Kyle's POV
The applause faded, but the intensity didn't. I watched Viola as she commanded the room—confident, brilliant, and utterly magnetic. She had moved away, deep in conversation with a renowned film director who looked captivated by her insight into adaptation rights.
Then, I saw him: Arthur Sterling. The CEO of our rival firm, and the man who had briefly employed Viola as his "Architect of Ruin."
Sterling was a slick, handsome predator—all charm and smooth, easy manners. He approached Viola and the director, his smile broad and insincere. He spent a minute talking business, then casually dismissed the director with a nod and turned his full attention to Viola.
He leaned in close, speaking to her in a low, conspiratorial tone. I couldn't hear the words, but I saw the familiarity, the possessiveness in his gaze. He put a hand on her elbow, his thumb tracing a small, intimate circle on the emerald silk of her gown.
A cold, primitive surge of jealousy hit me. It wasn't the corporate kind; it was purely territorial. This man had tried to buy her brain and, for a brief, terrifying moment, had her working against me.
I gripped my champagne glass, forcing myself to remain stationary. I reminded myself that the war was over, that she was mine—her entire life was structurally integrated with mine. But seeing the casual touch, the proprietary air Sterling radiated, was a sharp reminder of the world she had successfully navigated before me.
I want to ruin his stock options and his reputation, I thought savagely, recognising the old, destructive impulse.
But then I watched Viola's reaction.
She let him talk for a beat too long, then reached up, placing her hand over his on her arm. Her expression was polite but distant. She then did something subtle, yet utterly decisive: she applied just enough pressure to guide his hand away from her arm and place it squarely back on his own chest, completing the gesture with a swift, confident shake of her own hand.
"Arthur," I heard her say clearly, her voice sharp and professional, "my focus is on the long-term structural integrity of this legacy. I wish you well in your continued pursuit of short-term gains."
She turned from him and walked directly toward me, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm against the marble floor.
"Was that a strategic encounter, or did you just verbally divest him of his last shred of dignity?" I asked, my voice still tight.
Viola reached up and adjusted my bow tie, her eyes dancing with amusement. "He was trying to lure me back with an astronomical offer for a specialised consulting role. I simply explained that my current partnership offers superior long-term structural stability."
She leaned in close. "Don't ever look at another man with that particular brand of possessive, corporate violence, Kyle. It's wildly distracting."
I dropped my glass onto a nearby waiter's tray and pulled her close, resting my forehead against hers. The jealousy was still a tight knot, but the confidence she exuded—the knowledge that she had chosen me and our integrated life over any rival offer—was intoxicating.
"I am learning to manage the chaos, Love," I whispered, the sound a low promise. "But I have to admit, watching other men acknowledge your value is the one strategic risk I can't quite neutralise."
"Then manage it by allowing me to remind you of my permanent contractual obligations," she countered, her voice low and challenging. "Let's leave. I need to brief you on the final design notes for the Viola Compound over a glass of that complicated Chardonnay."
I grinned, the last vestiges of the jealousy fading into the certainty of her absolute presence. "The structural integrity of my evening depends on that."
I led her out of the glittering room, leaving the questions, the analysts, and the jealous rivals behind. The only value that mattered was the one walking beside me.
Now that she lives with me I know it'll be harder to fight the urge to propose to her. She's definitely the one.
I know it.
The drive back to the penthouse was quieter, the silence between us heavy with the intensity of the night. Viola was satisfied. She had defended our new strategy and neutralized a major rival with surgical precision, all while looking like a goddess. But as the car glided up to the entrance, my mind was already on the final, private task of the evening.
"I have a long day of internal systems review tomorrow," I said, kissing her temple as the car door opened. "I think I need a glass of scotch and about two hours of quiet focus."
She smiled, a knowing glint in her eyes. "Good. I have to finalise the lighting plan for the Library and then spend some quality time with my velvet sofa. No structural disruption tonight, Mr. Lodge."
We parted in the main penthouse living area. She headed toward the cozy section now dominated by her furniture, while I retreated to the small study. I didn't reach for scotch; I went straight for the laptop.
The manuscript was nearly finished. It wasn't a corporate history; it was a brutal, honest, first-person account of my three hundred and seventy-day descent into an irreversible, unmanaged obsession. I had written it in stolen moments—in the dead of night, on private jets, and in the anxious silence before our confrontations. It was the only place I allowed myself to be completely vulnerable.
I titled the final file: Unscripted Obsession.
I scrolled to the last unfinished chapter—the aftermath of the gala. I typed rapidly, letting the raw emotion of the night spill onto the page:
~I watched her with Sterling, and the intellectual jealousy was instantly eclipsed by a more dangerous, primitive rage. I wanted to end him, not for the corporate threat he posed, but for the audacity of touching what was irrevocably mine. But then she handled him. She didn't need my defense; she needed my recognition. Her value wasn't in my protection, but in her own terrifying self-sufficiency.~
~She walked back to me, and the choice—the absolute, non-negotiable selection of my life over any other—was the only contract that mattered. The complexity of our relationship is the final system I will never try to simplify. The structural integrity is based on the fact that I will wait for her, I will trust her, and I will be consumed by her every damn day.~
I finished the last paragraph and stared at the screen. It was all there: the initial arrogance, the public lie, the bookstore, the devastating rage of her revenge, the quiet triumph of the Astros, the long, patient nights of cuddling, and the final realisation that she was the core truth of my existence.
I hit Save. I immediately transferred the file to a secure, encrypted drive, deleted the copy on the laptop, and locked the drive in the most secure vault in the apartment—the one I usually reserved for global finance documents. This was more valuable than any asset. This was my soul on paper.
I poured myself a scotch—finally—and carried it out to the living area. Viola was sprawled on her velvet sofa, a blanket pulled up to her chin, a stack of architectural plans on the floor, and a complex Bordeaux resting on the table.
"Work finished?" she asked, without opening her eyes.
"The analysis is complete," I confirmed, setting my glass down. I walked to the sofa and gently pushed the architectural plans aside.
I sat down next to her, pulling her close so her head rested on my shoulder. The warmth of her body, the familiar scent of her shampoo, the quiet presence of her messy life next to mine—it was the only bottom line that mattered.
I went to sleep the happiest man alive.