Viola's POV
Later that evening Angel and I decided to go out.
Angel and I were seated at a small, velvet-upholstered booth in a chic, dimly lit cocktail lounge in the Meatpacking District. The air buzzed with low music and the scent of expensive perfume. My emerald dress, which had driven Kyle crazy, felt entirely appropriate here.
Angel, who had been listening with a mixture of wide-eyed fascination and professional skepticism (she treated all my relationship drama like a particularly challenging critique of an installation piece), took a long sip of her Aperol Spritz.
"Okay, so let me summarise," Angel said, holding up two fingers. "One: He's a total control freak. Two: He quadrupled your salary, gave you a ridiculous title, and flew you to another country for weeks." She paused, wiggling her third finger. "Three: He spent all that energy setting you up for the ultimate seduction... and then didn't sleep with you. He just…" she lowered her voice conspiratorially—"focused on your pleasure?"
I swirled the ice in my glass, feeling the inevitable blush creep up my neck. "It was more than focus, Ange. It was... an act of psychological warfare disguised as devotion."
"Devotion, or proof of concept?" Angela teased, but her eyes held genuine awe. "Viola, you hated this man a week ago. Now you're describing him like he's a Renaissance painting that also happens to be financially solvent."
I leaned forward, dropping the intellectual facade. "I know, I know. But he was so meticulous. So deliberate. I felt absolutely, unequivocally, wanted. Not just as a conquest, but as an experience that he was willing to wait for and savor."
"And the execution?" Angela asked, her curiosity overriding her cynicism. "Be honest, Vi. The man is a strategist. Does that translate to... the mouth?"
I took a deep breath, the memory still fresh and devastatingly potent. "Ange, he didn't just go down on me. He conducted a symphony. It was like he had studied every nerve ending, every tremor, and prioritised my release above everything else in the universe. It was an interrogation that somehow resulted in a confession of pure ecstasy."
Angela whistled softly. "A CEO who focuses on the details. That's terrifyingly efficient."
"Exactly!" I cried, running a hand through my hair. "That's why I'm losing the internal war! I'm completely undone by his restraint. All I can think about is what happens when he stops restraining himself. All I want is to go back to that penthouse—or that ridiculous marble desk—and drag him down onto the floor and finish what he started."
I finished my drink in one go. "The war for Editorial Integrity is over, Angela. The only war now is the internal one, and it's a physical battlefield. I need to sleep with him, Ange. Not for power, not for sport, but because I've fallen down the rabbit hole and I need to know the depth of his commitment."
Angela reached across the table and squeezed my hand, her paint-stained fingers grounding me. "He's making you wait for the climax, Vi. That's his ultimate control move. And you know what the only antidote is?"
"No. What?"
"You make him wait too," she said, her eyes glinting. "Let him plan his fancy date. Let him think he's running the campaign. Tomorrow night, you just need to remind him that while he might own the publishing house, you own the narrative."
Kyle's POV
It was now the next morning.
I stood on the worn stone steps of Viola's West Village brownstone at precisely eight o'clock. Marshall was waiting by the opened door of the Bentley, holding a custom cup tray. This wasn't like the other casual pick-up; it was a calibrated display of attention and intent.
I didn't need to ring the bell. At 8:01 AM, the front door opened. Viola appeared, dressed in a crisply tailored white shirt and severe black trousers—her corporate armor fully back in place, a stark contrast to the defiant emerald silk of yesterday. The silver fox pen was clipped firmly to her jacket.
Her eyes met mine, a flicker of startled warmth quickly masked by her customary intellectual hauteur.
"Good morning, Kyle," she said, her voice cool but edged with a tension that only I could hear.
"Good morning, Vi. Your work flow requires adequate hydration and caffeine," I replied, stepping forward and taking the cup from Marshall's tray. I handed it to her, ensuring my fingers brushed the back of her hand. "I took the liberty of preempting your need."
She took the cup, and for a split second, her composure wavered as she registered the exactitude of the order. "Meticulous, as always," she conceded, taking a sip. "Though I assumed my new status as would grant me a full fifteen minutes of solitude before corporate surveillance commenced."
"Containment is non-negotiable," I countered, managing a slow, purely strategic smile. "Shall we? We have a hostile publishing environment to stabilise."
The drive uptown was silent, thick with the unaddressed memory of our previous morning. My control was absolute, but the cost was high. I didn't dare look directly at her, concentrating instead on the gleaming glass towers of Midtown—our destination. It was easier to think about the solid geometry of power than the soft, complex contours of the woman sitting three feet away.
Viola's POV
Walking into the Lodge Media headquarters always felt like walking into a massive, glittering terrarium. Our offices were glass cages high above the city, designed to promote transparency and corporate anxiety in equal measure.
As I marched past the front desk, I felt Kyle's presence behind me—a heavy, anchoring force. My heart was still doing the frantic staccato from his consistent coffee delivery.
I dropped my bag at my desk and immediately headed toward the glass wall of my new corner office. Gail, was already at her station, efficiently sorting through my schedule. Gail wasn't just my assistant now ; she was my friend, a fellow warrior who understood the specific madness of working for Kyle Lodge.
"Morning, Vi. Did you, by chance, manage to escape Europe with your soul intact?" Gail asked, her eyes twinkling as she subtly adjusted the vase of tulips on my desk.
"Barely. The whole trip was a hostile negotiation wrapped in expensive linen," I sighed, grabbing the internal memo pile. "Gail, please make a note: I need to leave by 4:30 PM today. I have a critical... internal review session."
Gail nodded sagely. "The kind of critical review that requires an early departure, hair appointment, and dry-cleaned evening wear? Got it. I'll clear the 5 PM slot with a hard lock and tell Mr. Lodge you have a mandatory off-site meeting with Editorial that requires total, immediate focus."
I smiled. "You are a treasure. Now, let's talk covers. I have some notes on the structural integrity of this typography..."
The day was an infuriating blur of meetings and memos. But every time I walked past Kyle's massive, imposing glass corner office, my focus fractured. He was buried under piles of paper, barking orders into a secure phone, the quintessential corporate titan.
Around 4:00 PM, I finally saw him emerge, heading toward the private elevator. He wasn't wearing his usual crisp grey or navy suit.
He was wearing all black. A custom-tailored black suit jacket, a black Italian dress shirt—buttoned high, no tie—and jet-black trousers. It was sleek, ruthless, and utterly devastating. The monochromatic look stripped away the last veneer of the playful strategist and revealed the primal, committed predator beneath.
My breath hitched. The all-black attire was his final move in the internal war, a non-verbal confession that tonight was anything but a business dinner. It was a formal, calculated seduction, and it drove me absolutely insane. The man was a walking commitment to dominance.
I grabbed my bag, throwing a grateful look at Gail. "My mandatory review session is now," I announced, hurrying out the door, my mind already spinning with what black silk and a professional blow-out could accomplish.