The scent of deep red roses had lingered in the air all night, a silent, fragrant assurance that the game was still deliciously personal. The day began with a renewed sense of purpose. I was no longer the frightened pawn. I was the Queen, dressed in the spoils of war.
Our morning was a blur of high-level meetings at the UK publishing headquarters…all cold steel, glass, and ruthless efficiency. I was sharp, professional, and uncompromising, using my legal expertise to bat down every aggressive journalistic pitch. Kyle Lodge watched me with an unnerving intensity, a predator observing its prize in motion.
Around noon, we were back in the Bentley, heading toward our next venue.
"The Savoy was only booked for the launch," Kyle explained, glancing over at me. "Our next commitment is a high-society literary panel and fundraising dinner this evening. It's being held at a private club, and the logistics of securing two rooms nearby were, ironically, easier at the The Langham."
I merely nodded. "Understood. I'll review the club's code of conduct and charity affiliation documentation on the way."
The silence in the car was now a sophisticated, familiar rhythm. It was a space we both used to think, to plan, and to occasionally risk a quiet glance at one another.
We arrived at The Langham, a grand, pink-and-white confection of Victorian architecture. It felt less reserved than the Savoy, more openly luxurious. Marshall had already taken care of the luggage, and after a swift check-in, I was alone in my new suite…a stunning space dominated by a massive, bay-window view of Regent Street.
I looked at the corporate suitcase Kyle had packed for me. Today's event required evening wear. I pulled out the next dress.
It was a gown of deep emerald green velvet. The color was magnificent—rich, dramatic, and intensely flattering to my complexion. The cut was modern and clean, a high-neck halter that plunged low in the back and finished in a modest train. It was a dress that radiated quiet power, a color that signaled both confidence and intrigue.
He knows my colors, I thought, a shiver running through me. He was dressing me not just to be noticed, but to be admired by him.
I spent the next two hours prepping, my mind a whirl of protocols and social intelligence on the panel guests. I slipped into the emerald velvet at 6:30 PM. It felt perfect—a new armor for a new arena.
Kyle's POV
I was pacing my Langham suite, reviewing my talking points for the literary panel, but my focus was a sham. My eyes kept straying to the clock. I hated the wait, the agonising build-up before I saw her.
The morning had been both exhilarating and frustrating. Her professionalism was absolute; she had been a flawless extension of my will, a legal machine of devastating effectiveness. But the maroon dress was gone, and the tantalising scent of her perfume had faded.
I had arranged her new room, deliberately choosing one with softer lighting. I knew the next dress was green—Marshall had shown me the manifest of the bespoke wardrobe. But Marshall hadn't shown me this green.
I had tasked a concierge with getting a bouquet of White Lilies—a contrast to the green, a symbol of elegance and purity, the exact opposite of the blue lilies I had chosen to antagonise her with before. A clean slate. I had to know she understood that my focus was now singular, and that the flowers were no longer a calculated weapon, but a form of exquisite communication.
I was reaching for the phone to call her when there was a light knock. I opened the door to see Marshall, holding a small, flat box.
"A note for you, Kyle. From your concierge. The white lilies for Viola's room were out of stock. He improvised." Marshall handed me the box, his expression amused.
I ripped open the note. Mr. Lodge, apologies. Sourced a magnificent bouquet of deep forest green orchids instead. They match the lady's velvet perfectly.
A sharp, possessive warmth flooded my chest. The concierge, a man I had never met, understood my obsession better than I did. They match the lady's velvet perfectly.
"Send them up immediately," I commanded, thrusting the note back at Marshall. "And knock on Viola's door. Tell her I'll meet her downstairs in five minutes."
I stood in the marble foyer of The Langham, my impatience a tight knot in my gut. When the elevator doors opened, I didn't see the woman who had shared a quiet moment on a balcony with me; I saw the personification of the most dangerous intelligence I had ever encountered.
She stepped out in the emerald green velvet gown. The high neck was severe, but the sweep of the velvet was regal. The color was a deep, uncompromising statement of wealth and control, perfectly complementing her dark hair and fair skin. It was an intimidating, alluring perfection.
God, she's magnificent.
I straightened, smoothing my tuxedo jacket. "Viola," I acknowledged, keeping my voice level, professional.
"Mr. Lodge," she returned, walking toward me with a graceful, unhurried pace.
"Green," I stated, the single word a quiet compliment.
"A necessary contrast to the red," she replied, her eyes bright with challenge.
I allowed a faint, approving smile. "Let's go. We have a panel to impress." I didn't tell her about the orchids. I wanted the flowers to be a discovery, a silent reward waiting for her.
I offered my arm. She took it without hesitation, and we walked out to the waiting car, the connection of her hand on my arm a steadying, exhilarating presence. The scent of the velvet, the memory of her spine beneath the maroon silk, and the knowledge of the matching green orchids waiting in her room—it was all compounding into a magnificent, controlled fever. I needed to see her reaction to those flowers. I needed to know the communication had landed.
Viola's POV
The literary panel was a triumph. Kyle Lodge was dazzlingly articulate, weaving his narrative of genius and empathy with chilling precision. I played my role to perfection, standing slightly behind him, providing concise, legally sound answers that underscored his empire's intellectual rigor.
I had rushed back to the room immediately after the event. The scent hit me the moment I opened the door.
On the desk, next to the bay window, was a massive, modern arrangement of deep forest green orchids. The color was rare, almost black in the low light, but undeniably the exact shade of the velvet I had been wearing. They were exquisite, architectural, and completely unexpected.
I walked over, touching a cool, waxy petal. He hadn't just sent flowers; he had sent a match.
It was a powerful message: I see you. I see what you choose to wear. And I validate your choice with this expenditure.
It was a form of control, yes, but also a dizzying form of highly personalised attention. He was learning my rhythm, anticipating my moves, and rewarding the style I employed in his war.
I put my hand on the velvet where it met the high neck of the gown, feeling the residual warmth of the fabric. I was the painting, and he was the patron, constantly sending lavish frames to underscore the value of his possession.
I needed to break this pattern. The only way to win this game was to force him into a genuinely unpredictable move. The flower game was too easy for him.
I stripped off the gown, hanging the emerald velvet carefully. I walked to the marble counter of the bathroom, picked up my phone, and called Marshall.
"Marshall," I said, my voice low and businesslike. "This is Viola. I need you to tell Mr. Lodge something. Not now. But tomorrow morning, before we leave."
"Viola," Marshall answered, a tired chuckle in his voice. "I figured you'd call. What's the directive?"
"Tell him," I paused, looking at the spectacular green orchids, "that my corporate card is going to be used today. And the purchase will be for something completely unnecessary and completely un-returnable."
I smiled, a cold, satisfied expression reflected in the glass. The war had just escalated to an entirely new level: the financial equivalent of a psychological checkmate.