(Carving Lies, Claiming Territory)
The boardroom felt like a retirement club with Wi-Fi.
Ethan Vale sat at the head, expression neutral, patience nonexistent.
Around him, directors argued in slow motion.
"Expansion is essential—"
"Risk is unacceptable—"
"Budget constraints—"
"Global branding—"
Congratulations, Ethan thought dryly. You've all discovered obvious facts. Nobel Prize incoming.
His temple throbbed.
They circled the same topic for forty minutes without producing a single usable plan.
He already knew the answer—overseas expansion.
The problem?
Money.
Too much risk. Too little liquidity.
He needed a shortcut.
A ready-made international shell.
A brand with reputation.
A company like—
"Newdream Group," someone finally said.
Ah.
There it is.
Everyone perked up instantly, like pigeons spotting bread.
"They still hold influence abroad."
"Acquisition would accelerate growth."
"Price is high, though…"
"Then suggest something better," another snapped.
Silence.
Ethan leaned back, unimpressed.
So loud. So useless. If noise created profit, we'd be billionaires twice over.
His phone lit up.
Aria Larkspur.
The name alone shifted something in his chest.
Annoying.
Unexpected.
He raised a hand. "Meeting adjourned. Bring me solutions next time—not recycled opinions."
No one argued.
Of course they didn't.
Inside his office, he answered.
"Ethan," came her voice—soft, bright, dangerously disarming.
"Can you bring me a wooden board? Bigger size."
He blinked.
Of all requests…
"A board?" His tone sharpened slightly. "What for? Did something break?"
"Stop interrogating me," she replied lightly. "Just bring it."
Bossy. Cute. Suspicious.
"Don't do anything reckless," he added.
"Relax," she said. "I'm fragile, remember?"
You? Fragile? That's the funniest lie I've heard today—and I just left a board meeting.
Back at the villa, Aria lounged on a chaise, gaming controller in hand.
Victory flashed across the screen.
"Pentakill," she muttered smugly.
The system sighed. "You asked for a plank. Planning interior design or emotional warfare?"
"Both," she replied lazily. "I'm leaving fingerprints everywhere."
"Metaphorically?"
"Emotionally."
Pause.
"…You're terrifying."
"Thank you."
By evening, the board arrived—polished yellow rosewood.
Expensive.
Of course.
Ethan didn't do anything halfway.
Aria's eyes lit up.
"Perfect."
Step one: effort. Step two: attachment. Step three: regret.
She grabbed his wrist and dragged him into a small side room.
Tools everywhere.
Wood shavings scattered.
Creative chaos.
Ethan stepped in—and nearly tripped over something.
A tiny carved lion.
He picked it up.
Detailed. Precise. Unexpectedly adorable.
His brow lifted.
"You made this?"
Aria froze.
Then lunged. "Give it back!"
Too slow.
He raised his arm higher.
Height difference: unfair advantage.
She jumped.
Missed.
Jumped again.
Still missed.
"Ethan Vale," she snapped, breathless, "return it before I file a complaint for emotional harassment."
"Denied," he replied calmly.
She huffed. "You're insufferable."
"You're short."
"…That was unnecessary."
She leapt again—
Slipped.
Collided straight into him.
Both stumbled.
He steadied them—but his waist slammed into the table edge.
A sharp hit.
He inhaled sharply.
Aria froze.
Oops.
Then instantly—
Switch.
Her expression crumbled into concern.
"Are you okay?! I'm so sorry—this is your fault—but also mine—but mostly yours—"
He exhaled slowly. "I started it."
Growth. We love accountability.
She hesitated, then held out the tiny lion.
"…It's for you."
Ethan glanced down.
Three engraved initials beneath it.
E.V.
Something flickered across his face.
"You tried to take it back."
"It's unfinished," she muttered. "Ugly."
"It's fine."
"It's not."
"I'm keeping it."
"…You're impossible."
"I've been told."
Days passed.
Aria worked on the wooden board, carving slowly.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Ethan sat nearby, reviewing emails—but watching more than reading.
She struggled with a stubborn section.
Tap.
Tap.
Nothing.
Her fingers reddened.
Still nothing.
Finally, she dropped the tools dramatically and sat back.
"I hate this."
"Clearly," he said.
She glared. "Helpful."
He stood, took the hammer.
"Like this."
One clean strike.
Piece removed.
She blinked.
"…Show-off."
"Efficiency," he corrected.
She leaned closer, watching his hands.
Then—
quietly—
"This is for our garden."
He paused.
"Our?"
"Yes," she said casually. "Unless you're planning to evict me."
Go on, deny it. I dare you.
He didn't respond immediately.
Something about that word lingered.
Uncomfortable.
Warm.
Dangerous.
Family.
He returned the tool.
"You could've hired someone."
She rolled her eyes. "Why do everything the easy way? That's boring."
Also, handmade gifts hit harder emotionally. Basic strategy.
He studied her for a moment.
Soft smile.
Focused gaze.
Gentle presence.
Too convincing.
Too real.
"You're naive," he said finally.
She grinned.
"And you're predictable."
"…Excuse me?"
"You think everything is a transaction," she continued sweetly. "Relax. Not everyone is trying to outplay you."
I am. But that's not the point.
Ethan almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, he shook his head.
"Careful, Aria."
"Why?"
"You might believe your own act."
She tilted her head.
"Who says it's an act?"
Silence.
Brief.
Heavy.
Then she smiled again—light, effortless, unreadable.
And somewhere between carved wood and careless words—
the game shifted.
Just slightly.
Just enough.