My Anime Shopping Tree & My Cold Prodigy Wife!
Episode-176

Chapter : 351

He sent a message, not by formal courier, but via a trusted servant from his mother’s retinue, a woman known for her discretion. It was a simple, handwritten note on fine vellum.

Lady Faria,

The first masterpiece requires a second movement. I have a new commission, one of even greater… ‘artistic challenge’. Your presence is requested at the manufactory at your earliest convenience. The fate of clean hands across the Duchy depends on it.

- L.F.

He knew she would come. The debt she felt she owed him was a powerful hook, but the true lure, he suspected, was the challenge itself. The audacious, almost profane, thrill of using her classical, high-art talents for his ruthlessly effective commercial propaganda. It was an irresistible paradox, and Faria Kruts was not a woman who could resist a fascinating paradox.

She arrived three days later, her carriage practical, her attire a stylish but functional ensemble of Southern riding leathers. The weariness that had haunted her eyes after her brother’s cursing was gone, replaced by the familiar, bright, competitive fire he remembered from the tournament. The news she brought, delivered with a quiet, almost tearful gratitude before they spoke of anything else, was good. The alchemists had successfully distilled the essence of the Dark Vein flower. The counter-curse was being prepared. Her brother, Elian, was stable, his decline arrested. There was hope. Real hope.

“And for that, Lloyd,” she had said, her voice thick with an emotion she didn't try to hide, “my family, my house, is eternally in your debt. Name your price. It is paid.”

“I have no need of your gold, Faria,” he had replied, his own voice gentle. “I need your genius.”

He led her not to the stuffy formality of the main estate, but to his study at the manufactory. The air was thick with the scent of rosemary, almond, and productive, profitable industry. He had a tray of chilled nectar and honey-cakes brought in, and as the late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty windows, he laid out his new vision.

“The first painting was a triumph,” he began, pacing before her as she sat, observing him with a sharp, intelligent curiosity. “It told the story of personal transformation. It sold the promise of AURA. But it was focused on the individual. The next phase… must be about the family. About the household.”

He stopped, turning to face her, his eyes gleaming with the fire of his new idea. “I envision a new series. Smaller paintings this time. Triptychs, perhaps. Designed not for the public square, but for the home. To be hung in the drawing rooms of our most valued clients. A new kind of status symbol.”

He began to sketch on a slate board, his movements quick, confident. “Picture it, Faria. The first panel: A mother, her face etched with worry, tending to her child, who is covered in a rash, his skin irritated, raw. The scene is dim, the mood one of helpless concern. The old way. The age of harsh, unknown cleansers.”

“The second panel,” he continued, sketching furiously, “the AURA dispenser appears. A gift, perhaps. A discovery. The mother is applying the elixir to her child’s skin. The light in the painting begins to shift, to warm. The mood changes from worry to tentative hope.”

“And the final panel,” he declared, his voice ringing with theatrical finality, “the resolution. The child is laughing, his skin clear, healthy, radiant. The mother looks on, her face a mask of pure, serene relief and maternal love. The AURA dispenser sits on the washstand behind them, not just a product, but a hero. A guardian of the family’s health and well-being. The light is warm, golden, a domestic paradise.”

He set the charcoal down, his vision laid bare. “We are selling the story that AURA is not just good for you, but good for your children. That it is safe. That it is pure. That it is the choice of a caring, responsible, and, of course, very refined, matriarch.”

Faria stared at the rough sketches, her artist’s mind instantly seeing beyond the crude lines to the powerful, emotional narrative he was crafting. It was even more manipulative, more psychologically astute, than the first painting. It didn’t just target ego and aspiration; it targeted the most powerful human emotion of all: a mother’s love, a parent’s fear for their child.

It was brilliant. And it was, from a purely artistic perspective, utterly, wonderfully, diabolical.

“You are a monster, Lloyd Ferrum,” she breathed, a slow, almost admiring smile spreading across her face. “You wish to use the sacred bond of mother and child to sell… soap.”

Chapter : 352

“I wish to use the sacred bond of mother and child to sell the promise of a healthier, happier child,” he corrected with a grin. “The soap is merely the delivery mechanism for that promise.”

Their discussion deepened, extending long past sunset. They argued over composition, over the precise shade of ‘maternal relief’, over the most effective way to render ‘luminous, healthy baby skin’. The professional collaboration was intense, exhilarating, a meeting of two sharp, creative minds. As the sky outside darkened to a deep, velvety indigo and the manufactory fell silent around them, a servant entered hesitantly.

“My lord? Lady Faria? The hour is late. Shall I have a carriage prepared for the Lady’s return to her city residence?”

Lloyd looked at Faria, at the smudge of charcoal on her cheek, at the way her amethyst eyes glowed with creative fire in the lamplight. He saw the piles of sketches, the scattered notes. They were in the middle of a breakthrough. The thought of ending the conversation, of sending her away, felt… wrong. Abrupt. Unfinished.

“No,” Lloyd said, a decision forming impulsively, a quiet rebellion against the stiff formalities of their world. He turned to the servant. “Tell the kitchens to prepare a simple, late supper for two. Here. In the study.” He looked at Faria, a silent question, a hopeful invitation. “The creative process,” he added, a wry smile touching his lips, “requires fuel. And the hour is indeed late. It would be my honor if you would join me, Lady Faria. To continue our… vital work.”

Faria hesitated for only a fraction of a second. She looked at the chaotic, productive mess of their shared creation, at the comfortable, almost intimate, focus of their conversation. The thought of returning to the cold, lonely formality of her rented city townhouse, of leaving this vibrant bubble of creation, felt deeply unappealing.

“I… I would be delighted, my lord,” she replied, a faint, almost shy, smile touching her lips, a stark contrast to her usual fiery confidence. “The work is indeed… vital.”

The servant, trying very hard not to look surprised at this highly unorthodox arrangement, bowed and scurried away.

An hour later, they sat opposite each other at the large oak table, the sketches and notes pushed to one side, replaced by a simple but delicious meal of roasted fowl, fresh bread, and a bottle of surprisingly good white wine Ken had ‘procured’. There were no candelabras, no formal service. Just the two of them, the warm glow of the oil lamps, the lingering scent of rosemary, and the easy, comfortable silence of two people who had, unexpectedly, become friends.

They spoke, their voices low in the quiet room. They spoke of art, of business, of the strange, twisting paths their lives had taken. Faria spoke of her brother’s curse, not with despair, but with a fierce, hopeful anger. Lloyd, careful not to reveal his secrets, spoke of his own sense of being an outsider, of his desire to build something that would last, something that was truly his. They shared stories. They shared wine. They shared… laughter. A genuine, easy laughter that felt more real, more nourishing, than any of the polite, strained pleasantries of the court.

In the warm, candlelit intimacy of the small study, surrounded by the quiet hum of his nascent empire, Lloyd Ferrum felt a sense of peace, of connection, he had not felt in a very, very long time. It was a dangerous feeling. A complicated feeling. But for tonight, at least, it was a welcome one.

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The main suite of the Ferrum Estate was a tomb of opulent silence. The air was cool, still, the scent of lavender and citrus potpourri hanging heavy, almost suffocating. The only light came from a single, tall candelabra on a side table, its flames burning with a steady, unwavering light, casting long, stark shadows that seemed to writhe and crawl up the tapestried walls.

Rosa Siddik sat perfectly still in the large, velvet armchair by the unlit hearth. She was a statue carved from ice and shadow, her form shrouded in a simple nightgown of pale, almost white, silk. Her dark hair was unbound, a silken river cascading over her shoulders, a stark contrast to the paleness of her skin in the flickering candlelight. Her face, unveiled and unguarded in the privacy of her chambers, was a masterpiece of serene, unreadable beauty. But her obsidian eyes, fixed on the dancing flames of the candelabra, were not serene. They were cold, deep, and utterly, terrifyingly, still.