Aria's Pov
I quickly discovered that working at Galley-La wasn't really "work" so much as an elaborate stage play in which I, the very underqualified actress, was determined to perform my part as convincingly as possible. My official role? Something vague about "helping" in the office, though no one seemed entirely clear on what that meant. My real role? Seductress-in-training. Goddess-in-progress. Or at least, that was the pep talk I gave myself every morning before nearly choking on my breakfast.
Step one in my grand social conquest was Kaku.
Kaku was absurdly easy. The man was like if kindness had grown legs, put on a silly hat, and learned carpentry. Within ten minutes of chatting, we were already swapping stories about ships, Water 7 food stalls, and the merits of long noses—well, mostly his nose. I made exactly one attempt at a flirtatious comment about how "it must be handy, being able to enter the room before everyone else," but then I accidentally snorted at my own joke and friend-zoned him so hard even I felt the chill.
Still, Kaku became my social stepping stone, my gateway drug to the rest of the Galley-La elite. Whenever I hovered awkwardly on the edges of conversation, he reeled me in with a bright smile. Whenever I forgot what "stern" and "prow" meant, he explained patiently, never once making me feel like the hopeless shipbuilding imposter I truly was. I mentally knighted him my "wingman," though I doubted he'd appreciate the title.
Step two: Kalifa.
Now there was a challenge. Kalifa carried herself like the queen of paperwork, glasses gleaming with the light of bureaucracy itself. Every time I approached her desk, I felt like a kid about to be graded on a test I hadn't studied for. But my mission demanded boldness. So I leaned casually against her desk one afternoon, trying to look like seduction incarnate.
"So," I said, giving my voice its best sultry edge. "What's a hardworking secretary like you doing in a shipyard like this?"
She glanced at me over her glasses. The corner of her mouth twitched, but she said nothing.
I doubled down. "You know, if the paperwork ever gets too heavy, I'd be more than happy to help you… relieve some of that burden."
Her pen didn't stop moving. "Do you even know how to file a requisition order?"
"…no," I admitted.
"Then sit down before you hurt yourself."
Was it rejection? Absolutely. Was there a glimmer of amusement in her eyes as I slinked away? Also yes. Which, in my book, counted as a win.
Step three: Lucci.
Dear, terrifying Lucci. If Kalifa was an exam I couldn't pass, Lucci was the final boss of a game I wasn't even leveled for. The man radiated menace like it was cologne. He barely acknowledged my existence, and when he did, it was usually through that pigeon. I swear, the bird had more personality than its owner.
Still, he was hot as fuck so I had to try. So one day, during lunch, I approached with all the confidence of a woman who had practiced this exact moment in the mirror three times.
"Hey, Lucci," I began, heart hammering. "I like your… uh… jacket. Very, um, sleek."
The pigeon cooed. Lucci didn't blink.
But then—oh sweet heavens—he muttered something low, barely audible, and the pigeon translated with a squawk. "He said thank you."
Reader, I nearly combusted. A single word. A single thank you. My inner fangirl screamed, rolled on the ground, and then fainted dramatically. Outwardly, I just nodded coolly like, "Yeah, of course, no big deal." Inside? Confetti cannons. Fireworks. A marching band.
And finally: Iceberg.
Iceberg was… different. He didn't radiate menace like Lucci, or cool detachment like Kalifa. He was warm, approachable, yet still carried an air of authority that made everyone instinctively listen when he spoke. The first time he asked me how I was settling in, I nearly forgot how to speak. Something about his kind smile, his easy laugh—it tugged at me in ways I wasn't ready to admit.
Dangerous ways. The sort of ways that made my carefully constructed "seduction plan" feel less like a joke and more like a trap I was walking into myself.
But that was a problem for later.
For now, I focused on training.
Every evening, back in my tiny rented room, I practiced lines in the mirror like I was auditioning for the role of Femme Fatale #3. "Oh, you're so strong, let me feel your muscles." Cringe. "Wow, you build ships? I'd love to see your… woodwork." Double cringe. I slapped my cheeks, glared at my reflection.
"Aria, you are not cringe. You are dangerous. You are a siren in human form. You are—" I broke off to cough violently after inhaling dust. "Okay, fine, you're a siren with allergies, but still!"
I gave myself pep talks like it was a game show. "Welcome back to Seduction is a Full-Time Job, starring Aria, who has zero idea what she's doing but refuses to quit anyway!" I would strut across my room, striking dramatic poses. "Will she win the heart of the secretary with the glasses? Charm the pigeon into giving her a date with its owner? Or utterly embarrass herself in front of Iceberg? Stay tuned!"