“Don’t ask such meaningless questions during work hours.”
Ritsu abruptly pulled his gaze away and fixed it back on the documents in his hands.
His voice remained cold, but the slightly faster pace of his speech and the unnatural way he flipped the pages completely betrayed his inner turmoil.
‘Ha… I bet the guy just panicked.’
Haruka mentally snapped her fingers.
Since his defenses had already cracked, she couldn’t just stop there.
So she nonchalantly dialed up the pressure another notch.
“Huh—not even a half-hearted compliment? Mr. Ritsu, do you know how hard Miss Sato worked to cover up my dark circles?”
Her voice grew softer, like a coquettish pout or a deliberate show of weakness.
This flawless tactic, paired with her camera-ready face and deliberately softened gaze, exponentially boosted the impact.
“If you don’t praise me, I might feel down, and then what if I mess up the show later?”
“That’s a matter of your professional integrity.”
Ritsu shot back without lifting his head.
“Then what if the host decides to bully me again? Could I throw you under the bus on air like I did half a year ago? You know, as a little shield for me.”
She drawled the end of her sentence, making it long and soft, the tail rising slightly with a cute, sweet lilt that could melt anyone’s bones.
“After all, that legendary episode last time had me roasting you pretty hard, right? A few more jabs today wouldn’t hurt, would they? The audience is already used to it.”
The car fell into dead silence.
A few seconds later, Ritsu took a deep breath.
The sound of that inhale was so loud in the quiet vehicle that even Haruka in the back seat heard it perfectly.
“Hoshino.”
“Huh?”
“That sharp tongue of yours,” he finally turned his head slightly, his gaze as hard and cold as a steel plate, “save it for dealing with that old fox Takahashi later. Stop using me as a warm-up.”
After dropping that warning, he turned back, like a meditating monk, unilaterally cutting off all signals from the back seat.
He stared fixedly at the windshield in front of him, motionless, turning into an emotionless stone statue.
Seeing this, Haruka deliberately dragged out her voice from behind.
“Hey—Mr. Ritsu—”
She even added a few soft, pitiful sighs, daring to push further.
She even tried to recruit the driver, Mr. Uehara, who was focusing on the road.
Out of professional courtesy, Mr. Uehara let out a dry chuckle and said they were almost there, so Miss Hoshino should please sit tight.
Ritsu, however, endured that entire mental assault without sparing her a single syllable.
Knowing when to quit, Haruka obediently shrank back into her seat.
She turned her head, pretending to watch the rapidly passing scenery of Odaiba outside the window, but in reality, she was biting her lower lip hard.
If her self-control hadn’t been so strong, she would have burst out laughing in the car.
‘What’s the big deal?’
She gloated inwardly, her tone dripping with triumphant victory.
‘Hmph. Ritsu usually acts like this eternal iceberg, wearing that “the sky could fall and I wouldn’t care” deadpan face. He even boasted back then that I could watch anime for a lifetime and never shake him.’
‘And now a little tease from this beautiful girl and he can’t handle it?’
Haruka replayed the details she’d caught earlier: the twitching fingertips gripping the document, the unnaturally fast speech to cover his panic, and that final deep breath like a drowning man surfacing for air.
All of it proved one ironclad truth to her:
This man was no detached monk.
He was just putting up a front.
Haruka stared at her own reflection in the car window—flawless makeup, eyes sparkling with mischief, the corner of her mouth curled into a sly smile she couldn’t suppress.
‘Hmph. Let you keep giving me that sour face. One little move from me and you’re flustered. Taking down a mere manager like you is a piece of cake.’
She silently gave herself a thumbs up in her heart.
‘Mizutagawa Ritsu, just you wait. One day, I’ll see the look on your face when you completely give up on handling me.’
Satisfied, Haruka leaned back into her seat, crossed her arms, and closed her eyes with a smug smile.
About twenty minutes later, the minibus smoothly pulled into the underground parking lot of Odaiba Fuji Television.
The engine died, and the car fell completely silent.
Haruka glanced outside through the privacy-tinted window.
All she could see were rough concrete pillars and harsh white LED tubes.
But she knew that above her head was the iconic spherical observation deck that appeared on countless postcards and travel websites.
Come to think of it, a few years ago, when she was still Matsumoto Hidetoshi, she had once visited Tokyo Tower with Ritsu.
The memory was still vivid—the lobby with its gleaming marble floors, so reflective they could pass for mirrors; huge floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the entire Tokyo skyline; fashionably dressed tourists queuing up for photos; the faint scent of perfume and freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air.
Everything about it screamed the premium class of a “Tokyo landmark.”
If Tokyo Tower was like that, then Fuji Television, the headquarters of a media giant, must be equally if not more impressive.
In Haruka’s mind, a beautiful picture automatically formed:
Spacious, bright corridors; thick, plush carpets; producers sipping Starbucks while discussing highbrow topics; smartly dressed staff hurrying by; elegant female announcers walking past in high heels, leaving a trail of expensive perfume; panoramic windows everywhere and stylish lounge areas; the whole place exuding the calm confidence of an elite workplace.
“We’re here. Get out. Grab your bag and don’t forget your thermos.”
Ritsu’s cold voice mercilessly yanked her back from her daydream.
The door slid open.
Haruka took a deep breath, straightened her back, and stepped out of the minibus with the poised grace befitting an idol.
She was ready to greet the glamorous world of high-class television.
But reality hit her with a clean, sharp uppercut.
After following Ritsu through a heavy fire door, Haruka’s steps came to a halt at the sight before her.
This backstage area had none of the marble floors or floor-to-ceiling windows.
There wasn’t even a proper ventilation window.
What lay before her was a narrow hallway barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side.
Two of the fluorescent tubes overhead flickered at a visibly disturbing frequency, one of them emitting a dying “bzzz—bzzz—” sound.
The dusty walls had several peeling patches, and the ceiling was a mess of exposed wiring and ductwork.
There was no red carpet on the floor.
Instead, cables of various thicknesses lay scattered everywhere.
They crisscrossed the entire corridor, haphazardly taped down with black-and-yellow striped insulating tape.
Some of the tape had already peeled off at the edges, and as Haruka stepped on it, she nearly tripped.