The next morning, we have Kyle's talk show interview.
I sat in the green room at the studio, watching the monitor with Marshall. The tension in the room was palpable, though Marshall, ever the stoic, simply adjusted his tie. I was back in corporate armor—a severe, but impeccable black suit—but my focus felt completely different now that the internal war was truly over.
On screen, Kyle looked impossibly commanding. He was facing Eleanor Vance, the razor-sharp interviewer whose question had triggered my month-long strategic rampage.
"Welcome back, Kyle," Eleanor started, her smile practiced and shrewd. "We've covered the numbers, but I have to address the elephant in the room. The public is fascinated by the sudden movements at Lodge Media—the Sterling raids, the mysterious Viola Library trust, and your own public retraction. Social media is dying to know: who is this woman, Viola? And how did she manage to rattle the unflappable Kyle Lodge?"
I leaned forward, my heart hammering. This was it. The moment of true, public validation or another carefully worded corporate maneuver.
Kyle leaned into the microphone, his expression serious. He didn't offer his practiced corporate smile. He spoke slowly, every word sounding deliberate and real.
"Eleanor, a month ago, I made a profound mistake. I told you, and the world, that I was married to my work. It was a lie born of arrogance and habit. The truth is, I've been married to the bottom line for so long that I forgot how to value anything that couldn't be quantified."
He looked straight into the camera, and I felt the intensity of his gaze right there in the green room.
"Viola," he continued, his voice softening just slightly, "is not an asset, a conquest, or a line item. She is a force of nature. She is the single most intelligent, intimidating, and honest person I have ever encountered. She is nothing like any woman I've been with because she refuses to let me categorise or contain her. Where I see an empire, she sees the integrity—or lack thereof—of the foundation. She taught me that sometimes, the most valuable thing you can do is admit you were fundamentally wrong."
He paused, a faint, genuine smile touching his lips. "She destroyed my company's stability for a month, and I fell irrevocably in love with the magnificent way she did it. She is the Architect of Ruin, and I am building the rest of my life around her."
Marshall, sitting next to me, let out a slow, controlled breath. "He actually said that. He put the entire company on blast for you."
I swallowed hard, tears blurring my vision. The public retraction was complete. He didn't just acknowledge me; he credited me with his transformation. He had given me the narrative.
We then returned to the Lodge Media headquarters, and the atmosphere, even post-confession, was buzzing with a renewed, frenetic energy. I was reinstated as the Supreme Arbiter, a title that now felt less like a conquest and more like a shared destiny.
The afternoon was a relentless, focused blur. Kyle and I, side-by-side, worked through the backlog created by my strategic raids. He on finance, I on editorial integrity, our synergy effortless and devastatingly efficient.
"The typography on this new poetry collection is atrocious, Kyle," I stated, circling a section of a proof. "It devalues the intellectual intent. It needs to be recut."
"Agreed," he responded instantly, signing off on a seven-figure cost correction without blinking. "The integrity is the brand now, Arbiter. We correct the deficit."
As the clock hit 7:00 PM, we finished the last memo, hitting a major deadline that would stabilize the Q4 projections.
"We did it," I sighed, leaning back in my chair, exhausted but triumphant.
Kyle stood up and offered me his hand. "The company is saved for one day. Now, the rest of the contract is non-negotiable."
"Dinner? More spreadsheets?"
"Pajamas, popcorn, and a public theater," he grinned. "You need to bring your specific brand of chaos into the mundane."
Kyle's POV
I drove us back to the penthouse to change. I put on the soft, grey cashmere sweater again and a pair of dark, comfortable jeans. Viola emerged from the master suite wearing an absurdly soft, emerald silk pajama set that matched the dress I had bought her—a bold, delightful flash of color.
We took the Bentley, bypassing the usual private viewing rooms for a large, bustling multiplex theater downtown. This was deliberate. I wanted to subject my highly curated existence to the unpredictable, warm noise of the real world—the kind of environment that reminded me of her charming, crooked brownstone.
We found seats in the back. I had the large, communal bucket of popcorn. It was salt and vinegar, my standard, and a flavor that always felt suitably sharp and decisive.
As the trailers began, I reached for a handful, expecting the usual silence. Instead, I watched, fascinated, as Viola reached into her bag and pulled out a small, crinkly package.
She expertly ripped the top off the bag, revealing the contents: Astros.
She then proceeded to delicately sprinkle a generous amount of the sugary, colorful candies over her salt and vinegar popcorn.
My internal systems went into immediate, silent lockdown. The sugar would contaminate the sharp, clean vinegar. The entire concept was structurally unsound. It was a chaotic, utterly irrational combination of sweet and savory that should, by all rights, destroy the integrity of the snack.
I looked down at my own clean, purely salt-and-vinegar handful.
I am the CEO of a global media company. I acquire hotels. I defend against hostile takeovers. I do not comment on my girlfriend's confectionery choices.
I forced my attention back to the screen, but my mind was stuck. The sight of the shimmering, colorful chocolate mingling with the harsh, crystallised salt was like watching a beautiful, unnecessary car crash.
I watched, out of the corner of my eye, as she took a large bite—the pure, delighted look on her face confirming that this was not a prank; it was a deeply held preference. A preference for complex, contradictory flavors.
It was the most perfect, succinct summary of her chaotic appeal. The integrity of the snack was destroyed, but the joy was palpable. I didn't say anything, didn't offer a critique, didn't even twitch. I just made a mental note: Viola requires Astros for all future cinema expeditions. The chaotic concoction is non-negotiable.
I reached for my own popcorn, the simple, clean salt and vinegar suddenly tasting a little too predictable, a little too safe.
As soon as the movie was complete, we decided to head home.