Kyle's POV
The post-proposal intensity had finally subsided, replaced by a deep, anchoring calm. The emerald ring flashed on Viola's finger in a way that I would never tire of seeing.
We started the day by embracing the last bit of the mountain's wildness. Marshall had ensured a pair of sleek, professional kayaks were waiting for us down by the glacial lake…another logistical marvel I hadn't had to lift a finger for.
We launched onto the dark, still water, the silence broken only by the rhythmic dip of the paddles. Viola, naturally, approached kayaking with the same competitive focus she applied to corporate defense.
"Stay to the right of the peninsula, Love," she instructed, her voice ringing clear across the water. "The current is less volatile, and we gain a better sightline on the northern bank."
I chuckled, matching her pace. "I'm not fighting you, Love…I'm enjoying the coordinated effort. This is our new standard operating procedure."
We paddled for an hour, the exertion clean and steady. We pulled the kayaks onto a smooth, sun-warmed bank and unpacked the lunch I'd had prepared: perfect, simple grilled sandwiches, crisp apples, and a bottle of expensive sparkling cider.
We ate in companionable silence, sitting side-by-side, watching a lone hawk circle overhead. It was a moment of perfect, unscripted domesticity, far removed from the city's pressures.
"You know," Viola said, finishing her sandwich, "this is what you bought. Not the land, not the cabin. This silence. This certainty that the only thing requiring my attention is the sound of the wind."
"And the structural integrity of your relationship with salt-and-vinegar popcorn," I reminded her, smiling. "We own the silence now, Vi. We own the certainty."
As the evening approached, the sky turned a deep, bruised purple. I had orchestrated a final, singular act of personalised grandeur.
I led Viola down a secluded, lantern-lit path near the cabin. The path opened into a small, clearing overlooking the lake. It wasn't a formal dining setup…it was a scene of controlled, intimate extravagance.
A single, immaculate mahogany table was set for two, surrounded by flickering lanterns and low, dramatic lighting. A perfectly grilled dinner—simple, high-quality, and non-distracting was ready.
But the true strategic move was in the corner. Tucked beneath the pines was a small, three-piece string ensemble—a violin, a cello, and a piano.
"What is this?" Viola whispered, her hand instinctively going to the emerald on her finger.
"This," I said, pulling out her chair, "is the final chapter of our little getaway. Dinner and a private concert."
She was wearing the short, backless red dress I'd seen her pack. A ruthless, perfect flash of color against the deep green of the pines. The silk was cut sharply, exposing the elegant lines of her back with a stunning, magnetic confidence. It drove a precise, immediate spike of desire straight through my chest. I fought to maintain my composure, focusing on the sheer brilliance of the emerald ring.
"The dress is a highly effective, non-verbal declaration of dominance, Love," I murmured, my voice husky.
"It's my final, strategic move before we go back to the black suits," she replied, her eyes glittering with excitement.
As we ate, the string ensemble began to play.
The notes were instantly recognisable: a classical, hauntingly beautiful arrangement of The Weeknd's Trilogy album.
Viola froze, her fork halfway to her plate. Her eyes widened, focusing entirely on the musicians. Trilogy—the dark, brooding, emotionally complex R&B album that she had once confessed was the perfect soundtrack to her corporate warfare was being played with the elegance of a Beethoven concerto.
She looked at me, her expression a mixture of shock and profound, overwhelming love. "My love... you didn't."
"I did," I admitted, reaching across the table to cover her hand. "The themes of strategic loneliness, consuming desire, and the complexity of addiction—it's the only music that accurately scored the last year of our lives. I arranged it to prove that I was listening, not to your strategy, but to your soul's structural requirements."
As the violin soared through a heartbreaking rendition of "Wicked Games," she reached across the table, her face close to mine.
"You are a terrifying man, Kyle Lodge," she breathed. "You analyse my favorite music and turn it into a confession."
"I told you," I whispered, holding her gaze, "I analyse everything that matters. And you are the only variable that defines my worth."
We spent the rest of the evening under the stars, eating, drinking, and listening to the high, complex emotion of the music. It was dark, beautiful, and utterly, irrevocably us. The perfect end to our beautiful trip.
Viola's POV
The next morning, we left and headed back home.
The penthouse was a breathtaking, impossible garden. We stepped out of the elevator and into a sea of deep red roses. They draped over the glass walls, cascaded from crystal vases, and covered every surface, scenting the air with an overpowering, romantic fragrance. It was a spectacular, non-negotiable declaration of love.
"My love," I whispered, turning to him, my hand rising to the emerald on my finger. "This is sheer, beautiful madness."
"Necessary acknowledgment," he murmured, his gaze intense. "Permanent, non-negotiable value requires appropriate scale."
Later, Marshall and Angela arrived, immediately swept up in the celebratory atmosphere. Marshall, holding a gift-wrapped custom filing system, looked nearly giddy, while Angela was radiant, showing off her Art Deco ring.
Dinner was catered, the conversation a comfortable mix of market analysis and wedding planning—the perfect blend of our four lives.
"You two are entirely too symmetrical," Angela joked, raising her glass. "Marshall, you analyse risk; Kyle, you acquire value. I throw paint on walls, and Viola rewrites the corporate narrative. It's a terrifyingly perfect strategic union."
"To chaos and control," I toasted, clinking my glass with theirs.
Later, we descended into a dark, pulsing, subterranean club. The music was a relentless rhythm, perfect for losing the final vestiges of our corporate armor.
I'd had several celebratory drinks, and the intellectual constraints I usually wore were gone. I was in the center of the dance floor, allowing the rhythm to take over, laughing and dancing with a wild, graceful abandon.
Kyle's POV
I watched my beautiful fiancé from the edge of the floor, my eyes unable to move from her. She was pure, intoxicating energy, the chaotic variable I had built my life around. I confirmed my commitment to her, not with my voice, but with my unwavering gaze.
"She is magnificent," Marshall stated, nodding slowly.
"Irreplaceable," I confirmed, reaching for my scotch.
A waiter jostled past, nearly upsetting a tray of drinks. Marshall moved instinctively to intercept the collision, turning his back for a moment. I glanced at Marshall, acknowledging the averted mess.
It was three seconds, no more.
When I looked back to the space she had occupied, she was gone.
The familiar, deep dread hit me. A cold, sickening lurch that eclipsed the music. "Viola," I muttered, scanning the faces. "Where is she?"
"She was right here," Marshall said, his face snapping to a mask of cold intensity.
"Angela!" I barked into the discreet security headset I maintained in public spaces.
"In the restroom," Marshall relayed after a moment of listening.
We moved immediately, systematically searching the perimeter.
I spotted her first. Tucked near a secondary, darker fire exit.
I knew it was her because of her dress, which was barely covering her anymore.
A stranger a large, intimidating man was above her body making sickening noises. He was…touching her.
We're too late…
"Marshall!" I roared, already sprinting toward them.
We reached the small alcove. I lifted him off her by the throat. Marshall immediately secured the exits, pulling the fire door shut to create a private space.
Marshall then dropped to his knees beside Viola to see if she was injured and to help cover her up. She was hyperventilating, completely unable to speak, the sheer force of the sudden panic attack overwhelming her. I noticed a syringe connected to her arm and I lost it.
I pulled a knife out of my pocket and dug the bastard's eyes out. Marshall shot off his disgusting private area immediately without a thought.
All this while I was still strangling him.
I finally let go and he dropped to the ground screaming in pain. I then pulled out a lighter and dropped it onto his body. His screams were horrendous and a valid price to pay.
"Vi," I whispered, gathering her into my arms. "It's me. It's Kyle. You're safe. Look at me."
I scooped her up, her fragile, shaking body a stark contrast to her formidable spirit. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps. I knew this wasn't just panic, this man just caused a severe, acute system shutdown. I had seen her fight the market, but this—this complete emotional and physical collapse—terrified me more than any hostile takeover.
"Marshall," I commanded, my voice raw with controlled urgency. "Secure the perimeter. Get Angela home. I'm taking her to the Lodge Medical Center now."
I carried her out of the club, running with the only asset that mattered in my life, and rushed her to the specialised hospital my family founded.
I'm so pissed I don't know what to do with myself. My beautiful girl was…
I hate men!
I'm a man myself, but I am mature enough to understand why women say they hate men. Why do some men feel entitled to women's bodies?
What kind of sick fucking prick feels so desperate for pleasure they need to forcefully take it from drunk women?
How am I even going to help her get through this? This was suppose to be a happy day of celebration. I'm so broken on her behalf but I need to stay strong for her. I need her to know it wasn't her fault, and that no man should ever feel entitled to removing a woman's clothes without her consent.