Sweet Love 2x: Miss Ruthless CEO for our Superstar Uncle-Chapter 168: No One To Worry About

The television studio stood several blocks away from the main commercial district, tucked between two older office buildings whose windows reflected the pale winter sky. Snow had been falling since early morning. The sidewalks outside were already dusted with a thin layer of white that crunched underfoot as Franz stepped out of the car.

The driver closed the door behind him while a production assistant waited near the entrance.

"Good morning, Mr. Hart," the assistant said, holding the glass door open. "They’re finishing rehearsal inside."

Franz nodded once and stepped into the building.

Warm air met him immediately. The heating system worked harder than necessary to counter the cold outside, and the faint scent of coffee and electrical equipment hung in the hallway. Technicians moved briskly between rooms carrying cables and small cases. A narrow corridor led toward the studio floor where the bright spill of stage lights washed across the walls.

Franz removed his coat and handed it to the assistant.

"Dressing room’s ready," the assistant said. "Monica’s already there."

Franz continued down the hallway without another word.

The dressing room door stood partially open. Monica had claimed the space long before he arrived, as she usually did. The long mirror above the counter glowed with bright bulbs, and the small table beside it held a neat row of brushes, powder palettes, and several folded cloths.

Monica stood behind the chair in the center of the room with a compact mirror in one hand.

"You’re late," she said without looking up.

"Traffic."

"You left early enough that traffic shouldn’t matter."

Franz placed his phone and watch on the counter before sitting.

"I accounted for normal traffic," he replied. "Today’s was slower."

Monica finally glanced at him through the mirror.

"You slept four hours."

"Approximately."

"That explains it."

She set the mirror aside and reached for a brush. The quiet rhythm of her work had become familiar over the years. Monica had started as a freelance makeup artist during one of Franz’s early films and had gradually become something more permanent. She handled both the practical details of his appearances and the schedule that surrounded them.

She’d learned to read the signs years ago. The slight tightness around his eyes when he hadn’t eaten. The way his voice dropped half a register when he was running on empty. This morning it was both. She made a mental note to have someone bring him coffee and something substantial before the next segment.

"Today will be simple," she said while working. "The host wants to talk about the medical show first. After that, the perfume campaign."

Franz rested one arm along the chair while she adjusted the light.

"That was expected."

Monica leaned slightly closer to inspect his reflection.

"The campaign segment won’t stay polite for long."

"It rarely does."

"They’ll ask about the model. Not directly at first, but they’ll circle around it."

Franz did not respond immediately.

Monica paused with the brush hovering near his temple.

"You’re aware of that."

"Yes."

"Good."

She continued working in silence for a few seconds before speaking again.

"You know the pattern. Every few years someone tries to attach your name to someone else’s."

"That pattern is predictable."

Monica nodded slightly.

"An actress during your second film."

"Yes."

"A director’s daughter at that charity gala."

"That was corrected quickly."

"And the dancer from the premiere."

Franz allowed himself a faint smile.

"That rumor lasted less than a week."

Monica stepped back from the chair.

"Exactly."

She wiped her hands with a cloth and leaned lightly against the counter.

"For someone who works in entertainment, Noah Hart has an unusually empty romantic history."

Franz met her gaze in the mirror.

"That has been useful."

Monica folded her arms.

"Useful and unusual. Most actors build their reputation on the opposite approach."

Franz said nothing.

Monica continued studying him.

"You’ve been linked to people before, but every time it happens you shut it down before it becomes a headline."

"That prevents complications."

"And reporters hate it."

"That isn’t my concern."

Monica gave a small shrug.

"Fair enough."

She picked up another brush and made a small adjustment along the edge of his collar before stepping back again.

"Still," she added, "this campaign confused everyone."

Franz already understood why.

For nearly a decade the public version of Noah Hart had remained remarkably stable. His career was visible, his work widely promoted, but his personal life stayed carefully outside the spotlight. When rumors appeared, they were quickly corrected, before they could develop into something larger.

The Aurelle campaign disrupted that pattern.

The photographs suggested a woman standing close beside him, her presence deliberately obscured by shadow and framing. The image hinted at intimacy without providing confirmation. The result had been predictable.

Speculation.

Monica watched his expression for a moment.

"You’ll have to keep the answers simple today."

"That was always the plan."

"You understand the rule."

Franz nodded once.

The rule had existed long before this campaign.

When he first entered the industry, the separation between his public identity and his private life had been carefully constructed. Noah Hart belonged to the public. Franz Rochefort remained somewhere else entirely.

That separation came with certain conditions.

One of the most obvious was simple.

Noah Hart could never be publicly involved with another woman.

The reasoning had once been practical.

Now it carried a different weight.

Franz reached for his phone on the counter.

A short message from Gio had arrived earlier that morning regarding a meeting at the Rochefort Group headquarters. Beneath it sat another message from Arianne, sent only an hour ago.

Meeting finished. Drive safely.

He read the words twice. Not because they were complicated—they were the opposite of complicated. But because she’d sent them. Because while he sat here under these lights, preparing to deflect questions about a woman who didn’t exist, his wife was three miles away running a company and thinking about him driving home.

The phone felt warm in his hand.

The words were simple and direct.

He thought about what he was about to do. Walk onto a stage. Smile. Deflect. Tell the world that the woman in the photograph was no one they needed to worry about. All of it true, in the way that mattered. All of it a lie, in the way that would break him if he let it.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Monica noticed the movement.

"Arianne?"

"Yes."

"Everything fine?"

"Yes."

Monica nodded once. She didn’t ask anything else. She had worked with him long enough to know when not to.

"Good."

A knock sounded on the door before a production assistant stepped inside.

"Mr. Hart, we’re about three minutes from your segment."

Franz stood.

Monica walked with him toward the stage entrance.

The corridor leading to the studio floor grew louder as they approached. Applause from the audience drifted through the open doorway, followed by the host’s voice introducing the previous guest.

"You remember what they’ll try to do," Monica said quietly as they waited near the entrance. 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"Ask questions."

"They’ll try to corner you."

"That’s part of their job."

Monica tilted her head slightly.

"And your job?"

"Not to give them anything useful."

The stage manager raised a hand.

"You’re up next."

The applause inside the studio grew louder.

Franz stepped forward.

The lights felt brighter once he entered the stage. Rows of audience members filled the seating area beyond the cameras, their attention focused toward the couch where the host waited with an enthusiastic smile.

"Noah Hart, everyone."

The applause rose immediately.

Franz crossed the stage and shook the host’s hand before taking his seat.

"It’s good to see you again," the host said. "Last time you were here we were talking about your action film. Now you’re saving lives instead."

"That’s the rumor."

The audience laughed.

The host leaned forward slightly.

"So tell me about this medical drama. Did they actually make you learn how hospitals work?"

Franz rested one arm along the back of the couch.

"We had consultants on set every day. Most of them were practicing surgeons."

"That sounds stressful."

"It becomes stressful when they watch how you hold the instruments."

"So you’re saying you could walk into a hospital right now and perform surgery?"

Franz shook his head slightly.

"I could walk into a hospital. Performing surgery would require a longer conversation."

The audience laughed again.

This part was easy. The rhythm of it, the timing. He’d been doing it so long the movements felt automatic—the slight pause before a punchline, the way he let his expression shift just enough to signal amusement without breaking character. Noah Hart was good at this. Franz watched him work from somewhere behind his own eyes.

They continued discussing the series for several minutes. The host asked about filming long emergency room scenes and the technical training required for the role. Franz answered easily, the rhythm of the conversation settling into the relaxed tone expected from a morning show.

Eventually the host glanced toward the cue card in his hand.

"Before we let you escape," he said, "there’s something else the internet has been talking about."

The large screen behind them changed.

A photograph from the Aurelle campaign filled the display.

The audience reacted immediately.

"There it is," the host continued. "The mysterious woman everyone is trying to identify."

Franz glanced briefly at the image before returning his attention to the host. The corridor. The woman walking away. Her face hidden. Her silhouette familiar.

"It’s a successful campaign."

"That’s one way to describe it," the host said. "But nobody seems to know who she is."

"That’s intentional."

"Oh come on," the host laughed. "You worked with her."

"Yes."

"So who is she?"

Franz folded his hands loosely together. He thought about Arianne’s text. Meeting finished. Drive safely. He thought about her hand in his under the table. The way she had leaned into him on the couch last night, her head against his shoulder, letting him feel her there.

"She’s someone who helped the campaign work."

"That’s not much of an answer."

"It’s the correct one."

The host leaned closer.

"Let me ask it another way. Are you dating her?"

Franz paused. Just long enough for the audience to react. Just long enough for the host to think he might get something real.

He thought about the rule. Noah Hart could never be publicly involved with another woman. The reasoning had once been practical. Now it carried a different weight.

"No."

"That was fast."

"It’s also accurate."

The host raised an eyebrow.

"You’ve managed to stay single in public for almost a decade."

"That has simplified my schedule."

"So there’s really nobody?"

Franz allowed the faintest hint of amusement to appear in his expression. The mask settled back into place.

"No one the audience needs to worry about."

The host laughed.

"You’re impossible."

"I’ve heard that before."

The audience applauded again as the segment moved toward its conclusion.

Backstage, the noise of the studio faded quickly into the quieter hum of production staff preparing the next segment.

Franz stepped into the hallway outside the stage doors.

Snow had begun falling more heavily outside the tall windows overlooking the street. The flakes drifted slowly past the glass before disappearing into the grey sky.

Monica joined him a moment later.

"You handled that well."

"They were predictable."

"They always are."

Franz looked once more at the snow beyond the window. He was thinking about Arianne. About the text she had sent. About the way she had leaned into him last night, her shoulder against his chest, letting him feel her there. About what he had said on camera.

No one the audience needs to worry about.

The words had come easily, smoothly, the way all his deflections did. But standing here now, with the studio noise fading behind him, he felt the shape of them differently.

She wasn’t someone to worry about. She was someone to protect.

The snow kept falling, quiet and steady, the way his real life waited beyond these lights.

For the viewers still watching the broadcast inside the studio, the man who had just left the stage remained Noah Hart.

Outside the studio lights, the winter morning continued quietly beyond the glass. And somewhere across the city, his wife was already moving through her day, thinking about nothing more complicated than a meeting finished and a drive home.

He reached for his phone. Read her message one more time.

Drive safely.

He typed a response.

Home soon.