Anri POV
He texted early in the morning.
Lucien:
I won't be on set today. Meetings. But I'll wait at 4:30 p.m. in the basement parking.
Hope you're still free.
That was it. No emojis, no over-explaining. Just calm, confident, and controlled. So him.
I stared at the message longer than I'd like to admit. It wasn't even a question—but it still made my stomach flip.
I told myself not to read into it. It's just dinner. Or whatever. He probably does this all the time.
And yet, come 4:15, I was freshly showered, hair softly waved, cheeks slightly flushed from a discreet dab of cream blush. I wore a simple satin slip dress, not too sexy, not too safe, with a cream cardigan over it.
I didn't even know why I was this nervous.
I was descending to the basement car park of the studio. My heels clicked softly against the concrete, and as I turned the corner—
There he was. Leaning against the familiar black Aston Martin. Phone in one hand, other in his pocket. Just standing there in a plain white button-up shirt, sleeves pushed up, collar open.
The fabric clung a little too well — fitted just right to his frame. Broad chest, strong shoulders, trim waist.
He looked put together without even trying, which was exactly the problem. I knew what was under that shirt — muscle, definition, way too much smug confidence.
I looked away. Then immediately looked back.
And then I caught myself blushing like an idiot.
The glasses were new.
Thin-rimmed, a little fogged from the heat, like he'd just come out of the car and hadn't bothered to take them off yet. He wasn't even doing anything — just checking something on his phone — but the glasses? They did something. Made him look sharper, more serious.
I wasn't even trying to check him out. It just happened. Accidentally. Repeatedly.
Honestly, it was kind of rude how good he looked.
He looked up as I approached. His eyes met mine, and just like that, the noise of Manila faded.
"You're early." he said lightly.
"You're earlier..." I replied.
Then he opened the car door for me.
God.
I smiled—nervously.
"By the way," I said, holding out a brown paper bag as I slid in, "your coat. Thanks for letting me borrow it."
He glanced at it, amused.
"You didn't have to give it back."
"I didn't want to smell like you forever," I teased.
He raised a brow. "That's unfortunate."
I swallowed, heat rushing to my face. Flirt back. Flirt back, Anri. Say something.
But I didn't have to. The door shut gently, and before I knew it, we were pulling out of the basement and onto the roads of Makati.
The ride through Makati was quiet, except for the soft hum of the car and my pulse pounding in my ears. I watched his profile as he drove—clean jawline, controlled expression, one hand casually resting on the wheel.
When we arrived, it wasn't a restaurant. Not a typical one, anyway.
A tall man in a crisp white uniform opened Lucien's door and bowed slightly. Valet.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"You'll see."
The place didn't have a name—just a discreet elevator that took us to the 22nd floor.
An attendant in a tailored black uniform welcomed us with a bow and ushered us into what looked like a hidden penthouse dining room. Floor-to-ceiling windows, a long mahogany table dressed in white linens, and a breathtaking view of the city skyline at sunset.
Only one table was set.
Personal. Intimate.
"What is this?" I whispered.
"I wanted privacy. Hope that's okay." Lucien said simply.
A butler in a pristine suit greeted us and gestured toward the table. "We have a six-course menu prepared by Chef Ono. Japanese-Filipino fusion, as requested."
Lucien gave a small nod. "Thank you. That'll be all for now."
He turned to me, a little more cautious this time. "I didn't know what you liked, so I asked the chef to keep it balanced. I hope you'll enjoy the food."
I sat down slowly, letting the moment settle. "If it's free, I'll probably love it."
A flicker of a smile touched his lips. "Duly noted."
We started with light things—crab chawanmushi with a whisper of bagoong, citrus-seared tuna belly, uni on soft rice toast. Elegant, minimal, like the room itself.
But the air between us wasn't quiet for long.
Lucien took a slow sip of his wine before setting the glass down.
"I looked for you, you know."
I blinked. "What?"
"In Melbourne. After the night at the hotel. I checked the café. The bar. Even asked the concierge." his voice was steady, but his eyes flickered away for a second.
My throat went dry.
"My flight was at night. I thought maybe..." he continued.
I put my fork down.
"Lucien..."
"I didn't expect you to ghost me," he added, voice still calm. "Not like that."
I exhaled slowly. "I didn't mean to—well, okay, maybe I did. But I thought it was just a moment. One night. You didn't even know my name."
"You didn't ask for mine either."
That shut me up.
"I just thought," he added, "maybe it meant more than nothing."
Shit.
It had meant something. More than I admitted to even myself.
I looked down, tracing the rim of my wine glass. "I panicked, okay? I'm not usually that reckless. And... I ended up booking the commercial from that audition."
"A big one?" he asked, his voice softer now, but not exactly neutral.
I shrugged lightly. "Decent enough."
Lucien leaned back, tilting his head. "Then I guess ghosting me paid off."
He said it coolly—too coolly. Like he'd rehearsed not sounding bitter.
But the edge was there. Quiet, buried, and sharp enough to make me flinch.
I gave a small smile, more apologetic than anything. "The hustle's going better now, if that helps. This Maharlika campaign? Not bad for a girl who used to do 12-hour night shifts and crash auditions with zero sleep."
His gaze didn't leave mine. But he didn't say anything either.
"I didn't think we'd meet again," I added softly. "Out of all places... Manila? I didn't even know you were Filipino."
His brow lifted slightly, but his expression stayed calm. "I didn't think we would either."
A quiet pause stretched between us.
I tried to play it off.
"Maybe you stalked me," I teased, half-laughing. "Followed me here."
He gave a soft chuckle. "I don't have that kind of time. Or ability."
"So... when you said you were in Melbourne for a work trip" I began, swirling the wine in my glass, "was that Maharlika-related?"
Lucien nodded slowly. "Yeah. Meetings with some partners. Expansion talks."
"Ah," I said, leaning back slightly. "So you really are some kind of executive."
He shrugged like it didn't matter. "Depends who's asking."
"I'm asking."
"Then... something like that."
I gave him a look. "Not an actor. Shocking."
"I've been told I'm more of a behind-the-scenes type."
I smirked. "Let me guess. The mysterious creative director?"
He didn't deny it and just smirked.
From there, the conversation drifted—soft, surprisingly comfortable. Lucien asked what it was like growing up between Australia and the Philippines, and the way he listened reminded me of Melbourne. That quiet bar. The calm in him that night. For a moment, it felt like he wasn't so intimidating anymore.
Finally, I leaned back, sipping from the wine he ordered. "So... are we going to finally introduce ourselves properly?"
He looked at me over the rim of his glass. "I thought we did."
"I mean with actual names."
A pause.
Then he smiled, like it amused him that we were only now addressing this.
"Lucien," he said simply. "Lucien Tantoco."
"Anri," I replied. "Anri Sevilla."
We clinked glasses gently.
"Nice to meet you, Anri."
"Likewise... Lucien."
His eyes held mine a moment too long. And with the city lights flickering behind him, the air between us still and charged, I forgot everything else—except that he was here. Again. And this time, I wasn't leaving.