Anri POV
We'd rehearsed the scene four times already. The rhythm of it was finally sitting in my body—each movement, each pause, each shift in breath. The lighting was low and warm, meant to look like candlelight through sheer drapes.
I stood barefoot on the plush rug of a set-built royal bedroom, draped in a thin ivory nightgown that clung to my frame like mist.
Andres stood opposite me, eyes sharp, presence steady. His character—the Duke—was meant to approach slowly, full of reluctant desire. We were enemies, forced into marriage, and this was the moment the cracks began to show.
The cue landed. He stepped in. His hand grazed my waist, warm through the silk. His breath hovered near my collarbone.
Then, without fully touching his lips to mine, he dipped lower and pressed a kiss to the base of my neck.
I closed my eyes, held the tension. Let my chest rise. My hands remained frozen at my sides.
Cut.
"That was perfect," the director called. "Anri, beautiful control. Let's go for another take—same energy. Reset from the doorway."
I nodded and took a breath, shaking the edge of heat from my hands as a PA rushed over to adjust the hem of my gown.
"You okay?" Andres asked under his breath as we moved to first positions. "Too close?"
"No," I said, managing a small smile. "It was good. I'm just... trying to stay in it."
He gave me a reassuring nod. "You're killing it. For real."
I appreciated that. Andres was professional, grounded, and kind—a mix that wasn't always guaranteed, even at this level.
Jacob, seated off-camera beside the director, gave me a little thumbs-up and mouthed, 'Neck kiss! Spicy!'
I rolled my eyes and bit back a laugh. The team felt solid. Safe.
We reset. The camera repositioned. I walked to my mark and waited for the scene to begin again.
And that's when I felt it.
The shift.
A subtle drop in temperature that had nothing to do with air conditioning. The kind of change you feel before you see. A sudden awareness tightening in your ribcage. Like someone had cracked open a window to your past.
I turned toward the back of the room instinctively, eyes scanning the dim crowd of crew and visiting producers.
And then I saw him.
Lucien.
He was standing near the monitors, surrounded by people in suits and earpieces. Sponsor lanyards. Polished shoes. People I didn't recognize. But him?
I recognized instantly.
Dark wool coat. Collar turned slightly up. Hands in his pockets. No expression on his face—except for the unmistakable tightness in his jaw.
My mouth went dry.
No. No way.
I blinked. He was still there.
Am I hallucinating? Is this some kind of stress-induced mirage because I keep thinking about him too much?
But no. He was there. Real. Solid. Staring directly at me.
And not with indifference.
With anger.
Not the kind that explodes, but the kind that simmers—quiet, restrained, unmistakably pointed.
His brows were slightly drawn. His lips pressed in a straight line. I knew that face. I'd seen it when I said something too honest. When I pulled away from him in bed one night without explanation. When I told him I needed space and then disappeared.
Oh, he was angry.
But so what?
He doesn't get to be angry. I left. That was my choice. And this? This was my job. My scene. My life.
Still, my heart pounded in my ears.
The director's voice crackled through the speaker. "And... action!"
I barely heard it.
Andres stepped in again. His energy soft, smoldering. He reached out like before, brushed my shoulder. His fingers touched my jaw.
I almost flinched.
Stay in character.
Be Elira.
You're a professional.
But Lucien's eyes were still on me, and it was like they pinned me to the spot. Judging. Watching. Reading everything. The neckline of my gown suddenly felt too low. The kiss to the neck? Too exposed.
Andres's lips grazed my skin again. I felt it—warm, fleeting—but in my head, all I could think about was Lucien watching.
Staring.
Burning holes through me.
"Cut!" the director called. "Let's reset. Anri, you good?"
I turned quickly, trying to mask my panic. "Yeah. Just needed a second."
I stepped off-set and pulled on my robe. My fingers fumbled with the belt. Behind me, crew moved around like nothing had happened. But inside?
I was spinning.
I slipped into the hallway beside the soundstage, hands trembling as I reached for a bottle of water. I took two deep breaths. Then a third. The plastic crinkled in my grip as I twisted the cap off.
What is he doing here?
Why now—during that scene?
Crew members shuffled past me, chatting under their breath. A makeup assistant passed by, mid-conversation with one of the lighting techs.
"They said the investors are from Everight Capital," she muttered. "Massive fund. Asian money. Real old-school, like dynastic rich."
"Figures," the tech replied. "The director's acting like royalty's visiting."
Everight Capital.
The name struck something in my brain like a pin to glass.
I pulled out my phone with shaking fingers and typed it into the browser. The company website loaded fast—sleek, minimal, intimidating.
Then I scrolled.
Parent company: Monarch Holdings.
Under ET Group.
Of course.
I stared at the screen, heart sinking.
It wasn't through Maharlika Airways. This wasn't about aviation. It wasn't even about travel. This was finance. Lucien didn't just show up because he was part of the airline partnership. He was here under another name. Another company. One of the many he apparently had access to, like keys on a ring.
The Tantocos had reach. Not flashy, not loud. Just there. Behind everything. Quiet power, wrapped in expensive suits and strategic silence.
My stomach twisted.
Lucien hadn't texted. Hadn't called.
But he showed up.
Here. Of all places. My set.
I leaned against the wall, robe clutched tight at my waist, my throat burning.
What am I supposed to feel?
I told him I needed space. And he respected it—technically. And yet somehow, he was here. On this set. During that scene. Looking at me like I'd done something unforgivable.
I pressed a hand to my forehead. Was I reading too much into it?
I mean, maybe it was a coincidence again. Maybe he didn't even know I'd be here. Maybe he's here for work, like I am.
Maybe this is just how rich boys operate—dropping into cities and companies like they're switching tabs on a browser.
I didn't want to be delusional.
Still, something about seeing him—here, watching me work—made everything tilt. It felt like the ground had quietly moved beneath me, like I was off-mark and couldn't recalibrate.
I had no idea what he was doing here.
And worse?
I had no idea what I was supposed to do now that he was.