Anri POV
I stayed in the hallway longer than I meant to.
Long enough that the second assistant director came looking for me with a clipboard and tight smile, asking if I needed a breather or makeup touch-up.
I nodded absently, murmured something about needing powder and water. She didn't push. Probably assumed I was overwhelmed from the emotional weight of the scene.
If only it were that clean.
The weight wasn't from the scene.
It was from the man behind the camera. The man who wasn't supposed to be here. Not in London. Not on this set. Not in this world I was still building with trembling hands and all my teeth grit against the wind.
But he was.
Lucien.
No. Lucius Adrien, actually.
Whatever name he wore today, it didn't matter. I still felt the same way:
Like the rug had been ripped out from under me.
And I wasn't falling—
I was floating. Slowly. Dreadfully. Just waiting for the ground to hit back.
I stepped into the private dressing room assigned to me for the day and closed the door behind me like it could block out the pounding in my chest.
My phone was on the counter beside a half-drunk smoothie and a pile of new call sheets. I stared at it. It didn't ring. Of course it didn't.
He wasn't going to call.
He already knew where I was. He never called all time too, so why would he? I am so stupid.
I sank onto the couch in the corner and curled my legs beneath me. The robe was still around me, loosely tied. My skin prickled beneath it—not cold, just... raw. Like it remembered being watched. Like it remembered the heat in his eyes.
God. His face.
That quiet fury. The stillness that wasn't still at all.
He looked at me like I was a betrayal.
And I hated how some part of me wanted to run to him just to erase that look.
No.
I shook my head, trying to reset.
A knock broke the silence.
I stood up too fast, my robe swishing against my legs, heart thudding. I expected a PA, maybe Jacob with some dumb joke to snap me out of my spiral.
But it wasn't either of them.
It was him.
Lucien.
Standing in the doorway like the past few few weeks hadn't happened. Like he hadn't just watched me have a romantic scene with my co-actor.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
We just... stared.
And it was unbearable.
Because no one had ever looked at me the way he did. Like I was a storm he was ready to walk into, no umbrella, no hesitation.
"I asked if it was okay," he said, voice low, that careful restraint still threaded through every word. "To knock. To say hello."
I blinked. "You asked the crew?"
He gave a single nod. "They said you stepped out. I waited."
Of course he did.
I hesitated. Not because I wanted to—but because I could already imagine how it would look. The crew clearly treated him like he was royalty. Even the director had looked like he was about to faint when Lucien stepped on set earlier. If I didn't let him in, if someone saw, it would turn into a thing. And God knows this project didn't need more drama with me at the center.
Besides... who was I to shut the door on the person they all seemed to be tiptoeing around?
I stepped back and opened the door wider. "Then come in."
He didn't even flinch.
Just walked past me with that same quiet confidence I remembered—composed but unreadable, like he'd practiced the art of restraint since birth. His coat was slung over his arm now, sleeves rolled slightly up his forearms.
But it wasn't just the clothes.
Up close, I could see the changes.
His hair was longer. Messier. A hint of stubble on his jaw. He looked... tired. Like he hadn't been sleeping well. Like whatever he'd been doing lately had pulled something from him.
There was still the same sharp symmetry to his face, but it was softened now by something more rugged. Lived-in.
Lucien had always been handsome. The clean kind—polished, put-together, deliberate.
But this?
This was dangerously, unfairly, ruggedly handsome.
And I hated it.
Hated how my heart was already racing.
Hated how every part of me reacted before I could talk myself down.
"You look different." I said.
The words came out before I could stop them. Like my brain short-circuited and my mouth betrayed me.
Blurted. Unfiltered. Intrusive.
Lucien blinked, then—barely—smiled. Just the faintest curve of his lips, a tug at the corner of his tired mouth.
"You too, baby," he said softly. His voice like gravel smoothed over silk. "You somehow look even more beautiful than the last time I saw you."
My chest tightened. Not at the compliment.
At the baby.
Like he still had the right. Like he hadn't burned everything between us down and was now pretending he didn't smell the smoke.
I tried to school my expression, to keep my face calm. Cold. Professional.
But my fingers curled tighter around the edge of my robe.
He looked like he meant it. The way he said it. The way his eyes moved over me, gently, like he was memorizing me again.
I hate it! He's acting like he hasn't done anything wrong.
So I didn't reply.
Didn't blink. Didn't soften.
But he spoke again.
"I miss you." he said.
My head snapped up at what he said.
The control I fought to keep wavered, cracked.
My jaw clenched before I could stop it. My brows pulled tight. I felt my heartbeat spike like a fight-or-flight response was loading in the background.
What a liar!
"You missed me?" I repeated.
It came out like a joke. Like the punchline of something cruel.
I laughed once—quiet and sharp—before the words spilled, too bitter to hold back.
"So that's why you never called?" I said. "That's why you never texted? Not even a message to check if I landed safely in London?"
Each word sliced thinner than the last.
He stepped forward slightly. "Anri—"
"No." My hand went up, not touching him, just stopping him. "Don't."
He looked like he wanted to reach for me. But I could see the hesitation, that barely-restrained urge behind his eyes.
"Anri, you said you needed space," he said, voice low. Controlled. Still trying to be the calm one between us.
"I respected it." he continued.
I laughed again. A breath, sharp and incredulous. "Oh, how noble."
.He moved toward me again, slow and careful. His hands were open, like he was trying not to spook me. Like I was something fragile. Something breakable.
But I wasn't fragile.
I was furious.
"Baby..." he started.
And that word. That fucking word again.
I flinched back like it burned.
"You were devastated," he said. "After our last conversation. I saw it. I felt it. And you told me you needed space. I took you at your word. But—believe me—if I had messaged you, if I'd called... if you'd replied with just anything..."
His jaw clenched, voice dropping into something raw.
"I would've been a fucking dog. On a plane. At your door. Anywhere you were, I would've shown up. Hopelessly. Probably scaring you off even more."
My throat felt like it was closing.
I didn't say anything.
Couldn't.
Because my brain was screaming that he should have anyway. That if he really cared, he would've risked it.
But also—god—I knew how I'd sounded when I left. Like I didn't want anything to do with him. Like I needed to cut him out clean or I'd bleed for months.
And he listened.
He actually fucking listened.
"I didn't want to make it worse," he said, quieter now. "Didn't want to push you when you were already walking away."
I stared at the floor.
Because if I looked at him, I knew my face would crack.
He stepped even closer. Careful. Tired. Beautiful in that worn, rugged way that made everything worse.
"That's why I'm here now, okay?" he said, voice catching. "Because I couldn't take it anymore. You being angry at me. Us not talking. Not knowing where we stand. I couldn't sleep. Couldn't focus. So yes—I snuck my way in through one of the companies. Through Everight. Quiet enough to get access to your set. Just to see you again. Just to talk to you again."
I looked at him then.
Really looked.
Because I had to see if it was true. If the guilt in his eyes matched the words in his mouth.
His voice cracked on the last part.
"Please, baby... I've given you enough space. I did what you asked. But I'm here now, asking you, talk to me."