won't let myself confuse the two again."
The afternoon faded into quiet conversation and laughter. The easy camaraderie was a necessary reset, reminding me that there was a world outside of Lodge's psychological games.
I arrived back at the apartment in the early evening, the wine buzzing pleasantly in my system. I quickly pulled out my laptop, my earlier resolve returning. Tomorrow was Monday, and the war was still on.
I poured a glass of the same Pinot Noir I'd enjoyed at the garden. Settling onto the sofa, I opened the files on the Larsen Acquisition counter-strike.
I sipped the wine, the complex, dry flavor a familiar comfort. It was time to focus. Lodge might have used a disposable woman to prove his point, but I was going to use his Larsen victory to prove mine. I would be sharp, focused, and utterly professional. He would get the ruthless asset he paid for, and nothing more.
Kyle's POV
My Sunday started with the visceral release of kickboxing with Marshall. The physical exertion was necessary to purge the restless energy and the frustration of the previous night. The only thing that matched the impact of my punches was the image of Viola in the blue dress.
"You're hitting the bag like it owes you money, Kyle," Marshall grunted, adjusting his gloves.
"It does," I replied, landing a hard roundhouse kick. "It owes me emotional stability. That little she-devil needs to be managed before she messes up my mind completely."
Later, I met with my publicist, Sarah, in my office. She laid out the schedule for my next book promotion: a week-long, high-profile book tour in London starting tomorrow—Monday.
"The jet leaves at 10:00 AM," Sarah confirmed, reviewing the itinerary. "Seven cities, seven interviews, seven chances to sell the lie that you're an empathetic genius."
I looked at the flight manifest. A week away from New York. A week away from Viola. A week of forced distance from the center of my obsession.
"Adjust the manifest," I commanded. "Add Viola."
Sarah blinked. "Your Head of Editorial Integrity? Sir, this is a media tour, not a business trip."
"It is a business trip," I stated, leaning forward. "We just successfully navigated a major anti-trust threat that could have sunk the East Asian market. She is the Head of Editorial Integrity. She needs to be on hand to ensure all legal and ethical considerations are managed globally."
I continued before she could protest. "Ensure she has a room at every five-star hotel we'll be staying at. She is to have the same level of access and perks as I do. And give her a sponsored corporate card, separate from her expense account. A card she can use to splurge on whatever she wants. Tell her it's a 'global security bonus.'"
I needed the separation, but I couldn't bear to lose the tether. The tour was a necessary disruption, but her presence was a necessary distraction. The card was a psychological tool—a way to see what she valued when given unlimited, non-work-related spending power. And the shared proximity of the trip was a new form of containment.
"Understood, Mr. Lodge," Sarah said, making the note. "Viola added, full access. I'll have the corporate card pre-loaded."
I spent the rest of the evening at the penthouse, not working on files, but on my manuscript. I felt the familiar pull of obsession, but I fought it with a calculated risk.
I walked to the bar and poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir. I knew this wine. It was a constant, predictable purchase on Viola's monitored personal expense account.
I took a slow sip. The flavor was dry, complex, earthy—a beautiful mix of structure and flavor. It was not a sweet, simple wine. It demanded attention.
It demands attention. Just like her.
I sat back, sipping the wine, trying to find the connection—the comfort she derived from this particular complexity. I wanted to enter her sensory world, to understand the small, safe routines she clung to. I wanted to write her character with complete authenticity.
I opened my laptop and started typing a new scene—a quiet, intimate moment where the hero studies the heroine's routines, not to exploit them, but to understand the beautiful, structured mind beneath the armor. A necessary concession to the truth I was trying so hard to deny.