Viola's POV
burst through the door of my West Village brownstone, still high on the unexpected romance of the morning, my arms overflowing with sunflowers.
"Ange! Ange, you won't believe it!"
Angela looked up from where she was sorting paint brushes. She took in the sight of my radiant face and the explosion of yellow. "The war is over, I take it? Did the Arbitrator officially sign the peace treaty?"
"He asked me to be his girlfriend over a mousse!" I squealed, dropping the sunflowers onto the kitchen table. "He cleared his entire schedule, Angela. He didn't want to talk about Sterling or the raids. He just wanted to talk about my nonna's crooked house! He's not so bad after all."
Angela laughed, shaking her head. "I knew it, Vi. I saw the way he bought that bookstore. That wasn't an acquisition; it was a full-blown declaration of love in the language he knows."
I paused, realising she was wearing a dress, not her usual paint-splattered jeans, and was meticulously applying mascara.
"Wait a minute," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Why are you looking like you're about to meet a financial titan?"
Angela blushed, an actual, deep scarlet flush that was completely unlike her. She grabbed her purse. "Okay, so remember how you're always directly collected at the door every morning?"
My jaw dropped. "Marshall?"
"Well, he's not lurking anymore. He's been quietly contacting me," she confessed, adjusting the neckline of her dress. "He asked me out for dinner tonight. A completely non-corporate date at a tiny Italian place. And I said yes."
I stared at her, then burst out laughing, a sound of pure, unadulterated delight. "Marshall and the Chaos Queen! This is the most strategically delightful development in the history of romance! You go, my beautiful warrior!"
Kyle's POV
The office felt different, lighter, even after I had spent the afternoon tearing through spreadsheets. I had cleared the schedule for a date with my girlfriend, but I hadn't cleared it for my most trusted advisor.
Marshall and I were sequestered in my penthouse study, away from the black granite desk, surrounded by catalogs of high-value real estate. Marshall was laser-focused, his usual impeccable control now overlaid with a hint of nervous excitement.
"The Astor, bro," Marshall summarised, pushing a leather-bound folio toward me. The Astor was an iconic, A-list hotel that had been quietly put on the market. "It's a $500 million acquisition, but it's sound. It will diversify your portfolio away from media. And Marshall Holdings needs a flagship."
"Not 'my' portfolio, Marshall," I corrected, looking over the ledger. "Yours. You've earned this. You've run my corporate life for a decade, handled my chaos, and kept me grounded. Now it's time to start building your own empire."
I leaned back, taking a sip of the rare scotch I had poured. "The deal is clean. The numbers are solid. We'll handle the financing internally. Marshall Holdings acquires the Astor, effective immediately. Consider it a down payment on your future."
Marshall looked up, genuinely stunned. "Kyle, I... I don't know what to say."
"Say thank you by leaving Lodge Media's chaos to me from now on," I grinned. "And now that the big deal is closed, let's discuss the terrifying little one. Angela. You're nervous."
Marshall adjusted his cuff, the movement betraying his anxiety. "She's... highly stimulating. She makes me rethink all my systems. She just asked me if I color-code my closet."
I laughed, a rich, open sound I rarely indulged in. "She's the perfect counterpoint to your order. You need someone who will throw paint on your spreadsheets. The rule is simple, Marshall: don't analyze her; just enjoy the unpredictable variable. No corporate talk. Focus on the art."
Marshall nodded, a genuine, hopeful smile finally replacing his corporate mask. "Understood. No strategic analysis. Just... appreciation of the chaotic beauty."
Viola's POV
Angela left in a flurry of nervous excitement, smelling faintly of vanilla and art supplies. I settled onto my cozy sofa, picking up the nearest object—the silver-fox pen—and tapping it lightly against my lips.
My phone rang. It was Kyle.
"My girlfriend's home is lonely," he stated immediately, his voice warm and deep in my ear.
"Your girlfriend is currently celebrating the spectacular news that her best friend is dating her boyfriend's stoic COO," I countered, leaning back. "It's almost too symmetrical to be real, Kyle."
"Marshall is terrified, by the way," he said, a low chuckle rumbling. "I had to close a $500 million hotel deal with him just to get him to calm down enough for the Italian place."
"You bought him a hotel? As a distraction from his date?"
"I bought him a flagship to launch his own empire. I want everyone in my orbit to feel the confidence of permanence," he explained simply. "Now, enough corporate finance. Tell me something real. Something you've never told anyone."
I smiled, twirling the pen. "Okay. When I was ten, I was convinced that the library in my elementary school was haunted by a very intellectual ghost who only communicated in quotes."
"Did you ever try to communicate back?" he asked, a soft curiosity in his tone.
"I left notes," I confessed. "I asked him why Moby Dick was still relevant. I got a single, handwritten note back in the margin of The Great Gatsby that said: 'The whale is the ultimate, unachievable asset. Worthless, but entirely necessary to define the quest.'"
A comfortable silence settled between us. "That's why you love books," he finally said. "You believe they hold the code to the great, necessary quests."
"And you, Mr. Lodge? Something entirely off-book?"
"I still sleep with a nightlight on when I'm in unfamiliar cities," he admitted, the vulnerability stark. "It's a tiny, absurd detail, but I've never told anyone."
"A nightlight," I whispered, loving the image. "The conqueror needs a tiny, visible point of control."
"Exactly. Now, tell me a joke, Vi. Something dark."
I launched into a complicated, dry joke about a disgruntled editor and a comma splice. He laughed—a great, head-thrown-back kind of laugh—and the sound was intoxicating. We talked for another hour, moving from dry humor to comfortable, overlapping silences. The line was open, and the distance between the penthouse and the brownstone vanished.
"I have to sleep, beautiful ," he finally said, his voice dropping to a low, sleepy drawl. "I have a big day of being your boyfriend tomorrow."
"Good night, Love."
"No," he corrected, his voice already fading slightly. "Stay on the line. I'm going to set my phone down. Just... stay here."
I smiled, pulling the blankets up to my chin. I heard the soft rustle of sheets from his end, then a profound, deep silence. I listened to the sound of his steady, quiet breathing until the low-level hum of the connection became the most comforting sound in the world. I held the phone to my ear, listening to the proof of my permanent, chaotic, and non-negotiable place in his life, and slowly drifted off to sleep.