Kyle's POV
I woke before the New York sun had properly risen, the light filtering weakly through the sheer fabric of the penthouse windows. Viola was curled against my side, enveloped in one of my oversized cashmere throws. The black silk dress was a crumpled whisper on the floor. I hadn't slept this deeply in years.
I didn't move, just watched her. Her breathing was soft, even. The diamond tennis bracelet caught the faint light on her wrist, a cold, hard symbol of permanence against the soft, warm reality of her skin. The urge to kiss her—to wake her up with the easy, casual intimacy of a couple—was almost unbearable.
But I checked the clock: 6:00 AM. Control had to be reinstated.
I gently slid out of bed and walked to the phone, keeping my voice low.
"Marshall," I commanded. "I need one of my drivers to proceed immediately to the Lodge Media corporate clothing inventory. Procure one full set of business attire for Vi, size 6. And dispatch a separate runner for a high-end travel toiletry kit. Everything must be in the penthouse bathroom by 7:15 AM. We are leaving for the office at 8:00 AM sharp."
I walked back and sat on the edge of the bed, gently running my hand over her hair.
"Vi," I whispered. "It's time to face the inevitable."
Her eyes fluttered open, dark and thick with sleep. She looked at the stark light, then at me, then at the vast, silent room.
"The inevitable is terrifyingly punctual," she murmured, her voice husky.
"We have a publishing empire to run," I said, a faint smile touching my lips. "And you need to change. I've already arranged a fresh wardrobe for your professional requirements. Everything you need is in the bathroom."
She gave me a long, assessing look, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across her face. "You bought me office clothes."
"An investment in your containment," I confirmed, standing. "I'll be in the gym. We meet for coffee in the kitchen at 7:30 AM. Don't be late, Arbiter."
We strode into the Lodge Media headquarters at 8:00 AM on the dot. Viola, impeccably dressed in a severe, dove-grey suit that fit her perfectly, looked every inch the Supreme Arbiter. Her composure was absolute, betraying nothing of the raw intimacy of the morning.
The workday was relentless, a necessary, crushing counterpoint to the personal chaos of the past twenty-four hours.
At 5:30 PM, I received the call sheet for my 6:00 PM interview slot on The Business Standard with Eleanor Vance. It was a high-profile, live-to-air finance show—exactly the kind of exposure I specialised in.
I walked to my office, putting on my final corporate mask. "Marshall," I instructed. "I'm heading down for the interview. Ensure Vi has the final copy of the Q3 projections ready for my review first thing tomorrow."
I looked across the glass partition at Viola's office. She was focused on her laptop, the very image of dedicated professionalism. I allowed myself a moment of pure, silent pride. She was my greatest acquisition.
The interview was standard fare: market fluctuations, acquisition strategy, and Lodge Media's long-term vision. Then, Eleanor Vance leaned forward, her smile practiced and sharp.
"Kyle, we've covered the numbers. But the public, of course, is always hungry for a little more. You're one of the most eligible, and private, men in media. Is there anyone special in your life right now? Anyone sharing the view from that beautiful penthouse?"
The question was a landmine. I could have answered honestly. I could have used the opportunity to signal my commitment. But the old, ingrained habit of ruthless privacy, the conditioning of a lifetime spent keeping my core assets hidden, kicked in.
I offered my most practiced, controlled smile, looking straight into the camera.
"No," I said, the word clean and final. "I'm afraid I'm entirely married to my work right now, Eleanor. My primary relationship is with the bottom line."
I gave a brief, dismissive chuckle, and the segment moved on. The lie felt cold, necessary, and instantly corrosive. I had successfully managed the public narrative.
Viola's POV
I was running final data integrity checks on the Moda Finanza acquisition when the interview segment popped up on the live office feed. I wasn't meant to be watching, but the sight of Kyle, immaculate and commanding, drew my attention.
I listened to Eleanor Vance's question, a small, hopeful flutter rising in my chest. This is it, I thought. He'll acknowledge me. He'll say 'I'm committed to someone, but she's private.' He'll honor the truth of the last 48 hours.
Then, I heard the single word. The word that cut through the intellectual veneer of my life and went straight for the soft, vulnerable truth I had just surrendered to him.
"No."
No.
He wasn't taken. He was married to the bottom line. I was a "containment strategy," an "investment in permanence," a "necessary psychological warfare asset"—but I was not a person he would acknowledge publicly. The gold-plated typewriter and the diamond bracelet were nothing but expensive inventory.
The profound, dizzying surrender of the past two days felt cheap, theatrical, and utterly foolish. I wasn't his partner; I was his perfectly executed conquest, whose existence he was now denying for the sake of his public image.
The grey suit suddenly felt like a straitjacket. I slammed my laptop shut, the sound muffled by the glass walls. I grabbed my Van Cleef bag and fled. I didn't say goodbye to Gail. I didn't wait for the private elevator. I took the public stairwell, the frantic descent a desperate attempt to outrun the humiliation.
I hailed a cab outside the gleaming tower, the noise and grime of the city a welcome antidote to the sterile betrayal above.
When I burst through the door of my small, cozy brownstone apartment, Angela was sitting amidst her canvases, a brush in her hand.
I didn't speak. I dropped my bag and stood there, tears blurring the edges of the room.
"Viola? What happened?" Angela asked, jumping up.
"He denied me," I choked out, the word tasting like ash. "On live television. He said he was married to his work. I'm not even a footnote, Angela. I'm a strategic silence."
I sank onto the velvet sofa, pulling my knees to my chest. The war was never about integrity or strategy. It was always about the simplest, most dangerous thing: my heart. And I had lost it. I buried my face in my hands, sobbing into the familiar comfort of my home, the rage and the humiliation a devastating, overwhelming force. I felt stupid. I felt utterly, completely played.