Viola's POV
The jet landed with a graceful, almost silent descent, touching down in the cold, gray embrace of a private London airfield. As the cabin pressure equalized, the heavy, metallic silence that had been our companion for seven hours finally shattered.
I carefully closed the file, aligning its edges with the precision of a surgeon. The act was a small, silent ritual of professional closure, a final layer of armor. I could feel Kyle Lodge's intense, unblinking scrutiny, but I continued to ignore it. The sheer need in his gaze…the desire for a reaction…was palpable, and that need was my single greatest advantage.
He was like a chess grandmaster who had suddenly realised his opponent, a supposedly compliant pawn, had just promoted to a Queen. He expected me to taunt him, or to rage against the absurdity of the trip. He wanted to re-establish the dynamic of challenge and seduction.
He would get zero emotion.
I put the file back in my briefcase, snapped the clasp shut, and turned to him with a perfectly blank expression. "I have reviewed the preliminary media law brief. I recommend we include a mandatory legal-vetting clause for all quotes and summaries provided to the UK press, effective immediately."
My voice was functional, my tone completely devoid of the sharp, cutting intelligence he usually sought. I was reciting a safety protocol, not engaging in a debate.
His eyes narrowed, a muscle twitching in his jaw. The lack of engagement was clearly wounding him. "Noted, Vi. Marshall will handle the logistics. Let's move."
We exited the jet into a swarm of tailored security and high-end vehicles. The transition was seamless, choreographed. I was whisked into the back of a black Bentley, the leather seats still warm. Lodge slid in beside me, and Marshall took the jump seat facing us. The dynamic was the same, but the location was a new battlefield.
"Our first stop is the hotel," Lodge stated, pulling out his phone. "Then a quick photo op with the publisher before dinner."
I merely nodded, my gaze fixed out the window as the massive, orderly sprawl of London rushed by.
"Are the accommodations satisfactory, Vi?" he asked, trying again, his voice now layered with a forced, almost patronising solicitousness.
I glanced at the corporate card packet resting in my lap. "The hotel is the Savoy, Mr. Lodge. It is, by definition, satisfactory."
"And the 'security bonus'?" he persisted. "Perhaps you'd like to use it for a wardrobe upgrade for the tour? You'll be meeting several high-profile editors."
I turned my head slowly, meeting his eyes for a longer moment this time, letting the cold dismissal settle. "I came prepared for a business trip, Mr. Lodge. My suit is sufficient for my function. I assure you, the card will be used to purchase the blackest glass desk Lodge Media can afford."
It was a small, vicious cut—a reminder that he had used my own words against me, and I was now using them as a shield. I watched the flash of anger in his eyes, immediately followed by the predatory glint of renewed interest.
There. I got a reaction.
The silence was the only thing I allowed myself to enjoy. I had successfully managed the first engagement. He wanted to play a dangerous psychological game of challenge and proximity. Fine. I would play an even colder, more professional game of absolute detachment.
Kyle's POV
The Savoy. A stunning, old-world luxury that usually served as a balm to my relentless ambition. But as I watched Viola walk past the soaring marble columns of the lobby, her severe gray suit a perfect contrast to the opulent gold fixtures, all I felt was a rising, suffocating frustration.
She had played the professional card perfectly. The little barb about the black glass desk was the only crack in her armor, and it was a weaponised crack, deployed for maximum offense. She was furious, but she was hiding it beneath a terrifying layer of control.
In the elevator, Marshall was silent, merely looking at the ceiling. The air was thick with the weight of my unspoken failure.
When we reached our floor, the two rooms were, by design, directly across the hall from one another. A key element of the containment strategy.
"Viola," I said, stopping her just before she reached her door. "We have twenty minutes to unpack before we meet the UK Publisher. Be downstairs promptly."
She didn't turn around. She merely looked at her closed door. "I am always prompt, Mr. Lodge."
She opened the door and disappeared inside, the sound of the latch clicking shut with the finality of a prison door.
I walked into my own suite, a magnificent space overlooking the Thames. I threw my briefcase onto the sofa and walked immediately to the window, staring out at the iconic London skyline. The city was a monument to my success, yet all I felt was the crushing defeat of her indifference.
I needed to know what had happened Saturday night. Had Trevor been her comfort? Was she simply that happy to escape the intense, dangerous focus I had given her? I had wanted her to be happy with him, but now the idea of the pathetic paralegal making her laugh made my stomach turn.
I pulled my phone out and started typing a message—a simple, professional request about the evening's briefing notes. I deleted it. No. That was weak. It gave her an opening.
I walked to the minibar, but instead of reaching for the usual single malt, my hand settled on a bottle of Pinot Noir. I pulled it out, looking at the familiar label. The same complex, dry earthiness she had used to structure her world.
I needed to break her. Not to hurt her, but to shatter the icy wall she had built, to get back to the dangerous, exhilarating fire we'd had on the ice.
I took a sip of the wine, the flavor a subtle, demanding challenge.
I set the wine down, a cold, calculated thought solidifying in my mind. She wanted professionalism. She wanted an emotionless business trip. I would give her a challenge that required the full extent of her human intelligence, a move so unexpected that it would force her to engage with me as a person, not a function.
The next seven days were a high-stakes chess game. And the only way to break a player who refuses to move is to put the King in check.
I walked back to the phone. I hit Marshall's number.
"Marshall," I said, my voice low and completely controlled. "I'm making a change to tomorrow's schedule. I don't want the hotel ballroom. I want to move the main press launch to the National Gallery."
"Dude, that's impossible to book last minute. And why the Gallery?" Marshall asked, the surprise evident in his voice.
"I need a visual statement," I said, a faint smile touching my lips as I looked at the Thames. "I want the launch to take place in the room that holds Johannes Vermeer's A Lady Standing at a Virginal. And I want Viola to be there, front and center. Use the highest-level fixers. Money is no object."
I paused, letting the silence hang. "It's a painting of a woman in a gold dress, Marshall. A woman of wealth, control, and composure. The perfect backdrop for a Head of Editorial Integrity."
I hung up before he could object. The image of the painting—the cool, elegant composure of the subject—was a perfect, calculated insult to her gold dress, to her composure, and to the emotional wall she had built. I knew she'd understand the provocation. I would force her to choose between her professional façade and the emotional truth I knew she was hiding.
The game had been played in the private cage of the jet. Now, it was time to move the board into the public eye.