Anri POV
Stephanie Min was technically my agent. Emphasis on technically. She ran one of the only boutique agencies in Melbourne willing to take a chance on me after I made the jump from nursing to acting. And while she was inconsistent, chaotic, and borderline allergic to follow-through, she had helped me land a couple of solid gigs. Nothing major, but enough to keep me visible.
Still, when her name popped up on my phone again with a chirpy little, "Hey babe, need to chat urgently. Big project. You free this week?" — I didn't reply right away.
I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But I also remembered how humiliated I'd felt the last time. She was the one who asked to meet.
And she never showed.
No call. No cancellation. Just silence. Ghosted like some half-hearted Tinder date.
I wasn't devastated, exactly. Thanks to her, I ended up sleeping with the man of my dreams unexpectedly.
But the sting of being dismissed like that — of being stood up professionally — lingered. Especially when your whole career was made of maybes and long shots.
Still, I said yes. Of course I said yes.
We met at the same café she used to call her "manifestation zone" — whatever that meant. This time, it felt different. Brighter. Busier.
I wore a cropped black blazer over a soft knit top, vintage-wash jeans and gold hoops. I didn't bother with full glam — just enough blush and lip balm to look alive and expensive.
She arrived eight minutes late, sunglasses still on, phone in hand, already halfway through some ramble about a skincare brand and poor lighting before she even sat down.
She looked me over like a stylist sizing up a client's range. Not cruel. Just clinical.
"Anri," she said brightly, like we were best friends who spoke all the time. "You look amazing. Seriously. So pretty!"
I smiled, noncommittal, and waited. She wasted no time. Pulled out her tablet, tapped a few things, and spun it around.
"Netflix is adapting a webtoon. Huge one. It's called The Serenity Pact. Cult following. Dark period romance. Hotel intrigue. Forbidden love. Think Succession meets Bridgerton, but with knives and penthouse politics."
I stared at the screen, taking in the concept art — lavish hotel ballrooms, flickering candlelight, blood-red lips against war-torn wallpaper. She continued, fast and sharp.
"You'd be reading for Elira. Heiress of the hotel dynasty. Sharp, cold, completely cornered. Married off to a powerful man to save her family's name. But she ends up getting dangerously obsessed with a servant. The dynamic is hot. Quiet obsession. All tension and restraint. It bites."
I raised an eyebrow. She grinned.
"What? You said you wanted something with teeth. This one bares them." She pushed the tablet toward me.
"Read the pilot. You'll get it."
I took the script home. Tried not to hope. Failed immediately.
I read the whole thing in one sitting. Elira wasn't likable — not really. She was proud, scared, brilliant, and lonely all at once. She wanted love but didn't know how to ask. Wanted respect but kept giving her power away to people who didn't deserve it. And Brent — her so-called servant — wasn't charming or grand. He was just there. Steady. Unshaken. The only one who didn't treat her like a porcelain doll or a bargaining chip. He saw the mess in her and didn't flinch. That's what made her cling to him. It wasn't love. Not quite. But it felt like something close. Maybe salvation.
But the twist?
By the end of the season, Elira realizes it wasn't her husband, Andres, who was the threat — it was Brent all along. The quiet, dependable one. The one she trusted. He'd been manipulating her from the inside, feeding her fears, keeping her small. And Andres — cold, calculating, arranged-marriage Andres — was actually the only one who'd been fighting for her behind the scenes. Not perfectly. But honestly.
And Elira? She doesn't fall apart.
She learns. She rebuilds.
She doesn't run — she stays. She takes the reins of her family's crumbling hotel empire and begins to lead. Not like her father. Not like her husband. Like herself. Calculated, sharp, vengeful when she needs to be. She carves space in a world built to shrink her. And she wins.
It wasn't just a love story. Or a betrayal story. It was a woman empowerment story — about taking power back. About learning the difference between being loved... and being seen.
I closed the script with my heart still thudding.
I wanted to be her.I closed the script, heart thudding. I wanted to be her. Or maybe I already was, in pieces.
I barely had time to breathe before the front door burst open and chaos followed.
"I knew she'd be home," Riane shouted, already kicking her shoes off with the kind of violence only a nurse post-double shift could manage. Her hair was still in a high ponytail, scrub top half-tucked, and she moved with the casual precision of someone who'd seen too much bodily fluid in one day to care about anything else.
Carla trailed behind her, half a wrap in one hand, phone in the other. Her lanyard was looped around her wrist like a war trophy. "We brought gossip and carbs," she announced. "Give us sex or we riot."
They were both nurses like me. Housemates. My best friends, unfortunately.
Carla flopped onto the couch like a corpse with unfinished business. Riane dropped her bag and gave me the look of someone already diagnosing a patient.
"Look who's back from her slut era," Carla grinned.
"Leave her alone," Riane smirked. "She lost her virginity, not her dignity. Probably."
I tossed my keys onto the counter. "Can we not?"
"Oh, come on," Carla said. "You've got that post-dick glow. Spill."
"There's nothing to spill..." I muttered, trying not to smile.
"She blushed," Riane gasped like she'd just seen Jesus return.
"Oh my god. He was good."
I rolled my eyes, but my cheeks betrayed me.
"One night?" Carla asked. "Or is this your Melbourne love story?"
"One night," I confirmed. "No name. No number. Just... really, really good sex."
Carla practically levitated. "You didn't even get his name?"
Riane clutched her chest. "This woman is unwell."
"I didn't plan it," I said. "And it didn't feel like I needed to. We just... left it there."
"Okay, but hot?" Carla leaned in like it was a cross-examination.
"Yes."
"Big dick?"
I gave her a look.
She grinned. "You're dodging."
"I'm drinking," I said, snatching the glass she held out. "Also, yes."
They howled like I'd won the lottery. And honestly, it felt a little like I had.
"Okay but real talk," Riane said, sobering a little. "You good? No regrets?"
I shook my head.
"I don't. I think... I needed it. Not in a rom-com soulmates way. Just... as a person. As a woman."
Riane raised an eyebrow. "For personal growth or character development?"
"Both," I said. "There's a couple of sex scenes in the Elira script. Maybe I'll channel it there if I get the role."
Carla groaned. "She's method acting now..."
"One orgasm and suddenly she's Cate Blanchett," Riane added.
I shrugged. "Please. Cate would've choreographed it better. I was improvising—with excellent source material."
They cackled.
Then Carla squinted. "Okay, but hold on—you just left? You really didn't ask his name? Didn't try to find him?"
Riane looked personally offended. "Are you an idiot?"
"I had an audition," I said, defensive. "I wasn't thinking about anything except whether I looked toothpaste-commercial pretty. He said he was flying out anyway."
"Wait, he didn't even live here?" Riane asked. "Tourist?"
I nodded. "Just for a work trip, I think. He said something vague about a flight the next day. Definitely not Aussie—no accent. He had a really deep voice and I'm pretty sure, an IB accent. Chinito and mestizo mix, maybe early thirties. Super tall. Super manly."
They looked at each other. Then at me.
In unison: "That's exactly your type."
I rolled my eyes. "You're both so dramatic."
"You're telling me you lost your V-card to your dream dick," Carla said, "and didn't even flinch?"
"Not even a sigh?" Riane added.
I shrugged. "It was good. Really good. But it was what it was."
Carla whistled. "Cold-blooded."
"Honestly, I'm proud." Riane said.
"You finally did it. After years of saying you'd lose it before turning 25 or die a tragic virgin."
"I stand by that," I said. "That was a real threat."
"Twenty-four and officially deflowered," Carla said, raising her glass. "Welcome to the dark side."
I clinked mine with hers. "Feels the same. Just with slightly better skin."
For a moment, we all sipped in silence, the kind that settles after a good roast and a shared secret.
Then Carla leaned back with a sigh. "The universe finally hands you a tall, chinito, sexy mystery man... and you ghost him."
"I'm efficient," I said. "No contact, no complications."
Riane snorted. "Heartless. I love it."
Maybe they were right. Maybe I was a little heartless. But not in the way they meant.
The truth was, I had thought about him. More than once. Not in some pining, desperate way—just in those rare quiet moments when my brain wasn't crowded with shifts, auditions, or bills. I'd think about how he never told me his name. How I never asked.
Maybe that was the only part I regretted. Just a name. Something to file the memory under. Something real.
But then again... maybe it was better this way.
Cleaner. Safer. Names made things stick. And I didn't need anything else clinging to me right now. I had too much to focus on. Too much I hadn't earned yet.
So I told myself the truth I could live with: He was a perfect memory and that was enough.
The next morning, I filmed the audition. Bedroom, single lamp, no filters. Just Elira's words slipping from my mouth like they belonged there. I didn't overthink it. Two takes. Sent it. Let it go.
Life blurred after that—OR shifts, back-to-back cases, barely enough time to shower, let alone sleep. I passed clamps, kept count, stayed quiet when it mattered. Bought earrings I didn't need. Smiled through influencer shoots I didn't believe in. Paid my bills. Kept going.
Then the email came.
Not from Steph. Not from Netflix.
It was from Maharlika Airways.
Subject line: Campaign Shortlist – AU/PH Crossover Project.
I had to reread it.
It wasn't a role. It was a brand campaign—a full month in Manila. Mostly digital: social media videos, some stills, maybe a print ad or two. Styling provided. Flights, hotel, meals, all covered. Solid rate. Clean contract.
I'd applied through one of those influencer platforms without thinking much. The post asked for a Filipina creator in her twenties, good on camera, comfortable talking about culture. I submitted a video late one night and forgot about it.
I knew Maharlika Airways by name. Everyone did. It's the Philippines' national airline—big, old, kind of fancy. But I'd never really paid attention beyond that. I didn't know what it stood for, or what it was trying to be now.
The brief spelled it out. They were pushing for a new image—modern, young, global. Ecommerce, digital content, new partnerships. They wanted fresh faces to match.
I hadn't lived in the Philippines since I was eighteen. I still visited now and then, but only to my family's province—quiet, small, familiar. This would be different.
First time in Manila. First time going alone. First time being flown out for work.
I hesitated. I'd never seriously considered doing anything in Philippine media. It always felt like its own world—loud, complicated, a little too connected to everything I'd left behind. I wasn't trying to be a celebrity in Manila.
But still... a paid month in Manila? For a major brand? Why not?