Viola's POV
I woke up alone, and the silence of the room was the loudest sound I had ever heard. The ginger orange dress was a crumpled memory on the floor, and the sound of Kyle's final words—"I won't turn you into a midnight transaction"—echoed in my head with the infuriating, seductive finality of a closing argument.
The man was a menace.
He had won the financial skirmish with the lilies, the psychological war with the gold typewriter, and now, he had just won the battle for my immediate, absolute attention by refusing to take what I was offering. He had turned a moment of feverish, mutual surrender into a declaration of intent. By denying himself, he had validated my worth beyond a mere convenience. He was making a bid for permanence, and that was a threat far greater than any hostile takeover.
I showered quickly, scrubbing the scent of his cologne and the phantom heat of his touch from my skin. The war was officially no longer about Editorial Integrity; it was a scorched-earth campaign for my personal equilibrium.
I pulled on a severe, charcoal-gray travel suit—a literal suit of armor—and packed the ginger orange gown into a laundry bag with a vengeful snap of the zipper. My eyes fell on the simple, elegant Van Cleef & Arpels watch I had bought. It was a subtle, beautiful piece, and it was the only thing I allowed myself to wear today as a quiet reminder: I had my own resources, my own time, and my own value.
I walked out to the waiting car at 7:00 AM sharp. The air was cool, the Parisian streets a blur of gray stone and morning mist.
Kyle was already in the car, reading a digital news brief. He looked perfectly composed, his tie straight, his suit impeccable. The predator had returned to his corporate mask, but the air between us felt thin, charged.
"Good morning, Vi," he greeted, his voice low, lacking the professional cadence of Mr. Lodge. He did not mention last night. He didn't have to.
I met his gaze, my expression cool. "Good morning, Kyle. I've reviewed the Milan schedule. We have an acquisition meeting with Moda Finanza at 11:00 AM."
He smiled, a slow, appreciative curve of the lips. "Efficient, as always. But I have one logistical change. We won't be flying directly to Milan, Vi."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? A detour?"
"Yes," he confirmed, setting his device down. "We're flying to St. Moritz first. The Moda Finanza meeting is in the afternoon, but the morning is dedicated to a procurement exercise."
I narrowed my eyes. St. Moritz. A ski town in the Swiss Alps. "I wasn't aware I needed to acquire ski equipment."
"You don't," he said, the smile widening, the playful light back in his eyes. "I've arranged for an executive to meet us there with a briefcase full of non-work-related documents. And I've arranged for us to take a short, private, incredibly expensive sleigh ride through the mountains before we board the final flight."
He had already turned the "date" into a multi-city logistical puzzle, blending the high-stakes world of corporate travel with an utterly frivolous, romantic gesture. It was exhausting and brilliant.
"A sleigh ride," I repeated flatly. "In Switzerland. I'm wearing a travel suit, Kyle."
"I've taken the liberty of purchasing the necessary attire. It's waiting for you on the plane," he replied, his victory absolute. "Consider it part of the 'necessary psychological warfare against containment.' I won't stop the war, Vi. I'm just changing the venue."
Kyle's POV
The corporate jet was a haven of polished wood and soft leather. The flight to St. Moritz was short and surprisingly quiet. The tension from the previous night had settled into a heavy, mutual awareness—less explosive, more insistent.
I watched her from across the aisle. She had a file open, but her eyes kept drifting to the window. Her body language was one of contained defiance; her charcoal suit was the visual opposite of the ginger orange fire I had fought so hard to walk away from. The Van Cleef watch on her wrist was a beautiful, elegant new addition—her second trophy of the week.
She was calculating her next move. I knew it. She wouldn't buy another typewriter; she would buy something impossibly useful, but just as infuriatingly priced.
When the flight attendant delivered a box to her seat, she gave me a sharp look.
"The 'necessary attire'?" she inquired, her voice dry.
"Only the warmest, most impractical luxury winter wear available in Paris on three hours' notice," I confirmed. "I believe the color is Winter Plum."
The plum-colored ensemble was precisely as over-the-top as expected: a tailored, cashmere-lined ski coat, perfectly fitted black leather pants, and a set of custom-made, calf-length patent leather boots. It was less a practical outfit and more a high-fashion declaration of war against the cold.
She disappeared into the bedroom to change. I used the moment to review my own strategy. I had to maintain the high ground. I had promised a date, and I had to deliver an experience that was so singularly us—blending luxury, absurdity, and high-pressure logistics—that it was impossible to categorize as anything other than a courtship.
She emerged a few minutes later, and the sight of her in the plum coat and the gleaming black boots was a physical blow. The outfit was severe, yet impossibly sexy, a perfect match for her air of controlled intensity. She looked like an alpine assassin.
"The boots are impractical for snow," she stated, sliding back into her seat.
"They are, however, excellent for a sleek exit from a high-end chalet," I countered, allowing a genuine smile. "I believe that's the true intent of luxury, Vi. Utility is secondary to effect."
"And the function of the sleigh ride, Kyle?"
I leaned across the aisle, my voice dropping. "The function, Vi, is to force us into a state of temporary, physical vulnerability. The cold, the isolation, the sheer ridiculousness of the moment. I want to see your defenses crack when you're forced to rely on me to keep you warm."
She stared at me for a long moment, the purple of her coat reflecting in the dark intensity of her eyes.
"You are honest to a fault," she murmured.
"I decided last night that lies are a waste of time," I confessed, the last word carrying a weight that extended far beyond business. "I want you to know exactly what you're fighting."
The jet landed smoothly in Samedan. The air was crisp, bitingly cold, and utterly still. A black car was waiting, and beside it, a beautiful, antique wooden sleigh hitched to a magnificent, black horse.
The executive was waiting nearby, holding a slim briefcase. "Mr. Lodge. The documents you requested," he said, handing the case to Marshall.
"Excellent. You're dismissed," I replied. I turned to Viola. "The case contains the blueprints for the most beautiful, functional, and ridiculously expensive home I'm currently having built outside Milan. We are going to review them in the sleigh, Vi. I need your Head of Editorial Integrity eyes on the fine print."
I offered her my hand. "Shall we?"
Viola sighed, a sound that held a fraction of exasperation and a greater measure of exhilarating defeat. She took my hand—soft plum cashmere glove against hard leather—and stepped out onto the cold tarmac.
The war had moved to the Alps.