The car glided through the city like a sleek black shadow, tinted windows swallowing the sunlight, isolating you and Rindō Haitani in a private, air-conditioned world of quiet wealth. The interior smelled faintly of leather and his cologne—cool, understated, expensive. He sat beside you with the posture of a man who never wasted movement, one leg crossed, phone in hand, pale blue hair falling over his eyes in perfect, careless disarray.
It should’ve been calming.
It wasn’t.
You kept your gaze lowered, the delicate fabric of your formal outfit pooling around you like you were wrapped in someone else’s life. Chauffeurs, stylists, publicists—everyone who worked under Rindō treated you like a rising star.
And to him?
You were simply an investment.
A talent he polished. A career he crafted. A name he funded.
Nothing more.
The car slowed as it approached the red-carpet venue ahead—flashes from distant cameras already sparking through your window. Rindō’s reflection glimmered in the glass: unreadable, uninterested, so effortlessly beautiful it hurt.
Without looking up from his phone, he finally spoke.
His voice was calm, low, businesslike.
“You should accept the proposal.”
His words landed like a stone in your chest. The ambient hum of the car suddenly felt too loud. Rindō continued typing, his expression never shifting, as if the subject had nothing to do with him personally.
“It’s what your parents want,” he added, still scrolling. “And the man is influential. Connections like his would push your career a long way.”
He tapped something on his phone, screen casting a cold glow across his sharp features.
“It’ll stabilize your public image too,” he went on. “A clean, respectable marriage looks good in the industry. Especially for someone in your position.”
As always, he spoke like a strategist evaluating the best long-term move for his asset.
Never like a man who noticed the way you looked at him when his back was turned.
His eyes flicked toward you at last—just a brief, measured glance. He noticed something in your expression, something he didn’t bother naming. His gaze hardened slightly, the way it always did when emotions complicated things.
“You don’t have to hesitate,” he murmured. “I’ve already approved the engagement on my end. It won’t interfere with your filming schedules.”
He said it so easily. So flatly. So coldly.
As if he hadn’t been the reason you rejected every suitor before.
As if he didn’t know exactly why you’d never entertained the thought of marrying anyone else.
As if he hadn’t been the silent gravity your world revolved around for years.
Rindō leaned back against the seat, one arm draped over the headrest, gaze returning to the approaching venue. The outside glittered with gold lights and the distant roar of excited fans—but inside the car, his voice was a soft blade.
“You should do it,” he repeated. “It’ll be good for your career.” he said.
The chauffeur announced your arrival.
Rindō straightened your collar with practiced, impersonal ease, fingertips brushing your skin for a fraction of a moment too long—then pulling away as if burned.
His expression was perfect again: distant, composed, unshakable.
Professional.
“Let’s go,” he said quietly, opening the door.
And you stepped out into the blinding light, Rindo holding his hand out for you to take it.