Anri POV
The shoot wrapped just after golden hour, which was ironic because nothing about the day felt golden.
Not with the air sticky against my skin and this white linen dress doing absolutely nothing to protect me from the Manila humidity—or the incoming rainclouds I was too stubborn to prepare for.
By the time I stepped outside the building, it was already drizzling. Then, in true Philippine fashion, the drizzle turned into a full biblical downpour in less than thirty seconds.
I stood frozen for a beat under the eaves, clutching my tote and trying not to scream.
White dress. No jacket. No umbrella. No van in sight. No one from production left to help.
I pulled my bag tight against my chest, but it was useless.
The rain had already soaked through.
My bra wasn't lace, thank God, but it didn't matter—it was visible. So was my stomach, flat and now clinging with linen. And worst of all, the outline of my underwear was practically printed on the back of the dress like a goddamn watermark.
Grab: Searching for drivers.
Grab: Sorry, your ride has been canceled.
I tried again.
Canceled. Again.
The catcalls started around then.
Some guy whistled. Another one muttered something about ganda mo ate but the way he said it made my skin crawl. A pair of tricycle drivers just stared outright, no shame, mouths open like they'd never seen a woman before.
I tugged the dress lower, like that would help. Welcome home, Anri, I thought bitterly. Land of your heritage and unsolicited commentary.
I kept trying to book a car. All failed.
Just when I was about to reload the app again, a car pulled up at the curb.
Not just any car.
A black Aston Martin.
It rolled in slow, like it didn't belong in the chaos of Manila. Sleek. Silent. Out of place. Out of budget. My first instinct was to step back—surely, it wasn't for me.
Then the window rolled down.
My heart stuttered.
Lucien.
Dry. Crisp. Fucking cinematic.
For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just stared at me.
And I mean stared. From my soaked dress clinging to every curve, to the bra strap peeking under the now-transparent fabric, down to my legs, bare and glistening with rain. His eyes lingered—just a split second too long—and then he swallowed, jaw tightening, gaze shifting back to the front.
"Get in."
I blinked. "I'm fine."
He didn't turn. Just said, "You're soaked."
"So I'll dry."
"You're drawing attention."
I glanced over my shoulder.
A group of guys were watching. One had his phone out. Another laughed and said something in Taglish I didn't want to translate. A few girls across the street were whispering and pointing like I was a headline waiting to happen.
And I—I was standing in a white dress, wet to the bone, practically see-through in the headlights. Cleavage visible. Waistline outlined. Panty line? Front and center.
Shit.
Without another word, I opened the door and slid in, hugging my tote bag to my chest to cover what I could.
The car smelled like leather, expensive cologne, and quiet control. Cold air blasted from the vents, making me shiver even harder.
Lucien didn't look at me. He just reached behind him and pulled off his coat, offering it silently.
I hesitated for half a second before taking it.
I draped it over my lap and arms.
"No window tints?" I muttered, mostly to distract myself.
"There are tints," he said. "You're not that exposed. Not in here."
Right.
Just out there, where half of Ortigas probably saw my bra.
I adjusted the coat, trying to ignore how flustered I felt. My cheeks burned. From the cold, or the fact that he saw everything, I wasn't sure.
I turned toward the window, watching the rain slide down the glass in slow, steady lines.
Of all the cars that could've stopped, of all the people that could've been behind the wheel... it had to be him.
An Aston Martin. Luxury, through and through.
I didn't say it out loud, but the thought lodged itself in my brain. So he really is a big-time exec. Of course he is. The car, the way people call him "Sir," the way no one questions his silence—it all added up.
Maybe that Melbourne trip was work-related. For Maharlika Airways. Some kind of business meeting or conference. That would explain the suit. The detachment. The flight back to Manila.
And to think—I used to wonder if I'd ever see him again.
Late at night, when the noise of the world quieted down, sometimes I'd remember flashes of that night. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me like he already knew every part of me. I used to wonder where he was now. What he did. If I even crossed his mind.
Now here he was. In Manila.
He didn't speak right away. Just drove in silence, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel, knuckles flexing every time we passed another red light.
Then, finally—
"Your co-star." he said, his voice quiet, but clipped. "Do you always allow your co-stars to touch you so casually?"
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Earlier. On set. He kept touching your back."
I frowned. "He was in character. It's a couples campaign."
"Right." He didn't even try to hide the sarcasm in that.
I studied him for a second. The tension in his shoulders. The way he wouldn't look at me, but wouldn't look away from the road either.
He wasn't just annoyed.
He was sulking.
"Why are you acting like you're jealous?" I said, watching his profile.
His jaw twitched. Just once.
"I'm not."
"Then what's with that question?"
He let out a breath, something between a sigh and a scoff.
"He knew your name within five minutes," he muttered.
"What?" I said, caught off guard.
"You two barely met and he already knows your name. Meanwhile, I slept with you and didn't even get that much." he said, jaw tightening.
That caught me off guard. My mouth fell open for a second. I stared at him.
"Seriously?"
He didn't respond. Eyes locked on the road.
I rubbed my forehead. "I already told you. I left for an audition. I wasn't trying to ghost you—I was running late."
Silence. Not empty, but thick. Like neither of us was really convinced by our own logic anymore.
"But yes..." I said, softer this time. "I should've said something. That part... I get it."
That made him glance at me.
Not sharp this time. Just... long enough for the edge to dull. I caught it—the shift in his eyes. The slight drop of his shoulders.
His jaw relaxed just a little.
"I'm sorry." I said, quieter still. "It was rude. What I did. I left without a word."
He didn't answer at first.
"If you're really sorry... meet me for dinner tomorrow."
I looked over.
He kept his eyes on the road.
"After the shoot," he added. "I'll be there."
I blinked.
"Is that an order?"
His mouth curved. Not a full smile.
"No," he said. "A request."
He reached into the center console, pulled out his phone, and handed it to me.
"Write your name and number." he said.
I took it without thinking, my fingers moving before my brain caught up.
Something about his voice—steady, but quiet—left no room for argument.
"I'll text myself from your phone to save your number too," I murmured. Then, after a beat:
"I overheard someone say your name was Lucien. Do you have a last name?"
"Tantoco." he said.
A very Chinese last name. That explains the chinito looks.
We didn't talk much after that. Not because we ran out of things to say, but because it felt like too much had already been said without needing words. The air in the car wasn't awkward.
It was... full. Loaded.
"Which hotel are you staying at?" he asked eventually.
"Shang."
He nodded once, turning into the driveway.
The doorman was already rushing over with an umbrella, eyes widening when he saw the car.
I guess that's what an Aston Martin does—it announces power without needing to honk. Or maybe because he's known? I'm not really sure, as I can't really consider myself as a local here.
Before I stepped out, I paused.
"Thanks," I said, looking at him. "For stopping. For helping. I—I don't know what would've happened if I stayed out there."
"Manila's not Melbourne," he said, quieter now. "You can't afford to be careless here."
I nodded slowly.
And maybe—just maybe—I caught his eyes flick down to my legs before he looked away, jaw tight again.
I got out, still clutching his coat. It smelled like him—warm, subtle, that same cologne from that night.
The doorman ushered me inside, but I glanced back once before stepping through the glass doors.
He was still there.
Engine quiet. Lights dimmed. One hand on the steering wheel, the other resting loosely on the gearshift.
Just sitting. Not pulling away. Not honking. Not looking for anything.
Why? Was he waiting to make sure I got inside? Or just... staying in the moment a little longer?
When the elevator doors finally slid shut, I exhaled.
A long breath, like I'd been holding it since I got in his car and only now remembered how to let go.