It's now Monday morning.
The espresso tasted like ash. It was 7:45 AM, and the anticipation of seeing Viola was a sharp, unpleasant knot of anxiety—an emotion entirely foreign to my carefully ordered existence. I hadn't felt this rattled since my first major acquisition went hostile. And this time, the hostility was purely psychological.
I put down the cup. Marshall was waiting by the door, briefcase in hand, looking like a man bracing for a thunderstorm.
"Did you confirm the manifests, Marshall? And the specialised corporate card for Vi?"
"Triple-checked, Kyle. Viola's name is on every booking. The card has a ludicrous limit. She'll get the details when you pick her up," Marshall said, his eyes narrowed in assessment. "Any particular reason why we're bringing the 'Head of Editorial Integrity' on a televised book tour?"
"Exposure," I replied, grabbing my blazer. "She needs to see the scope of the empire she is protecting. And she needs to be kept close."
The real reason, of course, was the gnawing uncertainty about Saturday night. I had sent her back to Trevor, the symbol of normalcy and safety, hoping to extinguish the fire that had ignited between us on the ice rink. I needed to know the experiment had worked. I needed her to be happy with him, so I could stop feeling the possessive ache of wanting her for myself.
Did she kiss him? Did that pathetic paralegal manage to make her laugh the way I did?
The thoughts were infuriatingly unscripted, pure, childish jealousy. I hated it.
The black SUV pulled up to her curb at precisely 8:00 AM. I was in the back, forcing myself to look at a London market analysis report, but my gaze was fixed on the rearview mirror.
She emerged, dressed in a formidable, severe gray suit—her professional armor was back, heavier and sharper than ever. Her expression was utterly composed, betraying nothing of the chaos of the weekend. No mention of the drunken phone call, the blue dress, the ice rink, or the cancelled date that I had reinstated. She looked like a woman who had meticulously erased the past 48 hours.
She slid into the seat beside me. The air instantly filled with tension—a thick, unspoken current that made the silence louder than any argument.
"Good morning, Mr. Lodge," she said, her voice cool and perfectly level.
"Good morning, Vi," I acknowledged. "The itinerary is tight. We're heading straight to the private hangar. The jet departs at 10:00 AM."
I gestured to a packet on the seat. "Inside is your manifest, your itinerary, and a specialised corporate card. It's a 'global security bonus' for handling the Larsen threat. Use it as you see fit."
She picked up the packet, her fingers barely brushing mine. "Understood. I'll review the protocols immediately."
That was it. No questions about the change of location, no thanks for the card, and certainly no mention of Trevor. Her silence was a deliberate, massive wall. It told me one of two things: either the date with the paralegal was a success and she had happily retreated to a life I couldn't touch, or she was furious about something and was now deploying a cold, professional deep-freeze as her ultimate weapon.
I found myself desperately hoping for the latter.
I returned to my market analysis, but the words blurred on the page. The entire drive to the airport was conducted in a profound, heavy silence, broken only by the low hum of the SUV's engine. We were two powerful, solitary figures, tethered together in the back of a black box, each holding back a dangerous reservoir of thoughts: the shocking intimacy of Saturday's laughter, the agonising mystery of Trevor, and the cold, unyielding tension of my emotions towards her.
Viola's POV
The jet awaited. London. A week of enforced proximity. The perfect place for a villain to escalate his psychological warfare.
The black SUV pulled directly onto the tarmac of a private airfield. Towering before us was a sleek, long-range private jet—a silver and black machine that screamed obscene wealth and uncompromising speed.
A week in London…
The reality of the sudden, unannounced trip hit me with a physical force. I had mentally prepared for a Monday of professional combat in my black-glass bunker; instead, I was being whisked across the Atlantic, further entrenching me in Kyle Lodge's world. This wasn't a business trip; it was an act of possessive escalation. He hadn't just cancelled my life; he had relocated it.
We exited the SUV. Kyle Lodge, looking utterly relaxed, gestured toward the jet's stairway. Marshall trailed a respectful distance behind, carrying two identical leather weekender bags—one of which, I knew, contained my clothes.
"Welcome aboard, Vi," Lodge said, his voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of the warmth we had shared on the ice. He was back behind the shield of "Mr. Lodge."
I walked up the stairs, my heels clicking sharply on the metal. The interior of the jet was a study in luxurious minimalism: cream leather seating, polished wood, and soft, indirect lighting. It was a perfectly designed cage.
I settled into the forward-facing seat across from a small, elegant table. Lodge took the seat directly across from me. Marshall slid into a single chair a few feet away, already reaching for the bar.
I pulled the packet out of my briefcase, opened it, and began to review the itinerary and the contents of the specialised corporate card—a shiny, endless tether. My mind was reeling, but my expression was a study in cold, remote professionalism. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing my shock or my fury.
The jet engines roared to life, and we soon felt the powerful surge as we launched into the sky. The silence in the cabin was heavy, the unspoken tension between Lodge and me thick enough to chew on.
I spent the next hour with my eyes fixed on the London itinerary, making meticulous, unnecessary notes. I spoke only when absolutely required.
"Viola," Lodge said, after a prolonged period of silence, "I need an analysis of the UK media laws regarding our new acquisition. Focus on libel."
"I've already highlighted the relevant statutes, Mr. Lodge," I responded, my voice completely devoid of inflection, not looking up. "They are tabbed in the folder on the table."
"Are you satisfied with the 'global security bonus'?" he asked a few minutes later, testing me.
I finally lifted my eyes, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second before dropping it back to the papers. "It is an extremely generous expense account, Mr. Lodge. It will be used efficiently."
I went back to my reading, projecting an aura of total, crushing indifference. I refused to engage in his psychological game. He wanted the sparks, the defiance, the challenge. He wanted to hear the contempt laced with the attraction from the night of the drunk dial. He would get none of it. He would get the ruthless, emotionless asset he paid for.
The strategy was simple: maximum professionalism, minimum humanity. I was a function, not a person.
Kyle's POV
The silence was driving me insane.
I watched Viola behind the facade of reading my acquisition notes. She was a perfect machine—precise, professional, untouchable. Her coldness was a deliberate, powerful weapon, a direct response to reasons only known to her. She wasn't just mad…she was actively, brutally withdrawing her attention.
I had expected rage. I had expected a torrent of questions about the abrupt trip. I had expected a calculated, cold fight. I had not expected this vacuum of emotion.
She had successfully erased the entire weekend. Just like that…it was all gone, locked away behind the impenetrable wall of her composure. The fact that she was only speaking when spoken to, using that utterly sterile, neutral tone, was a direct insult.
I looked over at Marshall, who was nursing a large glass of amber liquid. Marshall caught my eye, raised his glass in a mock salute, and gave me a faint, pitying smile.
He knows.
The thought infuriated me. Marshall had never seen me lose control, yet here I was, sweating over a woman who refused to make eye contact.
"Marshall," I snapped, leaning back in my seat. "Is the flight plan secured?"
"Yes, Kyle," Marshall replied, drawing out my name with deliberate, amused emphasis, using the name only Viola was supposed to use when she was actively furious. "It is secured. We are locked on target."
I glared at him, but he merely took another sip of his drink, his eyes telling me everything: She's winning, big brother.
I focused my gaze back on Viola. She was a fortress I had designed, and now she was turning the weapons on her architect. I had desperately wanted her attention—even her hatred—to confirm my own significance. But this cold, absolute indifference was far worse. It made me feel like the disposable commodity, the insignificant prop in her life.
I spent the next hour seething, my mind churning with the need to break her silence, to demand a reaction—any reaction—that proved I was still a variable in her equation.
The week in London was no longer a strategic business trip. It was a seven-day cage match, and the only prize that mattered was the attention of the woman across the table.