Viola's POV
The next morning, the Langham suite felt like a luxurious war room, scented with the intoxicating perfume of deep green orchids. The battle plan was simple: disruption. I had to shake Kyle out of his comfortable rhythm of control and reaction. He could anticipate my defiance; he could not anticipate my irrationality.
I was back in my tailored gray suit—professional armor for the morning's meetings—but my mind was on the black corporate card.
At 9:00 AM, Marshall knocked on my door. He looked slightly stressed, his usual composure ruffled.
"Viola," he said, stepping into the hall. "I delivered your message to Kyle. He received it with... interest. He's currently waiting for the transaction notification to come across his secure line." Marshall lowered his voice. "He was expecting an office supply order. When I mentioned 'unnecessary and un-returnable,' he actually put his coffee cup down. It was a beautiful thing."
I allowed myself a private, victorious smile. "Good. Tell him to brace himself. The purchase is complete."
I closed the door, walked to the desk, and pulled up a secure browser. I had spent the last hour meticulously crafting the order. It was audacious, frivolous, and utterly perfect. I entered the card details and confirmed the transaction for a substantial five-figure sum.
The item: A custom, 24-karat gold-plated typewriter.
It was a piece of pure, non-functional sculpture—an objet d'art designed for a collector who valued absurdity over utility. It was utterly useless for a Head of Editorial Integrity and could not possibly be returned. The description alone would infuriate his sense of efficient investment. I knew the transaction notification would carry the vendor's name: a high-end, bespoke luxury goods store known for its eccentric clientele.
I walked to the closet and started packing my suit. The satisfaction was intense. He had given me limitless, non-work-related spending power as a psychological test of my values. My answer was gold-plated, expensive, and a complete waste of corporate resources.
Marshall appeared at the door five minutes later, a strangled chuckle escaping him. "He knows. His security console just lit up like a Christmas tree. He's demanding a briefing."
"Tell him I'll brief him in the car," I replied, grabbing my briefcase. "I have to catch a flight to Paris."
Kyle's POV
The notification hit my secure device with the auditory aggression of an unwelcome alarm. The vendor's name, the ridiculous cost, and the associated product description—24-Karat Gold Plated Typewriter (Collector's Item)—flashed across the screen.
I stared at the words, the precise, elegant cruelty of her move hitting me with the force of a physical blow. A gold-plated typewriter. It was not a desk. It was not a trip. It was not a piece of art. It was a monument to non-functionality.
I slammed the screen down on my desk. "She bought a bloody typewriter?" I snarled, pacing the room.
Marshall, leaning casually against the door frame, looked thoroughly delighted. "A gold one, yes. She said to tell you the purchase is complete, and she'll brief you in the car on the way to the airport. Paris is the next stop, by the way. You have an interview with the Revue Littéraire."
My frustration immediately morphed into reluctant, scorching admiration. She hadn't just used the card; she had inverted the entire purpose of the "global security bonus." She had spent an outrageous amount of my money on something that gave her pure, unadulterated personal gratification and absolute professional detachment. The gold typewriter was the ultimate statement: Your money means nothing to me, except as a tool for my own amusement.
"Have the car brought around now," I commanded, grabbing my passport. The flight plan to Paris was already set, but the terms of engagement had shifted violently. I was no longer observing the asset; I was chasing the target.
I waited in the Bentley, the familiar knot of anxiety returning, mixed with a rush of feverish anticipation. I had to see her face when she explained the typewriter.
When she slid into the seat next to me, she was the picture of perfect, unassailable composure in her gray suit.
"Good morning, Mr. Lodge," she greeted, her voice cool and perfectly level.
I didn't waste a moment on pleasantries. "The typewriter, Vi. Explain the acquisition."
She met my gaze, a dangerous light dancing in her eyes. "It's a functional piece of art, Mr. Lodge. It represents the value of language, the weight of words. And as Head of Editorial Integrity, I thought it important to invest in the literal golden standard of the publishing industry."
Her irony was sharp, cutting through my business pretense. "It costs more than some of my editors make in a year, and it serves no practical purpose! It's an unmitigated expense!"
She leaned back, her expression serene. "Precisely. You offered me unlimited spending power as a psychological test of my priorities. I believe I have now successfully demonstrated that my priorities are unpredictable and entirely unrelated to your profit margins. The acquisition is complete, and it is a powerful piece of psychological warfare against the expectation of containment. It's an un-returnable checkmate, Mr. Lodge."
I stared at her, utterly defeated and completely exhilarated. "You are an absolute menace."
"I am the ruthless asset you paid for, Mr. Lodge," she countered, pulling out her French market brief. "Now, should we discuss the legal implications of the Revue Littéraire interview, or would you prefer to review the shipping manifests for my new office sculpture?"
I fell back against the seat, a low laugh escaping me. She was brilliant. She was infuriating. And she had just won the financial skirmish.
"The French briefing, Vi," I conceded. "And ensure that ridiculous thing is delivered directly to my New York penthouse. I want to look at the gold-plated monument to your defiance every single day."
Viola's POV
We landed in Paris in the early afternoon, the transition as seamless and luxurious as ever. The next accommodation was the Ritz Paris, a monument to old-world glamor and discreet exclusivity.
The afternoon was spent in a dizzying round of high-pressure preparation for the evening's dinner and interview. I didn't see Kyle again until 7:30 PM, just before we had to leave.
The dress I chose for the Paris evening was another brilliant choice from the surprise wardrobe: a gown of soft, flowing amethyst silk. The color was luxurious, deep purple…the color of royalty and intrigue. The design was fluid and elegant, draping beautifully with thin, crisscrossed straps over the back.
I put it on, feeling the weight of the silk and the subtle power the color imparted. It was an imperial look, perfect for the grand settings of Paris.
A few minutes after I was dressed, a knock came at the door. I opened it to a bellman holding a massive, flat box.
"For Mademoiselle," he said with a respectful nod.
I signed for the delivery and closed the door. I knew what it was. He had already seen the purple and it was the last dress in the bag. The rest I'd need to purchase tomorrow afternoon. He was so predictable, yet the predictability was the ultimate flattery.
I opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of tissue, was a spectacular arrangement of deep purple calla lilies. They were not roses or common orchids…they were elegant, almost architectural, with a velvety texture that perfectly complemented the amethyst silk.
The color, the thought, the immediate, overwhelming response to the color of my dress—it was his way of saying, I see you, and I approve of your power.
I picked up one of the lilies, the curved bloom cool against my cheek. He was predictable in his obsession, and that predictability was becoming a dangerous comfort.
The gold typewriter was still the greater victory, but the purple lilies were a beautiful reminder of the battle being fought on all fronts. I smiled, a small, genuine expression of appreciation. He could buy my attention, but he couldn't buy my intelligence. He could only buy the flowers that complimented them both.
I looked at the lilies. "We're going to have a very interesting dinner, Kyle Lodge."