Anri POV
It wasn't a shoot day, but the nerves still managed to crawl into my chest.
The charity gala was nothing like I expected when I signed onto this campaign—a full-scale, media-covered evening hosted by the brand for a medical outreach program. Part philanthropy, part press play. They'd invited top execs, the press, and a carefully curated list of "talents." Somehow, I made the cut.
My dress was borrowed—a minimalist gown in soft pearl, with a square neckline and clean lines. Nothing overly flashy. Just sharp, soft, and styled by the same girl from wardrobe who'd become a lowkey lifesaver over the past week. I felt polished. Quietly expensive.
I stuck close to a few other talents I'd gotten friendly with on set—actresses, influencers, and a K-pop-obsessed TikTok guy who insisted on taking bathroom selfies with me. And thank God, Kelvin wasn't there.
He had another shoot or something, and honestly, I could've toasted to that.
"Anri, say cheese," someone called, and I smiled for a few photos. Sip of wine. Smile again. Nod politely. Repeat.
Honestly? The event was... impressive.
Tasteful lighting, surprisingly edible food, and a ballroom backdrop that looked more like a scaled-down Melbourne affair than a local gig. For the Philippine media scene, this was next-level.
I took another sip of wine. Then another.
And then—out of the corner of my eye—I saw him.
Of course.
He was deep in conversation with a group of men—execs, maybe sponsors—but Lucien still commanded the space without trying. It wasn't just confidence. It was presence.
That effortless charisma that didn't need volume or bravado. The way he stood, the relaxed set of his shoulders, the precision in how he listened—he exuded control without saying a word.
His suit—charcoal gray, sharp enough to draw blood—was obviously custom. Not just tailored, but sculpted. The fabric clung in all the right places, moving like it had been sewn to match his exact gait.
His hair was slicked back—polished, but not overly so. Just enough to make you wonder what it would look like if he let it fall out of place. And his face—classic, camera-ready, the kind of profile that didn't need flattering light or filters. If he weren't in his current line of work, he could've fronted any number of campaigns.
I let myself stare a beat too long. Heat crept under my skin, and I quickly looked away, biting my lip.
What the hell was wrong with me? I'm a professional. I'm not supposed to be this... distracted.
I reached for my wine like it held answers. It didn't.
Lucien caught my eye across the room.
That look again. Quiet. Knowing. Like he saw everything.
He took a step in my direction—then someone pulled him into another conversation. He tried again, but another suit intercepted. For a guy who seemed to hate small talk, he was surrounded by it tonight.
Eventually, I gave up and drifted toward the dessert table with my group. There was only so much smiling I could do before my cheeks started to cramp. Honestly, the truffle cheesecake was the real star of the evening.
I was mid-bite when I saw her.
She moved like she owned the room—shoulders back, chin tilted just enough to catch the light. Lucien was still engaged at the far end of the ballroom when she swept in and practically blocked his exit.
Tall. Fragile-thin. Long, glossy brown hair that belonged in a shampoo commercial. Her dress was pale pink silk, body-hugging, with a thigh-high slit that was very much intentional. Nothing about her was subtle.
She looked mestiza, almost foreign—sharp cheekbones, dainty nose, flushed skin. Too pretty to ignore, too try-hard to be effortless.
Her hand rested lightly on Lucien's arm as she leaned in, voice pitched high like they were old friends just bumping into each other. Except... they weren't friends. You could see it in his face.
Lucien didn't flinch or pull away, but his posture changed—just slightly. Stiffer. Guarded. Polite, but closed off.
And she? She wasn't letting go.
"Oh my God," one of the girls beside me whispered. "That's Ayla Villarama."
I didn't react—but I listened.
"She's Celeste Villarama's sister," another added. "You know, from that hit teleserye? Face of like ten brands?"
"Yeah, that Celeste," the first girl nodded. "Plays the girl-next-door on TV, but everyone knows she's kept by that old senator."
I raised an eyebrow and reached for another canapé. Interesting.
"And Ayla?" someone else chimed in. "She's not even a real celeb. No major roles. No big brand deals. Just rides her sister's clout and shows up looking expensive."
"She's got the looks though," another girl offered.
"Sure," the first replied. "But five years ago, she vanished after allegedly getting pregnant by that married TV network exec. Everyone knew. Then she reappeared, skinnier than ever, and suddenly started getting invites again."
"And now she's targeting Lucien Tan," someone scoffed.
"She literally shoved her Instagram at him," another said, stifling a laugh. "I saw it. Asked him to follow her right there."
I turned slightly, pretending to admire the flower arrangement. And yep—there it was.
Ayla's phone, tilted up toward Lucien. Her profile on display. Smile wide. Eyes expectant.
Lucien didn't even glance.
He stood still—calm, unreadable, hands in his pockets. Not rude, just detached. That same quiet distance he always had when he didn't want to be bothered.
But Ayla kept going. A light laugh here. A too-obvious hair flip there. It was like watching someone flirt with a statue.
"She doesn't get it," someone muttered behind me. "His family's way too conservative. They'd never go for someone like her."
"Right?" another agreed. "He's out of her league. She's like a prostitute cosplayed in an expensive dress. Whereas Lucien is very much a high value man. Decent. Reserved. Doesn't even party. His whole family also keeps a low profile."
I blinked.
I hadn't asked him much about his family. I didn't think I needed to. But the way people were talking... they knew something I didn't.
Still, I kept watching.
Ayla doubled down—laughed louder, brushed invisible lint off his sleeve, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear in a move so practiced I almost applauded. It was like watching a live audition for Mistress of the Year.
Someone near me snorted. "She's practically drooling."
"She's embarrassing herself," another said. "It's painful."
I didn't say a word. Just sipped my wine.
Somewhere between amused... and vaguely irritated.