Viola's POV
The hotel suite at the Bulgari was stunning, but I barely registered the clean lines of the Italian design. The room was dominated by an impossible, overwhelming, almost suffocating mass of white hydrangeas. They were everywhere: in massive urns, on the bedside tables, even crammed onto the desk.
It was ridiculous. It was offensive. And it was a spectacular compliment.
I marched into the adjoining sitting room, where Marshall was setting up a secure video feed.
"The hydrangeas," I stated, my voice dangerously level.
Marshall didn't flinch. "Yes, Miss Cage. Mr. Lodge requested a floral environment that was 'voluminous, relentlessly white, and completely non-toxic but suggested the faint scent of corporate surrender.' I believe he meant they look nice, but you can't eat them."
I felt the corner of my mouth twitching, but I immediately suppressed it. "Tell Mr. Lodge that I have officially registered the purchase of the Fox Fur Stole on the expense report with the description: 'Necessary insulation against Kyle Lodge's emotional coldness and financial arrogance.' "
Marshall slowly packed up his laptop. "I will convey the sentiment, Miss Cage. Though I think that description might trigger a 'High-Value Asset Protection Alert' in his system."
After Marshall left, I spent an hour reviewing the Moda Finanza audit plan, the scent of the aggressive white flowers filling the air. I kept telling myself I hated the waste, but the sheer effort of the gesture—the specific, over-the-top personalization—was unnervingly effective.
The evening required a strategic deployment of assets. I wore the simple, black sheath dress, severe and elegant. On my wrist, the diamond tennis bracelet flashed, a cold, bright circle of wealth. And finally, I deployed the Midnight Black Fox Fur Stole. It was heavy, soft, and draped across my shoulders with a scandalous, unapologetic elegance.
When I met Kyle in the suite lobby, he was already there, wearing an impeccably tailored, dark suit. His eyes locked on the stole, and his gaze moved slowly from the vintage fur, to the flash of the diamonds on my wrist, and finally, to my face.
"The stole is a statement of magnificent defiance," he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. "It speaks of a woman who values her comfort over the opinions of the entire Milan fashion press."
"It speaks of a woman who is using your money to keep warm in a city that's about to feel my emotional chill," I corrected, enjoying his appreciation.
"And the bracelet?" he asked, his hand gently taking my wrist, his thumb tracing the cool edge of the diamonds.
"That," I said, pulling my wrist free but meeting his gaze, "is the down payment on the psychological trauma you caused me on my first day."
Kyle's POV
The dinner was held at a prestigious, old-money Milanese villa. The atmosphere was a delicate mix of high finance and high fashion—all thin smiles and aggressive networking.
Viola was breathtaking. The simplicity of the black dress, the scandal of the fur stole, and the undeniable weight of the diamonds created an aura of unassailable power. She wasn't just at the table; she was the table.
Our conversation with the current CEO of Moda Finanza, a man named Alessandro, lasted exactly forty-five minutes before he started sweating.
Viola tore apart his data acquisition model with the surgical precision of a raptor. She didn't raise her voice; she just asked questions that implied his entire company was built on wishful thinking.
"So, Alessandro," she concluded, leaning back, the black fur a decadent counterpoint to her severity. "To summarize: Your proprietary metric is based on a consumer sample that is neither statistically significant nor temporally sound. You have a beautiful algorithm, but you are effectively monetizing a sophisticated magic eight-ball. You are not worth our bid."
Alessandro went pale. I leaned forward, delivering the final, crushing blow. "Viola is merely confirming my suspicion that Moda Finanza is a magnificent façade. Our offer is now reduced by 25%. Take it or leave it, Alessandro. We're flying to Venice in two hours."
Alessandro caved. The deal was done.
We walked out onto the piazza, the Milanese air cool and victorious. Marshall was waiting by the car, looking faintly impressed.
"Twenty-five percent," Marshall whistled quietly to me. "That stole is a tactical weapon."
"It's the woman wearing it, Marshall," I corrected, grabbing my briefcase. "She could audit the federal reserve wearing a bathrobe and flip-flops and still crush the opposition."
Viola walked ahead of us, already on her phone, contacting the legal team.
"The flight to Venice is at 10:30 PM, Kyle," she stated without turning around. "The new hotel is the Gritti Palace. The meeting tomorrow is with an independent publisher that focuses on rare Venetian manuscripts."
"Excellent," I said, catching up to her. "I look forward to another day of high-stakes corporate espionage disguised as a European holiday."
We were about to step into the car when a figure rushed up to Viola—a tall, aggressively stylish man in a leather jacket, clutching a small box.
"Viola? Viola Cage?" he asked, breathless, his Italian accent thick.
"Yes?" she replied, looking utterly bewildered.
"I am Paolo," he said, holding out the box. "I am a grande admirer of your work in the Revue Littéraire. But I saw you tonight, and the elegance... the fur stole..."
He opened the box. Inside was a massive, bespoke silver fountain pen, intricately engraved with the image of a snarling fox.
"Please," Paolo pleaded. "Accept this gift. The fox... it is the spirit of your defiance! It
is a tool for your magnificent cruelty!"
Viola stared from the pen to the man, then slowly, a genuine, delighted smile touched her lips.
"A tool for my cruelty," she repeated, taking the pen. "I appreciate the sentiment, Paolo. It's a marvelous acquisition."
She signed a napkin for him with a sharp, swift flourish and stepped into the Maserati, the silver fox pen clutched in her hand.
I slid in next to her, staring at the pen. She hadn't just used the card; she had created a fan base.
"Well," I said, a dangerous warmth spreading through my chest. "At least that was free."
"Not free," Viola corrected, admiring the pen. "It was paid for by the sheer force of my personality. A much more valuable currency, Kyle."
I shook my head, already anticipating the expense report. "Marshall," I called up to the front.
"Sir?"
"Have the custom-made, 24-karat gold-plated typewriter shipped immediately to my Venice penthouse. I need a monument to her original crime to be waiting for me when we land."
"Understood, Kyle," Marshall replied. "Preparing for a full-scale art war. Should I order more lilies?"
"No," I said, my gaze locking onto Viola's face in the dark car, the silver pen glinting in her hand. "Order a single, perfect, impossibly rare black orchid. Something that is both beautiful and borderline criminal to possess. We're moving beyond simple flowers, Marshall. We're investing in botanical blackmail."