Chapter 3: The Workshop**

Chapter 3: The Workshop

The lie tasted metallic in Kris’s mouth.

“A new client,” she’d said to Mark over a rushed breakfast, her voice a pitch higher than usual. “A boutique furniture company. They need a logo and branding package, it’s a big opportunity.” She had put on her nicest dress, a simple blue cotton number she usually saved for parent-teacher conferences, in a desperate attempt to look the part of a professional graphic designer and not a woman heading toward her own ruin.

Mark, ever-focused on the bottom line, had just nodded approvingly. “That’s great, honey. Land it.” He’d kissed her goodbye, the same passionless peck, completely oblivious to the frantic hummingbird of her heart. The ease with which he believed her was somehow more damning than any accusation would have been.

Now, driving, she followed the blue line on her phone’s GPS, a digital tether leading her to an unknown fate. The address Clara had sent—no other text, just the cold, stark coordinates—wasn’t in the trendy Pearl District or the cozy neighborhoods Kris knew. The GPS guided her car out of the familiar, tree-lined streets of suburbia and into the industrial heart of the city, a place of concrete, chain-link fences, and warehouses. Her stomach twisted with a fresh knot of anxiety. What had she been expecting? A rustic cabin in the woods? A discreet, anonymous apartment? This gritty, functional landscape felt menacing, utterly devoid of romance.

Her Subaru felt laughably out of place as she turned onto the final street. She expected a dilapidated garage, maybe a small, dusty storefront. Instead, her GPS announced, “You have arrived,” in front of a building that stole her breath.

It wasn't a workshop; it was a monument. A sprawling structure of dark-stained cedar, blackened steel, and vast panes of glass that reflected the gray Portland sky. It was aggressively modern yet organically beautiful, a piece of functional art dropped into the industrial wasteland. Etched into a massive slab of brushed steel beside the glass entrance doors was a sleek, minimalist logo and two words: VANCE TIMBERWORKS.

Kris killed the engine, her hands frozen on the wheel. Vance Timberworks. This wasn't the side-hustle of a rugged TikTokker who chopped wood for fun. This was… an empire. The scale of it was staggering. Through the glass, she could see a reception area that looked more like an art gallery, with dramatic lighting illuminating architectural models and finished pieces of furniture that looked like they belonged in a museum.

A cold dread, mingled with a new, dizzying kind of awe, settled over her. She had thought Clara was a force of nature. She was beginning to realize Clara was just a force. Period. Her simple blue dress suddenly felt cheap, her life story small and pathetic. She was a suburban mom with a freelance hobby, walking into the headquarters of a mogul. This was a mistake. She was catastrophically out of her depth.

Her finger was already reaching for the ignition to flee when the glass door swung open. Clara stood there, framed by the doorway. She wasn't wearing dusty jeans today. She was dressed in dark, well-fitting trousers and a crisp gray Henley that stretched across her broad shoulders. She looked less like a woodchopper and more like what she clearly was: the person in charge. The scar through her eyebrow seemed sharper, more deliberate, in the daylight.

She didn't smile. She just watched Kris, her green eyes intense, waiting. The challenge was silent, but it screamed across the parking lot. Are you going to run?

The memory of the splintering kiss, of the promise to be remade, warred with her terror. Taking a shaky breath, Kris opened the car door. Her legs felt like they were filled with sand as she walked across the asphalt, the click of her sensible heels echoing in the sudden quiet.

“You look nervous,” Clara said as Kris reached the entrance. Her voice was the same low rumble, but in this context, it carried the weight of authority.

“This isn't what I expected,” Kris admitted, her voice barely a whisper.

“Few things are,” Clara replied, a flicker of amusement in her eyes. She turned and led the way inside.

The interior was even more impressive up close. The air smelled of cedar, varnish, and money. Employees in black polo shirts bearing the Vance Timberworks logo moved with quiet purpose through the open-plan office space. Clara ignored them all, walking past sleek desks and conference rooms with an air of complete ownership. She led Kris through a heavy steel door at the back of the office, and the world changed.

The sanitized quiet of the corporate space was replaced by the roar and whine of machinery. They had stepped into the heart of the beast. It was a workshop, yes, but on a scale Kris couldn't have imagined. The ceiling soared three stories high, crisscrossed with steel beams. Sunlight poured in from massive skylights, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like golden fleets.

Vast, gleaming machines—saws, planers, lathes—were laid out in an orderly fashion. Stacks of raw lumber, some logs as thick as Kris’s own body, reached toward the ceiling. The scent from the co-op, the scent on Clara’s skin, was everywhere, a thick, intoxicating perfume of raw power and creation. This was its source.

Clara led her to a quieter corner, where a massive workbench stood, covered in blueprints and hand tools that were arranged with surgical precision. She leaned back against it, crossing her powerful arms over her chest, and finally fixed her gaze on Kris. The full force of her attention was like a physical blow.

“You have questions,” Clara stated. It wasn’t an invitation to ask them.

Kris swallowed, her throat dry. “You’re… that girl from TikTok is…”

“A good marketing angle,” Clara finished for her, a dismissive wave of her hand. “People like authenticity. They like a story. The rugged lumberjill who builds beautiful things with her bare hands. It sells multi-million dollar architectural contracts.”

The casual cynicism of it shocked Kris. “So it’s all a lie?”

“It’s not a lie,” Clara corrected, her voice sharp. “I can do everything you see in those videos. I just do a lot more, besides. I own the forest, I own the mill, and I own this. The videos are just the part I choose to show the world.” She paused, her eyes raking over Kris, making her feel small and transparent. “Everyone has a public face and a private one, don't they, Kris?”

The question landed like a punch to the gut. Kris thought of her own mask—the dutiful wife, the happy mother.

“That little game in the stockroom,” Clara continued, her voice dropping lower, pulling Kris in. “That wasn’t about seduction. That was a test.”

“A test?” Kris repeated, bewildered.

“To see if you had the nerve to break a single rule. To see if you could walk through a door you weren’t supposed to, just because you wanted what was on the other side.” Clara pushed off the workbench and took a step closer. The air crackled, the distance between them shrinking. “You passed. You showed up here today. That was the second test.”

Kris’s breath hitched. She was a project. An experiment. The thought should have been humiliating, but instead, a dark, thrilling excitement uncoiled in her stomach.

“I don’t play games I don’t intend to win, Kris,” Clara said, her voice a velvet growl. “And I don’t invest my time in half-measures. What happened at the co-op was the interview. This,” she said, gesturing to the sprawling, powerful space around them, “is your orientation.”

She reached out, not to touch Kris, but to pick up a thick leather strap from the workbench. The leather creaked softly in her grip.

“Now,” Clara said, her green eyes pinning Kris in place, filled with a terrifying and exhilarating promise. “The real training begins.”