The fire had settled to glowing embers. I pulled the blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around Viola and I. We lay on the rug, breathless and deeply content. I didn't want the moment to end, savoring the feeling of her skin warm against mine.
I rose gently, scooping her into my arms. Her body felt soft and trusting, no longer rigid with defense. I carried her into the master suite, laying her carefully in the center of the bed.
"Don't move, Love," I murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple.
I returned to the kitchen and quickly prepared the flapjacks—an old, simple comfort snack. I brought them back to the bed, along with a bottle of water. We sat side-by-side, snacking quietly, the silence now a comfortable, shared space.
As she finished the last bite, she nestled back against my side, her head resting on my shoulder. The vulnerability of the last few months had been replaced by a fragile but resilient peace.
I moved my hand, gently tracing the curves of her shoulder and hip. All parts of her body that had been hidden and protected for so long.
"Love," I whispered into the darkness, my voice heavy with sincerity. "I need you to listen to me, and I need you to know this truth, deep down."
She tilted her head, indicating she was listening.
"Every part of you is beautiful," I insisted. "Every decision you made to protect yourself was perfect. And tonight, this intimacy, this choice we made…it does not decrease your value. It doesn't put a price on your worth. If anything, it makes me love you more fiercely, because it is the ultimate proof of your healing. You are whole, you are strong, and you are perfect, Love. Always."
I felt her relax completely against me, her breathing evening out. We fell asleep wrapped in the profound certainty of our renewed connection.
The morning was not tender. It was ruthless.
We were in the office by 8:00 AM, both back in our corporate armor. The crisis had broken overnight: a competitor had launched an aggressive, low-cost counter-bid on a small, but strategically vital, media platform we were in the final stages of acquiring.
We were in the main conference room, the entire executive team present, including Marshall. The pressure was immense, and the lack of sleep exacerbated our tension.
"The low-ball bid is irrelevant, Marshall," I stated, tapping the tablet screen sharply. "Our valuation accounts for long-term IP assets. Their cash flow projection is unsustainable."
Viola slammed her hand down on the table, her face a mask of controlled fury. "It is not irrelevant, Kyle! We spent three months building trust with that board! You can't just wave away a public, immediate price threat! It looks weak!"
I glared at her. Her voice was strong, fully recovered, but laced with sharp, professional anger. "I am not weak, Love. I am being strategic. Overpaying now validates their aggressive move. We hold the line."
"Holding the line loses the asset!" she shot back, pushing her chair away from the table. "This isn't theory, this is a hostile market! You're letting ego dictate the price when we should be sending a clear, immediate counter-signal!"
"You are reacting emotionally to a clear, calculated market variable!" I retaliated, my voice rising. "I am refusing to panic!"
The room was silent. Our executive team stared, stunned by the ferocity and very public nature of the disagreement. We were rarely seen disagreeing, let alone fighting this aggressively.
Viola pushed away from the table entirely. "I'm done with this theoretical posturing. This is my deal. I'll handle the counter-signal."
She strode out of the conference room, the click of her heels echoing the sharp finality of her exit.
I followed her two minutes later, closing the door of her corner office behind me. The argument had been brutal, necessary, and entirely professional. The real fight was about the underlying tension of the morning—the sudden, intense return to high-stakes control after the profound intimacy of the night.
She was standing by the window, breathing hard, her hands gripping the edge of the desk.
"You undercut me in front of my team," she whispered, still furious.
"You panicked over a predictable market move," I countered, walking to her. The professional anger was already bleeding into a raw, irresistible passion.
I didn't argue further. I simply reached out and pulled the privacy blinds down with a swift, mechanical snap. The office was instantly bathed in a warm, private darkness.
I turned her around, pulling her hard against me, and kissed her with a consuming force that had nothing to do with market strategy. She responded instantly, her anger transforming into a raw, electric desire that perfectly matched my own.
We didn't speak. Our clothes were already in disarray, torn away in the urgent need to close the distance the argument had created. I lifted her and bent her over the polished wood of her desk—the stage for her greatest corporate victories—and entered her with a demanding urgency. She cried out, not from pain, but from the shattering force of the immediate passion. We moved together, hard and fast, making loud, ragged noise in the privacy of her office, resolving the intense conflict in the most primal way possible.
A few minutes later, we straightened our clothes, the scent of sex and adrenaline hanging heavy in the air. We straightened the papers on the desk. We smoothed our hair and walked out of the office, composed and silent, into the bustling corridor, ignoring the lingering stares of the staff.
Later that afternoon, after a successful counter-bid had been launched, we went to a book signing event for my latest title. We stood side-by-side, signing copies and exchanging polite, practiced smiles for the cameras. Our hands, clasped together on the table between signatures, told the true story of our volatile, passionate union.
After the signing, Viola dropped me off at the penthouse and headed straight to Angela's new apartment.
Viola's POV
"So, spill it," Angela demanded, handing me a mug. "You two walked out of the office like you'd just closed the biggest deal of the century, hair slightly rumpled. What happened?"
I took a slow sip of my tea, a secretive, triumphant smile playing on my lips.
"We had a major disagreement over the counter-bid for the media platform," I explained, my voice steady. "It was... loud. In front of the entire team."
"Oh, I heard. Marshall nearly short-circuited," Angela laughed. "And then?"
I leaned forward, my voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial murmur. "He followed me into my office. He pulled the blinds, and we resolved the crisis immediately. Right on the desk."
Angela gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. "The Architect of Ruin and the CEO of Chaos! You finally weaponised the office furniture!"
"It was the fastest, most effective structural conflict resolution we've ever had," I chuckled, the sound rich and free. "We didn't stop until we were both screaming. It was pure, volatile, necessary passion."
Angela shook her head, a wide grin spreading across her face. "Goodness, you two are insane. But I love it. You're completely back, aren't you?"
I looked down at the emerald ring on my hand, turning it slowly. "More than back, Ange. I'm stronger."