The city lights of London shimmered on the Thames, a vast, glittering expanse that mirrored the sudden, startling expansion of possibility in my mind. Jenna, a disposable woman. The revelation…and the subsequent, quiet admission from Viola that the pathetic paralegal was a non-factor…had not just cleared the air; it had entirely demolished the wall of icy resentment that separated us.
She was still standing by the railing, the deep maroon silk of the dress absorbing the soft light, and the silence now felt like a shared confidence, not a weapon.
I watched her finish her champagne. Without conscious thought, I reached out, my fingers naturally finding the delicate stem of her empty glass. Instinctively, I took it from her, placing both our flutes on a nearby stone ledge. The movement was intimate, efficient, and entirely unscripted.
"The night is done, Vi," I said, using her name with a sudden, possessive ease. "Let's get you back to the hotel."
I turned toward the door leading back into the suite, and again, without preamble or permission, I reached out and took her hand. Her skin was warm, smooth, and shockingly small inside my own. She didn't pull away. The contact was an electric tether, pulling me through the ornate parlor and back down the hushed corridors.
I was so consumed by the feeling of her hand in mine—the natural, perfect fit—that I didn't realise the magnitude of the gesture until we reached the waiting limousine. Marshall was already holding the door.
My hand still gripped hers as she paused on the threshold of the car. It was only when she shifted to slide into the back seat that I was forced to let go. The immediate, sharp absence of her touch on my palm was a physical ache, a sudden, cold vacuum. I hated it.
The drive back to the hotel was quiet, a gentle, companionable silence that was a universe away from the armed tension of our morning flight. I watched the play of streetlights on her face, noting the relaxed set of her mouth. The maroon dress was a constant, glorious distraction.
When the limo pulled up to the Savoy, the night felt far from over. We ascended in the elevator…Viola, Marshall, and I. I barely noticed Marshall.
We stepped out onto our floor. Marshall gave us a brief nod and disappeared into his own room, leaving us alone in the deep-carpeted hallway, the two doors…mine and hers, directly opposite…staring us down.
"A highly successful engagement, Vi," I said, leaning casually against the door frame, deliberately prolonging the moment.
She smiled then, a flash of genuine, un-armored delight that was devastating. "It was. Thank you for the setup. I haven't had that much fun admiring a painting since I was twelve."
"I...I meant the networking," I corrected, my voice betraying my own distraction.
"I know," she conceded, the amusement in her eyes sharp and knowing. "But the art was a better prize."
She moved toward her door, and I followed, needing that last moment of contact.
"Goodnight, Kyle," she said, using my first name, the sound of it a sudden, intimate warmth in the sterile hallway.
"Goodnight, Viola," I replied, the formality of her full name a shield against the rush of emotion.
I stepped forward, closing the final inch between us, and wrapped my arms around her. The hug was meant to be brief—a professional, polite end to a successful evening. But the silk of the maroon dress felt impossibly soft beneath my hands, and I could feel the elegant curve of her back, the area I had dressed and obsessed over. Her arms were light around my waist, and I inhaled deeply. Her perfume…a complex, subtle scent of cedar and something floral, entirely unique…was intoxicating.
We lingered. The hug lasted far longer than was appropriate, or intended.
Finally, I drew back, my fingers brushing her shoulder before I forced myself to retreat. I watched her turn the handle of her door, the maroon silk swirling around her.
I walked into my room, the expensive suite suddenly feeling too quiet, too large, and entirely empty. I leaned my head against the cool wood of the closed door, the simple, devastating memory looping through my mind:
• Her hand in mine, a perfect fit.
• The light brush of my fingers against her exposed back in that impossible maroon dress.
• The scent of her perfume, a complex signature of her identity.
• Her smile…genuine, unguarded, and directed solely at me.
That smile, that unexpected touch, that scent—it was a sensory assault. It didn't feel like a victory…it felt like a terrifying, necessary defeat. I was, professionally and emotionally, compromised.
I walked to the window, staring blindly at the London night. I had to focus on the plan. I had to contain the asset. I had to remember she was a commodity. But all I could feel was the phantom weight of her small hand in mine.
Viola's POV
I closed the door to my suite, leaning against the cool wood, a rush of conflicting emotions washing over me. The relief of knowing Jenna was just a friend, but the prolonged hug, the ease of saying his first name…it all felt like a dangerous, profound loss of the control I had just fought so hard to regain.
The sound of his name on my lips, coupled with the intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne still lingering on the maroon silk of the dress, was a heady mix. He was a complication, a beautiful, intelligent villain—but he was mine to fight, and I preferred his dangerous attention to Trevor's safe, predictable normalcy.
I walked toward the large, four-poster bed to hang up the dress.
Then I stopped.
Resting right in the center of the pristine white duvet was a colossal, stunning bouquet of deep, velvet-red roses. Hundreds of them, perfectly arranged, their petals the exact color of the dress I was wearing…a vibrant, passionate, non-negotiable scarlet.
It was breathtaking. The sheer expense, the speed of the delivery, the symbolism…it was unmistakable. This was not a 'security bonus.' This was a visceral, personal communication.
I walked closer, inhaling the rich, heavy perfume of the flowers. They were a direct, silent acknowledgment of the woman he saw in the maroon dress—the defiant, passionate, beautiful challenger. They were an admission that he, too, had been overwhelmed by the emotional shift of the evening.
There was no card. There was no message. Just the roses.
I reached out, touching a cool, dewy petal. The gesture was reckless, over-the-top, and entirely non-professional. It was an aesthetic triumph, an offering to the Queen he had dressed.
A soft, genuine laugh escaped my lips. He had seen the maroon dress, and he had sent the matching army.
"Damn you, Kyle Lodge," I whispered, the words filled with a mix of genuine fury and intoxicating admiration. "You are not supposed to be this charming."
I peeled myself out of the maroon dress, hanging it carefully in the armoire. Then, I sat on the edge of the bed, the heavy, sweet scent of the roses filling the room, and I smiled.
He didn't see commodities. He saw women he wanted to conquer, and for the first time, the roses made me feel like the prize was worth fighting for, even if that prize was just the thrilling, intellectual intimacy of the conflict. I would keep fighting him, but now I had a magnificent red army watching over me.