Chapter 29 — The Meeting Request
The phone in the studio rang and cut through the tense air like a bell. On the other end, the secretary's voice was paced, professional, but you could feel the excitement buried underneath like a sleeping thing.
"Hanma Studio, how may I help you?" the receptionist said.
A thin pause, and then the careful, practiced tone of a woman who had rehearsed this moment a thousand times: "Hello. I am the secretary for Miss Miyahara Yume."
The name landed in the room like a stone thrown into a quiet pond. For a moment everyone on the other side of the line held their breath. Miyahara Yume — the name alone pulled attention. She was not just famous; she was a force. Campaigns bowed to her taste. Brands died to hire her. Her face had starred on splash pages and glossy wraps for as long as anyone could remember. For Hanma Studio to be on the phone with her representative felt like the city itself had turned to listen.
"Oh, of course, Miss Miyahara's team! It's an honor." The receptionist's voice chirped a degree higher, eyes glancing over to the manager who had already stood up from her chair.
"Please," the secretary continued. "We would like to request an appointment. We wish to meet the boy who's been featured in your recent shoot."
On the receiving end, the voice of calm turned into something brittle. The words rolled off the receptionist's tongue, but her hand trembled as the phone almost slipped. She managed a laugh and steadied herself, careful not to reveal the studio's true turbulence.
"I'm sorry, could you repeat that?" she said, voice neutral.
"We want to arrange an appointment with the boy who's recently become famous online," the secretary said slowly, as if laying out a map.
At the other end of the line, people in the meeting room stiffened. The word "famous" traveled through the studio like a current. Outside the meeting room, stylists stopped mid-application. Phones were tucked away. The manager's face, usually unreadable, tightened.
"No," the receptionist replied, the word flat and controlled. "We cannot provide personal information. Our policy is strict."
The secretary sounded entirely unmoved. "You do know who this is on behalf of, yes?"
"Yes," the receptionist said. "But this boy's information is protected. We have strict instructions from the government and from our management. No identity, no appointments without studio approval."
There was a pause. The secretary's breath made the line hum. "Of course. Then I will speak directly with your manager."
The phone clicked twice as the call was transferred. The manager answered on the other line with the steady posture she used when she needed to be immovable. "This is Hanma Studio manager. How can I help you?"
On her end, through the speaker, the living room of Miyahara Yume's penthouse could almost be seen: delicate porcelain cups on a low table, expensive silence, the latest fashion magazines staged like trophies. The voice on the line was slow and deliciously smooth. "You have quite the nerve to refuse, Ms. Manager," the celebrity said. There was mischief in the tone, but every word had the weight of a polished weapon. "However… I do appreciate people who understand value."
The manager did not flinch. She had weathered storms before, but this one glittered with knives. "Please, out with it," she said. "We have received clear directives. We will not disclose any details."
Miyahara Yume laughed softly. The sound was low and intimate, like something that belonged in a show and should not be let loose in a meeting room. "Let's make a deal," she said. "I will offer two hundred million yen to Hanma Studio. All of it. If you show me who he is."
The silence on the manager's side was long enough for the receptionist to slide down in her chair and breathe out. The team exchanged glances — offers like that could change a company's fortunes. But the manager's mouth set into a line that had teeth behind it.
"That's not how it works," she said finally. "The Government's warning is explicit. We are allowed to continue Haruya-sama's modelling work. We are allowed to post his photographs. But releasing personal details is forbidden. If we breach, our license—our studio—could be shut down, and we'll be held responsible."
Miyahara Yume's voice, for the first time, shifted. There was a flicker of frustration — a rare, human crack in porcelain. "There are ways. Invest in your company. Put me on the board for a short period. Promise me a private meeting under contract. Tell me I must promise not to reveal anything, and I will sign." The plan was dangerous, theatrical, tempting. It smelled of complete ownership, the sort of power only a woman of her celebrity could wave like a flag.
The manager felt the force of it and yet, she answered with steel. "We will accept an investment. We will accept a contract that includes your confidentiality pledge. But there are conditions: one, the investment must be formal and go through our legal department. Two, the confidentiality agreement must legally bind you; you cannot share details with anyone, even your inner circle. Three, you must not make any contract with the boy—directly with him—without our mediation. If any breach is discovered, there will be legal consequences."
Miyahara Yume was silent for a heartbeat. Her laugh returned like a petulant bird. "Those conditions sound manageable." There was a hush; everyone in the studio could hear the smile in her voice. "I will sign anything. I want the meeting. When?"
The manager took a breath. "Tomorrow, at our morning session. Haruya-sama will be present for a photoshoot at 9:30 a.m. You may attend, under our rules, if your legal team completes the investment documentation and signs our confidentiality agreement by midnight tonight."
"Oh," Miyahara Yume purred, amusement and victory folded tight together. "That's more than agreeable. Prepare the paperwork."
She hung up after a neat goodbye. In the studio, people shouted, whispered, and then fell into a kind of orchestrated motion. The manager sat down, rubbing the ridge of her nose. She turned to the team and said, simply, "Prepare to be careful. We are not selling anything but trust. We need everything recorded, watched, and protected. No leaks. No photoshops. No private messages. No one. If anyone tries anything, we'll cut them off."
Later that night, Miyahara Yume stood by her living room window, lit by the city lights, and smiled a small, secret smile. She was a woman used to control. The idea of being denied something had a way of sharpening a hunger she rarely let anyone see. Outwardly, she was the world's favorite queen: tasteful, distant, polite. But in private she had a closet of small wars — and this boy's face had knocked open a door she kept locked. Her smile was not cruel; it was intense. She wanted to understand every angle of him. She wanted to know the way he breathed, under what lamp he read, the quiet rhythm of his days. It was not just celebrity curiosity. It was a new kind of obsession: one that wore satin and took tea politely in the afternoon while scheming at night.
She called her stylist, makeup artist, and legal counsel. "Tonight," she said, "we will finalize everything. I want to see the set tomorrow morning. I will be there on time. Bring me the best suits. No one must know the plan."
Her team moved like trained instruments. The legal counsel sent a preliminary agreement via secure mail. Her publicist began a soft PR plan — nothing ostentatious; subtle hints here and Instagram saves there. The stylist chose fabrics that would photograph well next to a young model — soft pastels and the kind of gentle textures that made a face look softer by contrast. Yume measured angles in the mirror and practiced the smile that said, I am interested but I am not desperate. In private she practiced another look that had nothing to do with the cameras: the look of someone who wanted more than a photo. She turned it over in her mind and felt her pulse quicken.
In Haruya's small world, the morning began ordinary. He woke, blinked against the pale sunlight, and reached for his phone. A notification flagged Hanma Studio — the studio had sent a message. His thumb tapped the screen and the words were polite, concise.
"Haruya-sama, we have scheduled another photoshoot tomorrow morning at 9:30 a.m. — please arrive prepared. Please note Miss Miyahara Yume will be present. We hope the meeting will be to your comfort. — Hanma Studio."
Haruya blinked. Miyahara Yume? He typed the name slowly into the search bar, expecting only a few tabloid blurbs. Instead he found pages: magazine spreads, interviews, red carpet photos. She was everywhere. He read article after article: fashion awards, a sudden pivot into angelic brand collaborations, charity galas, and an interview where she spoke about "beauty as a tool, not a mask." He scrolled and scrolled, his chest tightening. The more he read about her ephemeral, controlled life, the stranger it felt that this woman — this high, unreachable Miyahara Yume — wanted to meet him.
His mind spun. Am I that famous? He had no idea that a simple modeling session would flare into something that made queens lean over phones in the night. His life, until weeks ago, had been simple: a small apartment, a daily commute, a quiet life. Now he found his face threaded into conversations across the country. My mother had wanted to protect him; now the stakes were real. He felt the sharp edges of both excitement and curiosity.
Later that evening, the Hanma Studio manager spoke with the legal team to draft the contract. The conditions were tight and heavily worded. "Miyahara Yume can attend the shoot under one condition," she said. "She must sign a non-disclosure agreement that will be available to our lawyers. Any leak will mean immediate closure of her contract, and Hanma Studio will cut ties permanently. No gifts without written permission. No physical contact. No private meetings unless it is arranged through the company with a security presence. This is for Haruya-sama's safety."
Yume's lawyers pushed back gently in emails, asking for small privileges: a reserved green room close to the set, private refreshments, a short private greeting. The manager accepted everything in writing but underlined one clause: Haruya-same's safety trumps all corporate convenience. The lawyers agreed for now; Yume sent a short text to the studio's legal department: "Everything will be done tonight. I will sign."
By midnight, contracts were mailed; by three in the morning, they were signed. Miyahara Yume slept like a person who had decided something finally and found peace in decision. The studio staff, meanwhile, could feel the tremor of what had begun to unfold. Some of them were thrilled — a collaboration with Miyahara Yume could elevate the studio to a new level. Others felt a tightness in the stomach — the kind that comes when you dance on a knife-edge.
At home, Haruya paced his room slowly, the glow of the screen painting the ceiling. He thought about his mother's worry, about the sudden calls, about the promise he'd given himself to be respectful and cautious in this new life. He put his hand over his heart and whispered softly, "Tomorrow will be fine." His voice barely shook.
But the next morning would be more crowded than he could imagine. The morning light would fall on soft lights and polished lenses. Miyahara Yume would step into the studio like a queen entering a temple — poised, immaculate, secretly full of intent. And somewhere between the neutral light and the hush of the set, something would begin that neither Haruya nor Miyahara truly expected: a meeting that would bend the day into a long thread of moments — a smile here, a glance there — that could start to change everything.
What Haruya read about Miyahara Yume — her life, her hunger, the way she controlled rooms and broke hearts without meaning to — will shock him in ways he doesn't yet know. He slept with his phone beside him, the studio message glowing like a companion that would not let him rest quietly.
— To be continued.
📝 Author's Note
Hello my dear readers, it's you author King_fuzu here.
First of all, I want to sincerely apologise for not uploading the chapter yesterday.
My schedule suddenly became messy, and I didn't want to give you a rushed or low-quality chapter. I always try to give my best in every update, so when I can't write properly, I prefer to pause instead of forcing something half-hearted.
To make up for it, I've decided that today's chapter will be much longer than usual.
Think of it as a small apology gift from me to all of you who patiently wait for every update. You all deserve something special, and I'll do my best to give you that.
If you notice any mistakes, confusing lines, or places where you think the story can improve, please let me know.
Your feedback really helps me, and I always read your comments carefully.
Thank you for your support, thank you for your patience, and thank you for staying with this story.
More chapters coming soon. ❤️
— King_Fuzu