Kyle's POV
I stood motionless at the desk, waiting for the elevator whoosh that would signal the arrival of the only woman who mattered. My heart was a tight, painful drum against my ribs. I had sent the email, the most vulnerable, unmanaged invitation of my life, and I was prepared to sign whatever ridiculous, brilliant treaty she presented.
The elevator doors slid open.
But it wasn't the beautiful Viola.
It was Jenna.
She walked in with a practiced, feline confidence, her dress clinging in all the wrong ways, carrying a small, forgotten clutch bag. She was a ghost from a tactical past—a convenience, an appointment, someone whose presence I hadn't even registered until her sudden appearance.
My mind immediately flashed back to the schedule Marshall had been scrambling to clear. I realised Jenna must have been the one lingering loose end, an automated, low-value follow-up from weeks ago that my staff hadn't terminated when I had started my new, obsessive focus on Viola.
"Kyle, darling, I saw you bought some woman a library," Jenna purred, attempting a slow, seductive saunter toward the black granite desk. She stopped short when she saw the gold-plated typewriter and the massive bouquet of wilting yellow sunflowers resting beside it. Her smile wavered.
"Get out, Jenna," I commanded, my voice flat and dangerous.
She froze, genuinely startled by the sheer force of my hostility. "Excuse me? I thought we were going to finish the evening we started before you left for London."
"We are not finishing anything," I said, my control snapping like a thin wire. I walked toward her, my full corporate intimidation fully deployed. "You are not scheduled, you are not authorised, and your presence in this location is a violation of my terms of engagement."
I grabbed her arm, my fingers digging into the silk of her sleeve. "Did you see anyone outside?"
Jenna's eyes narrowed, a smug, venomous look replacing the surprise. "Oh, the woman with black hair? The one with the cheap luggage and the very aggressive stride? She was just pulling up as I was leaving. I assume she's the new administrative assistant you're trying to contain." Jenna laughed, a high, brittle sound. "She looked like she was about to cry, Kyle. You really should be more careful about who you let approach your building."
The information was a physical blow. Viola had been there. She had seen Jenna. My entire, painstakingly constructed public apology—the bookstore, the retraction, the vulnerable email—had just been reduced to ashes by one cheap, ill-timed exit.
"You have precisely sixty seconds to vacate the premises," I grated out, pushing her back toward the elevator with barely contained violence. "If I ever see your face in the vicinity of this address again, I will ensure your father's hedge fund receives an audit so brutal he'll blame you for Christmas. Is that clear, Jenna?"
Jenna's arrogance finally crumbled. She scrambled into the elevator, clutching her bag, tears of shock welling in her eyes. "You're insane, Kyle! She's nothing!"
"She is the bottom line," I roared, slamming my fist against the steel of the elevator door, the sound echoing through the sterile penthouse.
I stood there, breathing heavily, the adrenaline of pure, blinding rage vibrating through me. I didn't care about Jenna. I cared that Viola was gone. She was on her way back downtown, her heart already rebuilding the high, cold walls I had just spent a week trying to dismantle.
I pulled out my phone and dialled her number, knowing exactly what I would find. Her professional voicemail. Her corporate silence. I had won the strategic war only to lose the absolute final battle because of a derelict appointment.
Viola's POV
I burst through the door of the brownstone, dropping my Van Cleef bag and the enormous bouquet of sunflowers, which scattered across the worn wooden floor like a ridiculous casualty of war.
Angela was sitting at her easel, her back to me. She didn't have to turn around; the force of my entry was its own announcement.
"Viola? You're back already? I thought you were supposed to be securing the final clauses of the peace treaty," Angel said, dropping her paintbrush.
I couldn't speak. I stumbled into the living room, collapsing onto the velvet sofa, and let out a choked, ragged sob. The humiliation was a raw, physical burn.
"Oh, Vi," Angela said, rushing to my side. "What happened? Did he cancel? Did he insult your choice of silk?"
"Worse," I choked out, tears streaming down my face, blurring the familiar, cozy lines of the room. "Worse than a thousand insults."
I buried my face in her shoulder, letting the wave of betrayal wash over me. "I was just about to go in. I had his email, Ange—the one that said the bookstore needed my chaos! I was ready to win the narrative! And then a woman came into his private lobby."
Angel pulled back, looking confused. "Okay? Maybe a staff member?"
"No. She wasn't staff. She was wearing that expensive, trying-too-hard black silk that screams 'long-term collateral.' She saw me, Ange, paused for a beat, and then gave me this absolutely contemptuous, pitying smile."
I gripped her hands, the memory sparking fresh tears. "And she leaned in, all saccharine superiority, and said, 'The lobby is usually reserved for Kyle's close friends…and me, dear. Are you lost, or waiting for security to escort you?'"
"She thought I was a delivery girl or something!" I cried out, the sheer arrogance of the encounter devastating my fragile confidence. "Then she sailed off, and the driver immediately turned and waited for me to go up. But I couldn't."
I shook my head, my conviction hardening into icy certainty. "I couldn't go in, Angel. Because I realized I'm not the Arbiter. I'm not the foundation. I am just the new, temporary asset that needs containing while he finishes up with the old asset."
I gestured wildly toward the scattered, vibrant sunflowers on the floor. "The bookstore meant nothing, Angel! It was the biggest, most cynical distraction he could buy! It was a bribe so I wouldn't think about his actual life! He is still married to the bottom line, and the bottom line requires him to keep a stable of high-end collateral, just in case the Arbiter gets too expensive."
I pulled away, wiping the tears with the back of my hand, the grey corporate suit a mockery of my recent professionalism.
"I was a fool," I declared bitterly. "I thought he was capable of sincerity. But he's just a player with an unlimited budget. He used his discipline to make me feel special—to make me think I was earned—when really, I was just the next conquest on a ridiculously high-value checklist. I was mistaken by him. He's sleeping with other women. The internal war is over, and I lost everything to a man who uses cultural assets as expensive cover for his affairs. All I wanted was a normal internship. Not this."
"I am going to burn that bookstore to the ground," I muttered, staring with venom at the crumpled sheet of the retraction notice that had fallen out of my bag. "And then I'm going to ruin Lodge Media. I'm done playing."
Angel put her arm around me, offering silent comfort. "Let's start by ruining his cashmere sweater, Vi. We can worry about the international publishing house tomorrow."