Anri POV
The next day, I shot a scene with Andres. It was intense—a confrontation in a candlelit hallway, both of us dressed in royal black and red, our characters burning with resentment and repressed desire.
His character cornered mine against the wall, hand braced beside my face.
"You think I want this marriage?" he growled.
I met his eyes, trembling. "You think I do?"
There was a charged pause. Then he leaned closer—not kissing, but hovering just close enough for our breath to tangle. The kind of proximity that makes people scream online.
Cut.
"Beautiful," the director called. "That tension is perfect. Anri, you okay with the space?"
I nodded. Andres stepped back, a little breathless.
"Sorry if I overdid it," he said kindly.
"No, you were great," I said. "I'm still getting used to everything."
Everything. The weight of being here. The expectations. The pressure to be perfect. The accent training. The way the older British cast members sometimes looked at me like I'd wandered onto the wrong set. Like I was the wildcard. The gamble.
Sure, I had an Aussie twang—clean enough to pass, but not polished enough to blend. British RP? That took weeks of dialect coaching, jaw muscle exercises, and late-night YouTube rabbit holes. I'd gotten the role, yes. But sometimes, I still felt like I was auditioning.
Later that afternoon, I was called to another location—a soft-lit forest clearing—for a campfire scene with Jacob.
I wore a flowing blue gown with a plunging neckline and a thigh-high slit, wrapped in a velvet shawl that looked like it belonged on a Dior runway. My hair was curled into glossy waves, dew glittered across my collarbones, and I had to pretend it was casual.
Jacob, dressed in leather and armor, sat beside me with a prop sword resting in the dirt. His character was meant to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, gaze at me like I was his whole world, then pull back just before pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.
It felt... effortless.
We laughed between takes, and the camera adored the way our skin tones played off each other. When I watched the dailies later, even I almost believed we were in love.
After wrap, I headed to hair and makeup for touch-ups. There was always another shot. Another scene. Another dress to wriggle into.
"Your skin's flaking a little," the stylist said gently as she dabbed something cool under my eyes. "You need sleep, babe."
I smiled faintly in the mirror. "I'll sleep when Elira does."
She laughed, and I did too—but my body ached. My spine, my shoulders, even my jaw from keeping it clenched through scenes. I hadn't had a real meal since sunrise. Just coffee, green juice, and nerves.
Still, I didn't complain.
Because somewhere between memorizing my marks and learning how to breathe in a corset, the set had started to feel like a second skin. Or maybe a tight one I could finally move around in without tripping.
I started calling Jacob by his character's name in rehearsal without noticing. Andres texted me memes at night that made fun of our most dramatic lines. Our director—demanding, brilliant, terrifying—started saying things like "That's an Anri take," when I nailed a scene.
Which I did. More often than I thought I could.
And then there was her.
Dame Madeleine Leou.
She played my character's grandmother—an exiled queen, cold and calculating, every word lined with venom. Off-camera, she was just as poised. British-Asian, regal, sharp-boned, trained in the West End. Her presence filled a room without even trying.
At first, I was petrified of her. She had that theatre discipline, the kind that makes you instinctively check your posture. Whenever she gave me quiet notes between takes, I stiffened. Braced for critique. For dismissal.
But one day, after an emotionally raw breakdown scene, she came up to me without a word, rested a steady hand on my shoulder, and said:
"That was honest. You're very brave, Anri."
From that moment on, something changed.
She'd check in. Ask if I'd eaten. Offer me ginger chews and lemon lozenges between takes. She'd call me "darling girl," in that signature crisp tone, like I belonged there.
We started talking in between scenes—quietly, off to the side. About the work. About the industry. About how things were changing, but never fast enough.
"You know," she told me once, as we waited on lighting adjustments, "when I was your age, this kind of role would've gone to a white actress. Maybe mixed. Never someone fully Asian. Not unless she was playing a maid, or a warrior, or someone doomed."
I stayed quiet, listening.
"But now look at you," she said, her eyes warm but sharp. "A lead. A fashion icon. A hotel heiress. Not a stereotype in sight."
She smiled. "You're the future I used to hope for."
The weight of that nearly crushed me.
I didn't grow up expecting to see women like me at the center of anything. Let alone a Netflix-produced fantasy epic. Let alone playing a character like Elira. Beautiful. Regal. Soft but calculating. Clothed in silk and armor, both. A woman of power, not pain.
She wasn't coded Asian through trauma. She wasn't some martial arts prodigy. She wasn't hypersexualized or exoticized.
She was just... Elira. And I got to play her.
The truth was, the more I threw myself into the work, the less space Lucien took up in my mind.
And that helped. Immensely.
The tight schedule helped. The long hours. The late-night line runs with Jacob. The fight choreography with our stunt team. The relentless voice warm-ups. The hours spent in styling, trying on dress after dress just to find the one that shimmered right under candlelight. The layers of velvet and tulle. The tiaras. The boots.
All of it kept me busy. Focused. Functional.
But when Elira had to feel—really feel, deeply, helplessly—I wasn't pulling from technique.
I was pulling from him.
Lucien.
Not just the memory of him, but what he stirred in me. The way he made me nervous without trying. How I overthought every glance, every pause, every moment between words. How I felt both seen and completely undone whenever he looked at me like he already knew what I'd say next.
That was new for me.
Before Lucien, I'd never had a real relationship. Never truly let anyone into my inner world. I'd never stood barefoot in a man's kitchen while he poured me wine like it was nothing. Never had anyone trace their fingers down my spine like it meant everything. Never had a man look at me like I wasn't just a moment—but a decision.
Sure, I'd had attention. I'd been kissed. I knew how to flirt, how to charm. I'd been complimented, wanted. But intimacy?
That was different.
That was terrifying.
And somehow, also beautiful.
Suddenly, I had access to something I didn't even know I was missing—a rawness, a vulnerability, a quiet ache that made you both softer and sharper. The kind of closeness that forces you to feel everything, even when you don't want to.
So no—I wasn't playing Elira based on theory anymore. I wasn't mimicking performances I'd seen in films or imagining how longing should look.
I was drawing from something lived.
Something real. And it made the work better.
Before Lucien, I would've played Elira cleanly. Hit my marks. Delivered the lines. Held the gaze. I would've looked convincing.
But now?
Now I played her with the ache of someone who knew what it meant to be wanted—then left wondering what that wanting really meant.
Elira was a woman who had everything—beauty, power, control. But the moment she let herself feel, she unraveled.
I understood that now. Not as an actress.
As a woman.
And that understanding gave my performance something I couldn't fake. Something no class, no director, no script could teach.
It had to be lived.
God. I sighed to myself, annoyed—and gave my temple a light smack with the heel of my hand. Seriously? Still? I was really sitting here, thinking about him again.
I always thought I'd be one of those women. The ones who could compartmentalize. Focus on the goal. Keep their head clear and their heart separate. Not the type to let a man take up this much space in her mind.
But here I am.
Everything I said I'd never do—I'm doing. Everything I swore I'd be immune to, I ended up swallowing whole. It's like I manifested the very thing I thought I was too smart to fall for.
I went to bed that night annoyed at myself. Annoyed at my thoughts. And mostly, annoyed that even when I had everything I dreamed of—this role, this life—he still found a way to creep in.
The next morning, we were halfway through blocking a carriage scene when the director clapped his hands together, loud enough to snap everyone out of the moment.
"Quick announcement before we reset," he called out. "We'll have some special visitors on set tomorrow. Sponsors. Investors. VIPs."
A few murmurs rippled through the crew. Someone from makeup groaned.
"Why do they always have to visit?" she whispered. "So much pressure."
I blinked, stomach dipping.
My body tensed before I even knew why.
Why did it feel like the calm before the storm?