Anri POV
Lucien had flown back to Manila last night. A two-day work trip, he said—just some meetings to handle in person, but he'd be back soon. I tried not to be dramatic about it. Tried to be cool, mature, detached.
I failed, obviously.
Because less than twenty-four hours later, I already missed him. Not in a rom-com, clinging-to-his-pillow kind of way. More like... I couldn't unlearn the comfort of his presence. The way he always remembered to ask about my auditions, how he texted me to eat, how his laugh made me feel like I'd done something right just by being myself.
I always said I wouldn't be clingy if I ever got a boyfriend. That I'd never be the type to melt just because some guy flew in for me or touched my lower back like he meant it. And yet here I was, alone in my room, checking my phone every ten minutes like a lovesick idiot.
I glanced at the mirror.
Okay. Maybe a little self-love was in order.
I was wearing a red lace set—thin-strapped bra, matching g-string, delicate but dangerous. The color popped against my skin. My curves sat just right. I didn't plan to send him anything. I really didn't.
I just... looked good. And I missed being looked at by him.
So I took a photo. My body, stretched out on my white sheets. Face not visible, just a tasteful shot of my hips in the lace, one hand resting just below my navel. Then another—closer, from the front. My cleavage barely spilling over the cups, my arm lifted just enough to show my underboob shadow and tease a hint of my neck.
And then a third—my face, lips parted slightly, hair mussed, expression soft and sultry. The kind of photo that said: You could be here. But you're not.
I sent all three.
No caption. Just vibes.
The typing dots appeared immediately.
Lucien:
You trying to end my career?
Me:
Just saying hi.
Lucien:
You send this, and I'm supposed to lead a quarterly budget meeting?
Me:
That sounds like a you problem.
Lucien:
You're evil.
Me:
And yet you miss me.
Lucien:
I can't even think straight.
Me:
Either suffer or book a flight.
Lucien:
That's the thing. I am suffering.
Lucien:
I'm not gonna make it to Friday if you keep pulling this shit.
I laughed, flopping back on my bed with a ridiculous grin on my face. I should've felt embarrassed—but I didn't. Not with him. Not when he knew exactly what I meant without me saying much at all.
And then, of course—life decided to humble me.
Because my car, my beloved Honda Jazz, broke down in the middle of traffic the next day.
No warning. No check engine light. Just a mechanical death rattle followed by a dramatic stall like it was trying to die with flair.
I coasted it into a nearby gas station and sat there for a second, gripping the steering wheel like it might magically bring her back.
Second-hand, practical, nothing fancy—but it worked. It always had. I'd taken out a $20k loan just to afford it, and I only finished paying it off recently. It was my freedom. My independence. A sign that I could survive in this country, build something real, without help.
I didn't care that it wasn't luxury. It got me to work, to auditions, it never judged when I cried behind the wheel after a 14-hour hospital shift.
So yeah. I kind of loved my Jazz
Which made it hurt more when I realized—it was gone.
I called Lucien after I'd already booked a tow. He was still in Manila, wrapping up meetings.
He asked if I was okay. If I needed anything. I told him no. I could manage. It was fine.
He just said, "Let me know if that changes," and didn't push it.
I didn't think anything of it.
Until two days later, a sleek black Porsche Macan rolled up my driveway—delivered on a flatbed truck with my full name on the delivery form and a discreet envelope in the glovebox.
Inside the envelope was a single folded card. No brand, no seal. Just:
"Since your Jazz has earned her rest. — L."
My first instinct was: this has to be a mistake.
The second was: I'm going to kill him.
I FaceTimed him immediately.
He answered from what looked like an airport lounge, coffee in hand, unbothered.
"I didn't ask for this," I said.
He smiled.
"Didn't say you did."
"Lucien."
"You needed a car."
"Most people offer to help with repairs. Not... replace it with a luxury SUV."
"It's not that big."
"It's a Porsche."
He leaned back in his seat. "You're hard to shop for."
"You didn't even tell me you were sending it."
"I wanted it to be a surprise."
"Lucien." I ran a hand through my hair, voice dropping. "You know I can't afford to even fuel that thing regularly, right?"
He tilted his head. "You don't have to. It's yours. Registered under your name. Insurance too."
My throat tightened. "How did you even—?"
"I have a team."
"Is this... is this from Maharlika? Like a corporate perk?"
He smiled faintly. "Not exactly."
My lips went on a grim line.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the key heavy in my palm. "I always thought I'd get a car like that once I really made it. You know? As an actress. A reward for finally becoming someone."
"You already are someone," he said, without hesitation. "I'm just making sure the rest of the world catches up."
The line went quiet for a second.
I took a breath. "Lucien... thank you. But you didn't have to do this."
"I wanted to." His voice softened. "And I meant what I said. I'll be there for you. Even when I'm not physically there, I still want to make your life easier. You let me in. Let me do this."
I stared at the car again through my window. Glossy. Sleek. Sitting there like it had always belonged to someone a little more polished, a little more arrived.
Maybe it wasn't just a gift.
Maybe it was a sign that I wasn't doing this alone anymore.