Anri POV
I had three days left in Manila.
Lucien didn't ask when I was leaving, and I didn't volunteer it. We were both pretending we had more time than we did. And maybe we were good at pretending, because it was starting to feel too easy—texting all day, eating meals together, sleeping in the same bed like it was normal.
Except it wasn't. This wasn't normal. Not for me.
We hadn't talked about it. No labels. No plans. Just dates, sex, quiet mornings, and the weight of everything unspoken. So after the third round, when I woke up next to him again—his arm around my waist, breathing deep like I hadn't just spent the entire night overthinking—I couldn't help it.
What was this?
I mean, we didn't even sleep together right away. He was patient. Took me out. He even held my hand in public once—twice, actually. Sent me food to set, sent me texts that were more thoughtful than flirty. But I still didn't really know him. Not deeply.
I knew that he worked in something corporate, something with Maharlika Airways. That he had driver-level access to an Aston Martin and a top-floor family. But I don't know his family, what kind of kid he was, what kept him up at night. I don't even know if he has a middle name.
Two nights before my flight, we had dinner at a quiet rooftop restaurant somewhere in Makati.I wore one of my stylist's backup dresses—not the one he destroyed, thank you very much.
Lucien didn't even pretend to be sorry. When I brought it up, he just looked me dead in the eye and said, "I'll buy her three more."
I rolled my eyes. "You're so casually arrogant, it's terrifying."
"I'm casually resourceful," he corrected, sipping his wine.
"You're casually ruining my career wardrobe."
"You were half out of it already," he said, voice low.
"You're not winning this argument."
"I already did."
He smiled, and I tried not to. But the weight of it still lingered. Not the dress—just the us part. The not-knowing.
After dinner, he kissed me in the elevator. The kind that made me forget we were in public. By the time we reached the suite, we didn't speak. Not until after.
He collapsed beside me, chest heaving, skin flushed and slick. I stared at the ceiling, still breathless.
I couldn't help it.
"So... I'm going back to Melbourne," I said.
Lucien turned his head toward me, eyes half-lidded. "When?"
"Two days."
He nodded. Quiet for a beat. "That's soon."
"There's a look test for Elira. If I get it, it's London after."
He didn't say anything right away. Just reached for my hand and held it gently, thumb tracing the inside of my wrist.
"That's a big deal," he said finally.
"It is."
I wanted him to say more. I wanted us to say more. But neither of us did. We laid there in that frustrating almost-silence—the kind that hums with everything you're not brave enough to ask.
And that's when it started to gnaw at me.
The silence. The way he never defined it. The way I was falling, slowly and stupidly, and didn't even know if I was falling alone.
We had sex like it meant something. We looked at each other like we knew something. But what if I was just another girl in a city he lived in? What if I was just here because I was available?
What if he already had someone?
The thought wouldn't leave. So I asked.
The next morning, over coffee, while he was shirtless and smug and leaning against the counter like a walking Calvin Klein ad, I just blurted it.
"Are you seeing anyone else?"
Lucien blinked. "Right now?"
I shot him a look. "Lucien."
"No."
"Girlfriend?"
"No."
"Secret wife? Fiancée in Singapore? Model in Paris you forgot to mention?"
His jaw flexed. Brows drawing in, like I'd just accused him of murder. "What the fuck, Anri."
I crossed my arms. "You're rich, hot, emotionally mysterious, and suspiciously good at sex. What am I supposed to think?"
He stared. "So your logic is that I'm too hot to be single."
"Statistically? Yes."
His mouth twitched, caught between a smirk and an eye-roll. "Do you hear yourself?"
"I do. And it sounds like self-preservation. Men like you have hidden wives and condos for their mistresses."
Lucien let out a short laugh, half-disbelieving. "Jesus."
"I've done the math," I said, sipping my coffee. "Hot men with nice wrists and black cards have a 97% chance of emotional unavailability and a 63% chance of having a child named after them in Milan."
He stepped closer, shaking his head. "Baby, that's nonsense."
"But am I wrong?"
He didn't answer right away.
Instead, he stared at me—frustrated, amused, and something else I couldn't name.
Then, softer: "You think I didn't recognize you the second you stepped on the Maharlika Airways set?"
I paused.
"I saw you and I fucking knew. It hit me so fast I almost walked out."
My throat tightened.
"I was pissed back then," he continued, tone low. "Because I remembered everything. Every single thing. And you looked through me like it was nothing."
I was too shocked to even speak.
"I stayed on set like a fucking dog," he muttered, more to himself than me. "Even when I didn't need to be there. I sat in meetings, lingered during call times, watched you from the damn monitor just so I could be near you."
I blinked, heart thudding too hard in my chest.
"So why are you asking me this now?"
I crossed my arms again and leaned back against the counter, letting the mug warm my hands.
"Because I've been in your bed more than my own and I still don't know what we are. Because you act like you want me, but you never say anything about it. And because I'm leaving. In two days. I need to know if this is real, or if I've just been a cute little layover in someone else's city."
Lucien set his mug down with a soft clink. Then walked toward me, slow and measured, like he was holding back more than just irritation.
His hands found my waist—firm, unhurried—fingers spreading wider, dragging over the hem of his shirt I was wearing until they pressed against the small of my back.
He didn't speak right away.
Instead, he looked at me—really looked. Jaw tight. Lips parted like he was chewing through every word. His gaze didn't move from mine.
"You think I do all this for just anyone?" he asked, voice low.
I didn't answer.
"You think I hold your hand, text you goodnight every single time we're apart, rip my whole schedule just to see you—for fun?"
"Lucien—"
"I've left meetings early. Skipped dinners. I've watched you from behind a fucking monitor on set because I wanted to be near you without distracting you. You think that's casual?"
"I don't know," I admitted, smaller now. "You don't talk about any of it. You just... show up. And touch me like I'm yours. But then you never actually say it."
He leaned in. His forehead brushed mine. His breath was warm and steady.
"I didn't think I had to."
"Well, maybe you do," I whispered, pulse hammering. "Because I'm going back to Melbourne. And I can't tell if I'm just some beautiful detour in your life or if this actually means something."
"It means something," he said instantly.
I blinked.
He didn't move, didn't waver. "We're already dating, Anri. You're the only one I'm with. I haven't even looked at anyone else. No side girls. No flings. No anything"
"And me?" I asked, voice soft.
He kissed me—slow and deliberate, like he meant every second of it. His lips brushed mine once, then again, deeper this time. There was no rush, no hunger—just heat. Steady. Intentional. His hand curled around my waist, thumb pressing gently against the fabric, anchoring me there like he couldn't bear the thought of me slipping away.
Then he pulled back—barely—close enough that our breaths mixed, his voice landing soft against my mouth.
"You. No side boys. No disappearing. No more pretending this is nothing. Just you and me."
The room was quiet, except for the hum of the city outside and the wild rhythm of my own heartbeat in my ears. I leaned in again—kissed him back slower this time. Like I was trying to memorize the shape of it. The taste of him. The quiet promise behind the way his lips moved with mine.
Like if I held it long enough, maybe I'd stop doubting.
But when we finally pulled apart, my chest still felt tight.
I looked down.
"I still don't know how this works."
He didn't move away. Just tucked a piece of hair behind my ear, eyes warm now, softer than before.
"That's why we'll figure it out," he said. "You're going to Melbourne. Then maybe London. I know that. I want you to go after everything you've ever wanted."
"And you?" I asked, barely a whisper.
"I'll be there," he said. "Wherever you are, I'll show up. I don't care what country you're in, what role you get. If you want me, I'm not going anywhere."