I woke up to the soft Parisian light filtering through the Ritz curtains, the scent of purple lilies and the phantom touch of Kyle's fingers on my shoulder still clinging to the air. The headphones I ordered were a necessary defense, but today, I chose indulgence instead. The war could wait a few hours.
After a necessary espresso, I headed straight for the hotel spa. I allowed myself two hours of pure, professional pampering—a quiet, systematic dismantling of stress that left me feeling relaxed and dangerous.
Next, it was time to deploy the corporate card in earnest. The gold typewriter was a statement of principle, but now I needed to focus on the future. I directed the driver to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, ready for a ruthless, efficient spending spree.
I selected five new evening gowns for the upcoming months—dresses that ranged from severely architectural to brazenly feminine, covering the entire spectrum of my professional and personal arsenal. They were an investment in my presence, a collection of beautiful, expensive armor.
My last stop was a small, elegant boutique, and this time, the purchases were purely for pleasure. I bought a double scoop of ice cream, savoring the cold, sweet distraction. Then, I walked into Van Cleef & Arpels. I emerged an hour later with a delicate feminine watch…a gold bracelet with a simple, elegant face…and two subtle, breathtaking rings and a classic necklace. They were elegant, quiet symbols of success, chosen not for their cost, but for their timeless beauty.
I returned to the Ritz, feeling renewed and strategically fortified. The war with Kyle Lodge was about power and attention. By using his own resources to refine my arsenal and indulge my senses, I was proving that I was my own ultimate asset.
Kyle's POV
My morning ritual was the antithesis of Viola's Parisian indulgence. I spent two hours at a high-end gym, channeling the intense frustration of the previous night into a blistering kickboxing session with Marshall.
"You're hitting the bag like it slept with your Head of Editorial Integrity," Marshall grunted, dodging a hook.
"It owes me the gold typewriter, Marshall," I replied, my voice strained with effort.
Back in my suite, I settled at the writing table and opened my laptop. I wasn't reviewing the day's financial reports; I was working on my manuscript.
I typed a new scene, a quiet, intimate moment where the hero finally admits, not to the heroine, but to his own private journal, that her intellectual defiance is the only thing that sustains him. It was a concession to the emotional truth I couldn't speak aloud.
My focus broke when my secure device pinged—the transaction notifications from the corporate card. I scanned the list: High-end Parisian Couture, Van Cleef & Arpels...
My breath hitched. The five dresses—I didn't know the colors, but I knew the intent. And the watch, the necklace, the rings—all the beautiful, unnecessary luxuries she now wore as quiet symbols of her worth.
"She's preparing for a campaign, Marshall," I murmured, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across my face. "She's acquiring the tools of war."
"She's spending your money on pretty things, Kyle," Marshall corrected dryly.
"No," I countered, looking at the notification. "She's wearing my obsession. I need to see the main acquisition. What is she wearing tonight?"
The event tonight was a private dinner at a magnificent old Parisian museum, followed by a quick overnight flight to Milan. The Bentley collected us both from the Ritz, taking us directly to a smaller, more discreet hotel near the museum—a logistical necessity to minimise travel time before the flight.
I waited in the newly-assigned hotel suite, the anticipation a fever in my blood. I had already made my move. I'd found out the color of her gown through a quick, discreet call to the concierge who had handled the delivery: Ginger Orange.
I immediately ordered a massive bouquet of orange roses, the most vibrant, aggressive shade I could find, and had them placed on her bed as a silent, immediate validation of her choice. The flower game was predictable, yes, but it was now a shared language—a rapid-fire compliment.
When she finally emerged from her room, I was entirely unprepared.
She was devastating in the ginger orange gown. The color was pure heat, an explosion of light against her skin and dark hair. The cut was bold: a high, sweeping neckline that plunged to an open back and a daring high slit that revealed a long, tantalizing line of her leg with every step. The dress seemed to hang off her shoulders, barely restrained, a perfect expression of contained, yet irresistible, passion.
The sight of the new Van Cleef pieces—the simple watch, the delicate necklace—added a layer of polished, feminine authority.
"The color is... assertive, Vi," I managed, my voice strained.
"It's a color of creative confidence, Kyle," she replied, her eyes bright with challenge. "Perfect for a museum setting."
The event was agony. We navigated the rooms of the museum, surrounded by priceless art, but the only masterpiece I could focus on was the woman beside me. Her perfume, her bare back, the flash of her leg through the orange silk—it was a visual and sensual assault. The entire evening was a tightrope walk over a chasm of mutual, unspoken desire. Every glance, every shared joke, every professional deference was a thin veneer over the intense urges we were both suppressing.
Finally, we were back at the smaller hotel, standing outside her door, the low light of the hallway enveloping us. The end of the night. The end of our self-control.
I reached for her, my hands gripping her arms, pulling her close. "This silence, Vi," I whispered, my voice rough. "It's a lie. The entire week has been a lie."
Her arms went around my neck, the amethyst scent mixing with the ginger silk. The resistance was gone, replaced by a fierce, answering hunger.
"I know," she breathed, her forehead touching mine, her eyes closing. "The lilies, the typewriter, the lies..."
She didn't wait for me to close the last gap. She tilted her head up, pulling my mouth down to hers.
Viola kissed me…first.
It was a reckless, immediate surrender—a desperate, open-mouth collision that was nothing like the calculated moves of the last week. It was all the pent-up tension of the ice rink, the venom of the gold typewriter, the possessive claim of the flowers, and the shared intimacy of the Pinots—all exploding in one perfect, undeniable moment.
I crushed her to me, my hands finding the curve of her exposed back, the orange silk impossibly soft. The kiss deepened, a consuming, urgent claim that made the sophisticated chaos of Paris fade into a low, irrelevant hum. The war was over. The surrender was complete.
The kiss was a cataclysm. It wasn't the tentative exploration of first contact; it was a hungry, immediate consumption—the forced convergence of two weeks of relentless psychological tension. The ginger orange silk of her dress was a sheet of fire against my hands as I crushed her against the cold wood of the hallway door. Her mouth was open, her urgency mirroring my own, and the sophisticated perfume—the cedar and floral signature—was a potent, mind-numbing aphrodisiac.
I broke the kiss, dragging my mouth away with a rough, guttural sound of pure need, not because I wanted to, but because I had to. The kiss had instantly vaporized every last shred of my self-control, rendering the entire week of calculated strategy pointless. I was a man on the edge of a consuming fire, and if I didn't pull back now, I would burn the entire empire down for one night with her.
I rested my forehead against hers, both of us breathing heavily, the silence of the luxury hallway roaring in my ears. I still held her tightly, one hand buried in the soft, flowing silk near her waist, the other flat against the warm skin of her exposed back.
"Viola," I managed, my voice a strained, broken whisper. It was the only word I could trust.
She kept her eyes closed, pressing closer, her lips seeking the line of my jaw. "Don't stop, Kyle. Don't you dare stop now."
The honesty was intoxicating. The physical hunger was unbearable. The scent of her—the ginger silk, the perfume, the metallic tang of pure, raw desire—was driving me insane.
I gently, agonisingly, put my hands on her shoulders and pushed back just far enough to look into her eyes. They were dark, dilated, and blazing with a confusion and need that mirrored my own.
"We stop," I commanded, my voice surprisingly steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "We stop now."
The disappointment in her eyes was immediate, sharp, and cut me deeper than any business failure. She started to pull away, her composure beginning to return, her expression shifting to the familiar, defensive ice.
I held her steady. "I have wanted to do that, to take you, since the moment I saw you in that baby blue dress," I confessed, the words raw and true. "Tonight, standing in this hallway, I want to take you to my room, take that dress off, and spend the next twelve hours proving that every thought you've had about me is true."
I leaned in, my mouth close to her ear, letting the heat of my confession sink into her skin. "But I'm not going to. I won't turn you into a midnight transaction, Vi. You're worth so much more to me. I can't just give into my urges right now. Not after the flowers. Not after the typewriter. Not after that kiss."
I pulled back again, forcing her to look at me, my gaze intense and absolute. "You and I... this isn't a casual fling or a one-night release of tension. I'm not some disposable comfort you retreat to. And you are certainly not a commodity."
I finally relinquished my hold, forcing space between us, the cold air hitting the ginger silk. I was shaking.
"I am going to take you on a date, Viola," I stated, the command wrapped in an entirely new promise. "A proper, real date. No business, no politics, no psychological warfare. Just you, me, and a conversation that lasts longer than a flight across the Atlantic."
I reached out and simply turned the handle of her door. "Goodnight, Vi. Get some sleep. We have Milan in the morning, and I expect you to have acquired a stunning gown that necessitates a different type of flower."
I walked back to my room without looking back, slamming the door shut. I leaned against it, closing my eyes, the ghost of her kiss and the scent of ginger silk still heavy on my lips. The act of self-denial was the single most difficult, necessary conquest of my career. I had won the battle against my own immediate desire, but only because the ultimate prize…the full, unhurried attention of Viola…was worth the wait.