Lucien POV
I whispered her name to myself later that night, sitting alone in my car outside the studio like some idiot with too much money and not enough sense.
Anri.
Of course it fit. Clean. Strong. A name that didn't need embellishment. Just like her.
I didn't plan any of it.
The late-night drives. The rooftop dinners. The way I kept showing up on set like I had nothing better to do. The way I cleared my schedule for someone who didn't even know what schedule I was supposed to be keeping.
She never asked.
And I never told.
Not because I wanted to deceive her. I just didn't want to ruin it.
We had our own world, separate from all the noise—free from titles, family legacies, and the weight of being a Tantoco.
I liked how she looked at me without flinching, without adjusting her posture, without trying to guess what I wanted. She didn't see the name. She saw me—or maybe, she saw a version of me I could actually live with.
She didn't need me. That was the scariest part.
She had her own goals. Her own fire. I wasn't the center of her orbit—I was a satellite. An accessory. A witness.
And I liked it.
I liked watching her work her ass off, even when she looked like she might pass out. I liked how she'd show me pictures from the hospital, eyes bright with pride.
One time she held up a photo of herself in the OR—scrub cap crooked, blood smeared across her gown and face shield—and that same stupidly beautiful smile on her face.
Even with the mask and gown, none of it could hide her.
Not the quiet strength in the way she stood. Not the long black hair tucked beneath her cap, not the small, almond eyes that turned even chinkier when she smiled like that.
Not the full curve of her cupid's bow lips, or the gentle slope of her small nose. Even with half her face covered, she was still the most stunning thing in the room.
"I closed the incision myself," she said, like it was no big deal. "Twelve stitches. Clean."
I remember staring at the picture longer than I should've. I couldn't do what she did.
I managed people. Markets. Boardrooms.
She saved lives.
God, she was amazing.
I watched her sleep sometimes. Not in a creepy way—just quietly, in those moments between midnight and morning, when everything was still and I could pretend she was mine.
Her breathing soft, her body curled up under the blankets like something precious I didn't deserve to hold.
She looked so small next to me. Barely 5'2, curled against my chest like a secret I was scared to share with the world. I'm 6'2—I tower over her. I hover.
But she never shrank from it. She was soft, petite, sure, but shaped like a woman who knew her worth. Curves in all the right places. Ample where it mattered. She drove me crazy just by existing.
And then there were the details no one else noticed. The little mole on her upper left eyelid. Another on her chin. And one on her left shoulder that only I got to kiss.
I kissed all of them. Memorized them. I think I was addicted to her in ways I didn't understand until too late.
That's what killed me.
Not just that she left.
But that when she looked at me—after finding out the truth—she didn't just look hurt. She looked betrayed.
And I got it. I deserved it.
I gave her the apartment legally. Not under a shell company or fake name.
The Porsche too. Impulsive, yes. But she needed something better than that clunky old car with the faulty brakes. I didn't care how it looked. I just wanted her safe. Comfortable.
I wanted her to have nice things—not because I thought I could buy her, but because I wanted to honor her.
I used to think love was a myth.
A story poor people told themselves to survive hard lives.
In my world, the so-called love was currency—measured in alliances, land, legacy. Something you married for the family name, not for the person. Not for the heart.
My grandfather sired mistresses like heirs. My father? The same, just not as bad.
My mother knew, of course. Just like my grandmother had. They all knew. But no one ever left. No one ever loved. They stayed. For convenience. For image. For the conglomerate.
That's what I was born into.
That's what I was supposed to inherit.
So no—I didn't believe in love. I didn't even believe in the possibility of it. It was control. Influence. Leverage. A means to an end.
But then with Anri, everything shifted.
Because with her, it wasn't about what I had. It wasn't about power or money or the Tantoco name. With her, I couldn't negotiate my way in. I couldn't buy her time or manipulate her affection. She wouldn't let me.
With her, I had nothing—and still, I gave everything.
I gave her pieces of me I didn't even know I had left to give. Softness. Stillness. Devotion. All the things I had mocked in others, I found myself doing in silence. No fanfare. No expectation.
Just her.
Even now, even after she's gone, I still feel it—the pull of her. I still hear her voice in my head when I make my coffee the way she taught me. I still scroll back to photos she's sent me, zooming in just to look at her eyes.
Because now that I've known her... now that I've seen what it could be like, what we could be like—how the fuck am I supposed to go back?
How am I supposed to return to arranged introductions and family-sanctioned partnerships when I've held real joy in my hands?
My life before her wasn't just different—it was empty.
And I didn't even know it until she left.