Viola's POV
The suite was breathtaking. Not in the gaudy, modern way I'd expected, but with a hushed, old-money elegance. A massive four-poster bed dominated the room, draped in heavy cream linens, and a tall window offered a postcard view of London's rooftops. The bathroom was pure marble luxury—a soaking tub next to a window framed by thick velvet curtains. It was the kind of room that whispered legacy, not flash.
I placed my severe briefcase on the antique writing desk, my fortress feeling less secure in this environment of soft light and silken textures.
I pulled the specialised corporate card out of the packet and turned it over in my hand. It was obsidian black, weighty, and completely unmarked save for the raised silver Lodge Media logo. A physical manifestation of limitless power…my new tether. Use it efficiently, I'd told him. The black glass desk was still the goal, but a thrill of pure, non-professional possibility ran through me. It was an acknowledgment of my value outside of the standard expense report…a silent, expensive salute to the 'asset.'
I moved to the suitcase Marshall had packed. I unzipped the canvas, expecting the familiar, predictable folds of my own wardrobe. Instead, I found a foreign collection of clothes—expensive, beautiful, and utterly not mine. He had filled the suitcase with high-end dresses, shoes, and silk garments. The gesture was both unnerving and deeply personal. He hadn't just arranged my travel…he had curated my appearance.
Nestled on top was a dress bag. I pulled it out and unzipped it, revealing a stunning maroon gown. The fabric was a heavy, fluid silk, the color a rich, deep scarlet—a defiant contrast to my usual palette. I held it up. It was a sleeveless, body-hugging column that dropped to the floor, but the detail that took my breath away was the back: a sleek, daring plunge that was nothing short of scandalous for a "Head of Editorial Integrity." It was designed to provoke a reaction.
He wasn't trying to make me look like a typical corporate drone; he was dressing the woman he saw on the ice rink. The woman he wanted to be noticed.
The sudden thought of the publisher's event galvanized me. This dress was not a defeat… it was a new weapon. If he wanted to showcase the "asset" in an intimidating, alluring color, I would give him a visual that broke all the rules of corporate restraint.
I stripped off my severe suit and slipped into the maroon silk. The fabric molded to my body with a thrilling intimacy, and the open back was a breath of cool air against my skin. The look was one of unapologetic, feminine authority.
A sharp, double knock on the door broke the spell.
"Viola, it's 7:00 PM. We need to leave," Kyle's voice commanded, professional and impatient.
I took one last look in the mirror, my reflection a shock of deep red against the ivory room. The war wasn't over, but I was ready for the parade.
I crossed the room and pulled the heavy door open.
Kyle's POV
I stood in the hallway, ready to deliver my impatient directive, prepared for the sight of her in a slightly-less-severe-but-still-chastely-gray skirt suit. The last thing I expected was to feel the air knocked clean out of my lungs.
She was standing in the doorway, framed by the soft lighting of the suite, a vision in deep maroon silk. The color was an assertive, passionate statement—a complete contradiction to her icy composure in the jet. The dress was a triumph of engineering and desire; it hugged her curves with liquid precision, drawing the eye down its sleek lines. But it was the back that truly stopped me: an uncompromising plunge that revealed the elegant line of her spine. It was a masterpiece of defiance, a visual middle finger to her own professionalism.
She wore the color of aggression and romance, and she looked devastating.
My carefully rehearsed instructions vanished. I felt the familiar, jarring lurch of obsession, magnified by the shock of her appearance. I hated that I had chosen the dress, and I hated that she wore it better than I could have imagined. I was the architect of my own undoing.
"We need to go," I managed, my voice a fraction deeper and rougher than I intended.
"I am ready, Mr. Lodge," she replied, her voice cool and perfectly level, the composure of her tone the only thing that hadn't changed. Her gaze was direct, challenging me to comment on the change.
I forced myself to meet her eye, not the plunging back. "Let's—let's keep to the schedule."
I turned abruptly, leading the way to the elevators, needing a moment to regain my composure. I had wanted a reaction, and I was the one who had been thoroughly gutted.
As we walked down the hall, I discreetly texted Marshall:
ME: Deep Red Roses. Huge. The most striking, romantic arrangement you can find. Deliver to Vi's room while we are at dinner. Now.
*MARSHALL: Noted. The 'Head of Editorial Integrity' is earning quite the bonus this trip. What's the occasion, big brother? *
*ME: Focus, Marshall. It's a purely professional gesture. *
*MARSHALL: Right. Like renting an ice rink. *
I ignored the response. The roses were not a gesture of apology or affection. They were a visceral, immediate acknowledgment of the beautiful, undeniable truth of her in that dress. A silent compliment that she couldn't dismiss as part of her "global security bonus."
Viola's POV
The National Gallery was hushed, vast, and steeped in the quiet reverence of history. The event, an intimate gathering of the UK's most influential media figures and scholars, was conducted beneath the soaring ceilings of the gallery's most prestigious wing.
Kyle Lodge had achieved the impossible. The main launch was set in the very room containing Vermeer's A Lady Standing at a Virginal.
As I stood near the velvet rope, waiting for Lodge to finish his photo op, my eyes were drawn to the painting. The woman in the portrait was utterly composed, her hands lightly touching the keyboard, her silhouette encased in a voluminous gold dress. She exuded wealth, stillness, and private thought.
It was an unsubtle, calculated insult. He was referencing the gold dress I had worn after the date, acknowledging that he knew I saw myself as a figure of composure and control, while simultaneously framing me against a woman who was literally trapped in a quiet, domestic moment of historical opulence. He had chosen the scene to remind me that I was beautiful, yes, but still a decorative asset in his meticulously ordered world.
But the sheer artistry of the move, the audacity of the logistics, and the exquisite beauty of the setting itself, forced a grudging admiration from me. Only Lodge would use a 17th-century masterpiece as a keynote background.
My eyes drifted from the Vermeer to the adjacent wall. The rich, moody depths of a Rembrandt portrait, then the explosive, vibrant energy of a nearby Turner landscape—the canvas seemed to catch fire with light. I felt a sudden, liberating shift in perspective. Lodge saw the Vermeer as a weapon. I would see the entire gallery as a new kind of freedom. The maroon dress suddenly felt less like a constraint and more like the bold stroke of a painter's brush against a neutral canvas.
I spent the next hour admiring the art, my professional duties temporarily forgotten. The Maroon Queen in the gold room, admiring the works of genius. It felt like a small, private victory.
Kyle's POV
The dinner was a success. Viola, despite her cold professionalism, had been an undeniable presence. Her maroon dress was the star, and the UK editors had been suitably impressed by her sharp, concise answers on complex international libel law. She was ruthless, intelligent, and utterly captivating.
After the guests departed, I led her to a small, private balcony overlooking the Thames. The air was cool, carrying the sound of distant traffic and the river's steady flow. Marshall had followed us, handing me two glasses of champagne before retreating indoors, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.
The silence returned, but this time, it was laced with the residual hum of the successful event and the tension of the maroon dress.
"To London," I offered, raising my glass.
"To the Vermeer," she countered, taking a slow sip. "It was an impressive logistical achievement, Mr. Lodge."
"I knew you'd appreciate the symbolism," I said, leaning against the cold stone railing. "A portrait of elegant, controlled wealth. And gold."
She let out a soft, humorless laugh. "I noticed. A subtle message that the asset is beautiful, but still very much contained."
The directness stung, but I admired it. "You are never contained, Vi. You just choose your battles."
She turned, her back to the Thames, looking directly at me. The soft lighting caught the elegant curve of her throat.
"Speaking of containment," she began, her voice suddenly losing its razor edge, becoming something softer, more hesitant. "Who was she? The woman who answered your phone Saturday night?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. The coldness, the professional deep-freeze, the reason for the maroon dress and the professional cage—it all clicked into place. She hadn't been upset about the date…she had been betrayed by the call.
"She... she was your girlfriend?" Viola asked, her eyes searching mine, a genuine vulnerability flashing through her professional veneer. "The disposable comfort you retreated to after I challenged you?"
I stared at her, genuinely surprised. "Viola, no. That was an old friend. She must have answered your call not knowing who you were and I wasn't in the room so I had no idea."
Her composure visibly faltered. Her eyes widened, and a faint flush crept up her neck. "Oh."
The confession felt like a profound release. The sudden relief in her eyes was more validating than any business deal. The rage I had misread as simple defiance was actually jealousy…a possessive reaction to a perceived infidelity.
"I see," she murmured, looking down at her glass. "Well. That certainly changes the symbolism of the black glass desk."
A genuine, private smile touched my lips. "It changes more than that. I sent you to Trevor hoping to clear my own head, but I was wrong to do so." I couldn't tell her I spent the rest of the night obsessed with her, so I shifted the focus. "What about Trevor? Was he the safe retreat I hoped he'd be?"
She took a decisive sip of champagne, her composure snapping back into place, but this time, it was a relaxed honesty.
"Trevor," she said, dismissively. "He's perfectly adequate, but not... challenging. He spent twenty minutes discussing paralegal certification requirements. I cut the date short. He's not the one at all. I don't have time for men right now."
I allowed myself a private, victorious inhale. The pathetic paralegal hadn't stood a chance. The maroon dress, the sharp wit, the fierce intelligence—they were all still directed at me, even if it was as an adversary. The war was very much still on, but the battlefield was now clear of false threats.
"So," I said, a slow, predatory confidence returning. "It's back to work, Vi?"
She looked at me, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "Always, Mr. Lodge. Now, tell me what you plan to acquire in this city."