Ariella Moon learned early that invisibility was a survival skill.
In the glass-walled offices of Lumière Heritage, where polished heels echoed like authority and ideas only mattered if they came from the right mouths, Ariella blended into the background with practiced ease. She arrived early, left late, and carried ideas that were always "interesting" but never urgent enough to act on.
At twenty-three, she was a junior marketer with a sharp eye for branding and a quiet obsession with scent stories—how fragrance could carry memory, culture, and identity. But no one in the executive meetings knew that. To them, she was just another name on an email thread.
That morning, she sat at her desk refining a pitch that would likely never be seen, when her phone buzzed.
Yuna: Please. I'm begging you. Go to the dinner for me.
Ariella sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The dinner wasn't romantic—at least, it wasn't supposed to be. Yuna, her best friend, had been invited to what was described as a "business proposal meeting with personal undertones." Translation: a blind setup disguised as networking. Yuna had panicked and bailed.
And somehow, Ariella had agreed to go in her place.
"Just sit, eat, smile, and leave," Ariella muttered to herself as she locked her apartment door that evening.
She chose a simple black dress—elegant but forgettable—and told herself this was just another role. Another moment of pretending.
The restaurant was the kind that spoke softly but confidently: warm lighting, polished wood, and a view of the city that suggested power without needing to announce it. Ariella gave her name at the entrance and was led to a private table.
He was already there.
Jin-woo Kang stood as she approached, tall and immaculately dressed, his expression calm in the way only people used to control could manage. His presence was immediate—not loud, not dramatic, just unmistakable.
"Miss Moon," he said, voice smooth and unreadable. "Thank you for coming."
Ariella froze for half a second.
Miss Moon?
Before she could correct him, the waiter pulled out her chair, the moment sliding forward without permission. She sat.
"Yes," she said carefully. "Thank you for the invitation."
Jin-woo studied her—not in a way that felt intrusive, but intentional, as though he were assessing a proposal rather than a person.
"I appreciate punctuality," he said. "It's rare."
Something in his tone made Ariella straighten. "I believe respect starts with time."
A flicker—interest, perhaps—crossed his eyes.
The conversation moved easily after that. Too easily.
They spoke about branding, legacy, market expansion. Jin-woo revealed he was the CEO of Kang Group, a conglomerate known for ruthless efficiency and sterile perfection. He spoke about wanting to acquire a fragrance house—not just for profit, but for image.
"I want something with soul," he said, fingers resting against his glass. "Something that tells a story."
Without thinking, Ariella responded, "People don't buy scent. They buy meaning."
Silence followed.
Then Jin-woo smiled. Not wide. Not warm. But real.
"That," he said, "is exactly why I wanted to meet you."
It was then Ariella realized something had gone terribly wrong.
He thought she was someone else.
A businesswoman. An heiress. A woman with power.
The truth hovered on her tongue.
But for the first time in her life, someone was listening.
And Ariella didn't correct him.