(Carving Lies, Claiming Territory)
The boardroom felt like a retirement club with better Wi-Fi.
Ethan Vale sat at the head of the table, his expression neutral, his patience nonexistent. Around him, the directors argued in agonizing slow motion.
"Expansion is essential—"
"The risk is unacceptable—"
"Budget constraints—"
"Global branding—"
*Congratulations,* Ethan thought dryly. *You've all discovered obvious facts.
Someone get the Nobel Prize committee on the phone.* His temple began to throb with the rhythm of their incompetence.
They circled the same drain for forty minutes without producing a single usable plan.
Ethan already knew the answer: overseas expansion. The problem was the trifecta of corporate failure—too much risk, too little liquidity, and too much hesitation. He needed a shortcut. A ready-made international shell with a reputation he could hijack. A brand like—
"Newdream Group," someone finally muttered.
*Ah. There it is.*
The room perked up instantly, like a flock of pigeons spotting a crust of bread.
"They still hold significant influence abroad."
"An acquisition would accelerate our growth by years."
"The price is astronomical, though…"
"Then suggest something better!" another snapped.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Ethan leaned back, utterly unimpressed. *So much noise. So little utility. If sheer volume created profit, we'd be billionaires twice over.* His phone lit up on the mahogany surface.
**Aria Larkspur.**
The name alone caused a strange, unwelcome shift in his chest. Annoying.
Unexpected. He raised a hand, cutting off the impending bickering. "Meeting adjourned. Bring me solutions next time—not recycled opinions."
No one argued. Of course they didn't.
Back in his office, he answered the call.
"Ethan," her voice came through—soft, bright, and dangerously disarming. "Can you bring me a wooden board? A big one. High quality."
He blinked. Of all the requests... "A board?" His tone sharpened. "What for? Did something break, or are you planning to barricade the doors?"
"Stop interrogating me," she replied lightly, her voice lilted with that effortless bossiness. "Just bring it. Rosewood, if you're feeling generous."
"Don't do anything reckless," he warned.
"Relax," she said, and he could practically hear the smirk. "I'm fragile, remember?"
*You? Fragile? That's the funniest lie I've heard all day—and I just walked out of a board meeting.*
At the villa, Aria was lounged across a chaise, a gaming controller in hand. **VICTORY** flashed across the screen in neon letters.
"Pentakill," she muttered smugly.
*"You asked for a rosewood plank,"* the System sighed in her ear. *"Are we planning interior design or emotional warfare?"*
"Both," she replied lazily, not taking her eyes off the screen. "I'm leaving my fingerprints everywhere."
*"Metaphorically?"*
"Emotionally." Aria tilted her head. "By the time I'm done, he won't be able to look at a piece of furniture without thinking of me."
*"...You're terrifying."*
"Thank you, darling."
By evening, the board arrived—polished, heavy yellow rosewood. Expensive, naturally. Ethan didn't do anything halfway, even when he was being annoyed.
Aria's eyes lit up. "Perfect."
*Step one: visible effort. Step two: manufactured attachment. Step three: inevitable regret.*
She grabbed his wrist—ignoring the way he stiffened at the contact—and dragged him into a small side room. It was a disaster zone of creative chaos. Tools were strewn about, and fine wood shavings blanketed the floor.
Ethan stepped in and nearly tripped over something small. He reached down and picked it up. It was a tiny, hand-carved lion.
Detailed. Precise. Unexpectedly adorable.
His brow lifted. "You actually made this?"
Aria froze. Then, she lunged. "Give it back! It's not finished!"
Too slow. He raised his arm, utilizing his unfair height advantage. She jumped, her fingers brushing the air. She jumped again, huffing with indignation.
"Ethan Vale," she snapped, breathless and flushed. "Return the wildlife before I file a formal complaint for emotional harassment."
"Denied," he replied calmly, inspecting the craftsmanship.
"You're insufferable."
"You're short."
"…That was completely unnecessary."
She leapt one last time, her foot slipping on a stray wood shaving. She collided straight into his chest. Both of them stumbled back.
He steadied her, but his waist slammed into the sharp edge of the workbench. He inhaled sharply, a hiss of pain escaping his teeth. Aria froze, her eyes wide.
*Oops.* Then, the switch flipped. Her expression crumbled into a mask of frantic concern. "Are you okay?! Oh my god, I'm so sorry—this is entirely your fault, but also mine, but mostly yours for being a giant—"
He exhaled slowly, the pain dulling to a throb.
"I started it."
*Growth. We love accountability,* Aria thought. She hesitated, then held out her hand for the tiny lion. "…It's for you. Since you're so obsessed with it."
Ethan glanced down. Beneath the lion's mane, three initials were engraved in a delicate script: **E.V.** Something flickered in his eyes. "You just tried to take it back."
"Because it's unfinished," she muttered, looking at her shoes. "It's ugly."
"It's fine."
"It's not."
"I'm keeping it."
Aria let out a dramatic, defeated sigh. "You're impossible."
"So I've been told."
Days passed. Aria worked on the large rosewood board, carving slowly and deliberately. Ethan sat nearby, ostensibly reviewing emails, but his gaze drifted to her more often than his screen.
She struggled with a stubborn knot in the wood. *Tap. Tap.* Nothing. Her fingers were reddening from the effort. *Tap.* Still nothing. Finally, she dropped the mallet dramatically.
"I hate this. The wood is being spiteful."
"Clearly," he said from his chair.
She glared. "Helpful. Truly."
He stood up, walked over, and took the tool from her hand. "Like this." One clean, efficient strike. The piece of wood fell away perfectly.
She blinked. "...Show-off."
"Efficiency," he corrected.
She leaned closer, watching the way his hands moved. Then, quietly, she said, "This is for our garden."
He paused, the mallet resting against the wood. "Our?"
"Yes," she said casually, as if she weren't dropping a tactical nuke. "Unless you're planning to evict me the moment I can walk a mile."
*Go on, Ethan. Deny it. I dare you.*
He didn't respond. Something about that word—*our*—lingered in the air. It felt uncomfortable. Warm. Dangerous. Like the start of a family. He handed the tool back. "You could have just hired a professional."
She rolled her eyes. "Why do everything the easy way? That's boring. Besides, handmade gifts hit harder." *Basic strategy: manufactured sentimentality.*
He studied her for a moment. The soft smile, the focused gaze, the gentle presence. It was too convincing. Too real.
"You're naive, Aria," he said finally.
She grinned, a flash of her true self peeking through the "White Moonlight" mask. "And you're predictable."
"…Excuse me?"
"You think everything is a transaction," she continued sweetly. "Relax, Ethan. Not everyone is trying to outplay you."
*I am. But that's not the point.*
Ethan almost laughed. Instead, he shook his head. "Careful, Aria."
"Why?"
"You might start to believe your own act."
She tilted her head, her gaze unreadable in the dim light of the workshop. "Who says it's an act?"
The silence that followed was brief, heavy, and fraught with things unsaid. Then she smiled again—light, effortless, and perfectly opaque.
And somewhere between the scent of carved wood and careless words, the game shifted. Just slightly. Just enough.