Viola's POV
The sleigh ride was pure, cinematic fantasy. We were wrapped in an enormous, fur-lined blanket, the only sound the soft shush of the runners over the packed snow and the rhythmic clop of the horse's hooves. The Swiss Alps rose around us, impossibly majestic, and the air was so cold it burned the lungs.
I pulled the briefcase onto my lap and opened it. Inside were not business documents, but the architectural drawings for a sweeping, contemporary villa on the shores of Lake Como.
"You said you needed my eyes on the fine print," I said, looking up at him.
"I do," Kyle replied, his breath fogging in the air. "The fine print is that I don't want to build it alone. I want an opinion that values substance over flair. Now, tell me about the kitchen. Is the island large enough for true culinary chaos?"
He was giving me control over the most intimate, personal asset a man can own: his home. The offer was staggering.
We spent the next fifteen minutes discussing sightlines, light quality, and the strategic placement of a home office. It was a conversation of profound intimacy disguised as a corporate review, and I found myself leaning in, genuinely captivated by the scale and vision of his project.
He was right. The cold, the absurdity of the sleigh, the sheer scale of the Alps—it was breaking my composure. I was relaxed, engaged, and terrifyingly close to forgetting that he was my employer.
"The placement of the master suite is excellent," I conceded, tracing a line on the blueprint. "It offers absolute privacy, but a clear, commanding view of the lake."
"I value a commanding view, Vi," he murmured, his gaze on me, not the plans.
I snapped the briefcase shut. "You win. The sleigh ride, the plum coat, the house plans. It's a perfect operation. Now, let's get to Milan and talk about the Moda Finanza acquisition before you force me to buy a chalet."
He reached out and gently brushed a stray snowflake from my cheek, his gloved thumb lingering on my skin.
"Not yet," he said, his voice quiet.
He opened the small, hidden compartment under the sleigh seat. He pulled out a slender, velvet-wrapped box and placed it on my lap. It was small, heavy, and completely unexpected.
"A parting gift for the Alps," he said.
"Kyle, I am not accepting..."
"It's not an investment, Vi. It's an instruction," he cut in. "You have Milan, you have Moda Finanza, you have the chaos of the fashion world. I need you to have a weapon that reminds you of your own quiet power in that noise."
I opened the box. Inside, nestled in the black velvet, was a single, perfect diamond tennis bracelet. It was classic, understated, and blindingly elegant—a perfect, eternal circle of white fire. It was a piece that spoke of permanence and value, not frivolous expense.
"It's unnecessary," I whispered, the absurdity of the moment hitting me—sitting in a sleigh, discussing a multi-million-dollar home, being gifted a diamond bracelet.
"It's a necessary reminder," he insisted, taking the bracelet out. "Your elegance is your weapon. Now, hold out your wrist."
The moment his fingers touched my bare skin to clasp the bracelet, the cold of the Alps vanished. The diamond was cold, but his touch was a searing promise.
"You are an absolute menace," I said again, the words this time stripped of all venom, carrying only a profound, dizzying surrender.
"I am the ruthless asset you paid for," he countered, quoting my own words back to me. "But I'm only interested in servicing one client, Vi."
The sleigh stopped. Marshall was waiting, the car door open. Milan was next. The war for editorial integrity was over; the war for my heart was in a full-scale, diamond-plated escalation.
Kyle's POV
The private jet landed in Milan Linate Airport, and the mood immediately shifted from alpine romance to the sharp, focused energy of corporate acquisition. The diamonds on Viola's wrist flashed in the Italian sun—a constant, infuriating reminder of my own lack of control.
"Marshall," I commanded, stepping onto the tarmac, my voice crisp. "Have the logistics team confirm the final bid figures for Moda Finanza. And arrange a discreet security detail for Ms. Abbott. The fashion crowd is notoriously sticky-fingered."
Marshall, ever the composed operator, nodded. "Already done, Kyle. And I took the liberty of updating the flower situation. Since Milan is all about textiles and volume, I've had her suite filled with white hydrangeas. Massive, non-functional blooms. An investment in floral inefficiency."
I stopped, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Excellent, Marshall. A bouquet of pure, beautiful clutter. She'll hate the implied waste."
"I thought you'd appreciate the psychological consistency," he deadpanned, following me to the waiting Maserati. "I also saw the transaction notification for the tennis bracelet. Very subtle. Very 'I own the entire Alps now' chic."
"It was a necessary instruction," I countered, sliding into the back seat. "A tool of war."
"Right. And I'm just waiting for the charge to come through for a custom-made, gold-plated security helmet," Marshall muttered. "Because she is going to give you a concussion."
Viola slid in beside me, looking immaculate in the plum coat, her composure returned. The diamond bracelet was tucked under the cuff of the coat, a secret weapon only I knew about.
"The Moda Finanza acquisition relies entirely on their proprietary digital metrics," she stated, opening her Milan brief. "We need to ensure their data integrity is bulletproof. I've prepared a twenty-point audit protocol that requires a full six hours."
"We have two hours, Vi," I corrected. "We have a pre-acquisition dinner tonight, and I need you at peak ruthlessness."
"Two hours is not sufficient for a proper audit," she argued, turning to face me.
"Two hours is sufficient for you to establish intellectual dominance," I countered, leaning in. "You don't need to read the fine print; you need to make them feel the weight of your presence. Wear the tennis bracelet tonight. It will look like a declaration of immediate wealth. They'll cave before the appetizers."
Her eyes flashed. "You want me to use a gift as corporate intimidation?"
"I want you to use everything at your disposal, including my obsession, to win," I replied, the honesty sharp. "It's the ultimate synergy, Vi. My resources, your talent."
She held my gaze for a long, silent moment, then nodded once, a sharp concession. "Fine. But I am adding a clause to the contract: A full, post-acquisition data scrubbing protocol."
"Deal," I said, leaning back, the corner of my mouth twitching up. "Now, tell me about the fashion show tonight. Which of your new Parisian suits are you deploying?"
"None of the suits," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "I'm debuting a new acquisition. The one that came from the small, expensive boutique."
I raised an eyebrow. "I haven't seen a transaction for a sixth gown."
"It wasn't a gown," she said, and a flash of pure, unapologetic mischief lit her eyes. "I bought a magnificent, three-quarter length, vintage Midnight Black Fox Fur Stole."
Marshall, who had been listening silently, actually choked on his own breath. I looked at Viola, a slow, appreciative realization dawning.
"A fur stole," I breathed. "A piece of pure, anachronistic, high-value, and utterly controversial luxury."
"It is utterly useless for Editorial Integrity," Viola confirmed, her voice utterly devoid of remorse. "It is un-returnable, morally dubious, and I will wear it over a simple, severe black column dress. It is a symbol of my total disregard for modern convention and my absolute commitment to my own comfort and style."
I threw my head back and laughed—a loud, genuine sound of pure delight. "You are magnificent, Vi. You've topped the typewriter. I want to look at the shipping manifest for that thing every day."