Anri POV
Lucien's words sat between us like a lit match—waiting for me to breathe the wrong way and set the whole room on fire.
I didn't know what to say.
Not then. Not to that.
There was something in the way he said it—like it hurt him to admit how much he wanted me to speak to him again. And maybe... some foolish part of me did feel a flicker of pity. A tight pull in my chest I didn't want to name.
But I wasn't ready. Not yet.
I couldn't give him what he was asking for. I wasn't sure if it was forgiveness he wanted—or if it was something worse. Hope.
Thankfully, the universe took pity on me.
A knock on the door interrupted the moment like a scene change.
"Miss Anri?" a voice cut in. One of the personal assistants, awkwardly peeking past the door. "They're ready for you on set."
I stepped away.
Away from his eyes.
Away from the trembling feeling crawling up my chest, threatening to betray me.
"I need to get back," I muttered quickly, not meeting Lucien's gaze.
He didn't try to stop me.
But that didn't mean he was gone.
Lucien didn't hover.
He lingered.
Every damn day after that, he was there.
Always watching. Always waiting. Quiet in the background like he belonged to the set itself. Like he had every right to be there—and maybe he did.
At first, I convinced myself it was business. Maybe he had meetings. Maybe it was coincidence.
But when I saw him again the next day—and the next—I stopped pretending.
He wasn't here for the project.
He was here for me.
And just like that, it felt like I was back in Manila. Back in the old pattern. Back when he was just a "creative executive" ghosting through the Maharlika Airways shoot. Sitting in the shadows. Arms crossed. Eyes always on me.
Now it was Elira.
Our Netflix fairytale-meets-high fashion series. My first lead. My first big break.
And God, what a dream it was.
Every morning I stepped onto set not just as Anri—but as her.
Elira, the enigmatic heiress. Stylish, untouchable, born with secrets instead of innocence. Every episode was dripping with luxury and mystery—drama stitched into Balmain, heartbreak veiled in tulle.
They dressed me like the Met Gala was happening every day. And I loved it.
Structured minidresses. Custom bodysuits. Vintage heels. Pearls layered over silk, dramatic cloaks tossed over barely-there slip dresses.
Today, I was wearing a jet-black halter with a sculptural backless train and pointed stilettos that could kill a man. My hair was slicked back into a twisted bun, a few strands curled just right to frame my cheekbones. Glassy skin. A wine-stained lip. My jawline looked razor-sharp in the mirror.
I looked good.
I knew I looked good.
But it wasn't vanity.
It was armor.
I didn't always feel strong inside—but Elira did. So I held my chin higher. Sat straighter. Smiled like the crown was already mine.
And still, despite everything... I could feel his gaze.
Lucien.
He didn't say a word. Didn't come near me.
But every time his eyes found me, something in him changed. His gaze sharpened. Slowed. Softened — all at once.
Then there were the other signs.
The food deliveries from "Everight."
Oat milk ready at the cart. That matcha from Melbourne—not just any, the exact one.
And then the snacks. Stuff you definitely can't get in the UK without trying. Hokkaido milk candy. That one brand of Korean peach jelly I thought no one else noticed. Yuzu chips. French butter cookies from a shop with no online store. All lined up like a tasting menu.
Too specific to be random. Too expensive to be casual.
The crew said it was all from the sponsor.
But I knew.
I knew it was him.
Was this... pagsusuyo?
Is this how a billionaire heir apologizes?
All these things... it's such really such deja vu from the Maharlika campaign all over again.
If this happens every project I have, I'm afraid I might get used to being too spoiled.
It was ridiculous.
And worse—effective.
Every time I found a ginger shot on my seat or a protein bar I liked in the makeup room, I wanted to scream. Or maybe, in the privacy of my deepest, most shameful thoughts... kiss him.
I didn't do either.
Instead, I crossed my legs. Flipped my hair. Played it cool.
Jacob and Andres didn't make it easy.
Jacob — my on-screen bodyguard-turned-lover — was basically a golden retriever in Gucci. Charming, British, endlessly touchy in the way male actors are when they know they're pretty.
Always saying things like "You're bloody brilliant, Anri," while brushing lint off my shoulder.
Andres was more subtle. Quieter. His voice low and deep. He'd offer his coat when it got cold. Slide me water bottles when I forgot to hydrate. The kind of man who didn't flirt—but did care.
They meant no harm.
They were just being kind.
But Lucien?
Lucien didn't love it.
He never said a word. Never made a scene. Never tried to claim me.
But I saw it.
The way his jaw tensed. The way his gaze lingered too long. The slight shift in his posture whenever Jacob leaned too close or André made me laugh.
He never interfered.
But I felt the pull of him. That silent pressure. That jealous restraint.
And somehow, that made it worse.
He kept his distance.
Never approached me again. Never forced another conversation.
But the air between us?
It never cleared.
If anything, it thickened.
Until that day.
We were filming an outdoor scene. A rooftop confrontation. Elira yelling at her grandmother. Sky gray. Wind machines humming. The slip dress they gave me was backless and paper-thin, fluttering in the breeze like it had a mind of its own.
My heels clicked across the tiled rooftop. I could feel the chill in my bones. The cameras were rolling. The crew positioned. A crane held the massive lighting rig above us.
Everything was going fine.
Until it wasn't.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw it.
A sound tech stumbling. A cable jerked.
The crane jolted—too hard. Too sharp.
The rig swayed.
And I didn't have time to react.
"Anri!"
His voice cut through the air.
Lucien.
I didn't even turn fully.
Suddenly—he was there.
He ran into frame, past the crew, past the safety line—fast, urgent, mine—and grabbed me by the waist.
"Watch out—!"
We crashed to the floor. His body covering mine. The sound of metal screaming above us.
Then—
CRASH.
The beam hit the ground, not far from where I'd been standing.
Screams echoed. People ran. Someone yelled for medics.
Lucien's arm was wrapped around me. His breathing heavy. His shirt ripped at the sleeve. Blood blooming near his temple.
"Lucien?" I breathed, trying to lift myself.
He didn't move.
His eyes fluttered. Then closed.
No.
No no no—
"Lucien—Lucien?!" I grabbed his face with both hands. "Oh my God—someone help!"
I looked down. His shirt was stained red. His brow was bleeding.
And still, he didn't open his eyes.
"Lucien!!"
My voice cracked, raw and terrified.