Anri POV
Melbourne hit me in the chest the moment I stepped out of the airport—sharp air, dull grey skies, and the low hum of home I hadn't realized I missed.
Lucien arrived a day after me.
I expected him to complain about the cold. Or the fact that he couldn't stay or even sleep over at mine thanks to our very strict house rules—rules I personally created back when I was aggressively single and did not want to see Riane's ex parading around in boxer shorts while I brushed my teeth.
Now? Backfired. Horribly.
"You sure I can't stay?" Lucien had asked, his voice warm with teasing as we stood outside the café near my place.
I gave him a look. "You think I want to be the reason Riane walks out to pee and finds you shirtless in our shared kitchen?"
He laughed. "Couldn't be worse than what she's already seen."
"Don't test her," I warned. "She still talks about the time her ex left frozen chicken in the kettle."
"Alright," he said with a small grin. "Then I guess I need my own place."
I assumed he was joking.
Until two days later, when he casually texted me an address and said: Your name's on the door.
I thought it was a joke. Or a metaphor.
Nope.
He'd actually bought a city apartment. Modern, clean, high ceilings and warm wood floors. And then, because he had no concept of normal people reactions, legally put it under my name.
"You're insane," I told him as we stood in the middle of it, completely stunned. "You actually named this place after me?"
Lucien looked around, hands in his pockets. "Technically, I gave it to you."
"You what?"
"I needed a place here. You needed space. It made sense."
"Lucien."
"I made a call, signed some papers. It's yours."
I stared at him. "Do you... usually buy property for women you sleep with?"
He smirked. "Only the ones I fly across oceans for."
My stomach flipped.
"And how are you flying across oceans so casually, by the way?" I asked, arms crossed. "Don't you have a job in Manila? An airline you work for?"
"I do," he said easily. "But I can work remotely. Most of my meetings are online. I only have to be in Manila for big events or board stuff."
"So what, you're just... working from Melbourne now?"
"I'm managing," he said. "I told you I'd be around."
And the crazy thing? He was.
The day of the Elira look test, I woke up nauseous.
It was just a screen test. A hair and makeup run-through. But it also might decide everything. If I nailed this, it could be the start of something bigger. If I didn't—well, back to square one.
They placed me in front of a pale grey backdrop. Bright lights, fixed camera. My face bare except for soft glam. Hair clean and curled, not overdone. I wore a loose blouse and simple trousers. No jewelry. No filters.
Just me.
"State your name," the casting director said.
"Anri Sevilla."
"Why acting?"
I took a breath. "Because I already know how to survive."
That made them pause, so I went on.
"I didn't grow up dreaming of red carpets. I didn't even know this kind of life was possible. I grew up in a small village in the Philippines. First-gen immigrant. We didn't have much, but I had grit. I worked my way through school. Paid my own way to Australia. Balanced shifts, classes, homesickness, pressure. I trained as a nurse. And when the world shut down, I didn't. I was there—in the community, even prison, holding hands that didn't always make it. That kind of work... it teaches you to listen. To respond. To feel everything and still function."
I looked directly at the casting director. "That's why I'm here. Acting, for me, is not pretending. It's surviving truthfully in imagined circumstances. It's accessing what's real in you. And I've lived a lot of real."
He nodded slightly.
"Why should you be Elira?"
"Because I may not be an heiress, but I understand Elira in my bones. I know what it's like to wear grace like armor. Elira moves through a world that tries to define her—by her role, her marriage, her status. But underneath, she's a woman with her own hunger, her own heart. That quiet conflict? That fight to stay soft in a hard world? I know that."
"She's not loud, but she's never weak. She carries herself with restraint, with care, with purpose. That kind of strength—the kind that doesn't need to prove itself—I recognize it. I live it. And I'd be honored to bring it to life through her."
The casting director nodded, slowly. "Thank you, Anri."
When I stepped out of the room, I wasn't sure if I wanted to throw up or cry.
I texted Lucien.
Me:
Just finished. Not sure if I bombed or blacked out.He replied quickly.
Lucien:
I'm proud of you. Either way.
Later that night, I sat curled on the couch in my apartment—which still didn't feel real—with Lucien beside me, quietly typing something on his laptop like he hadn't just changed the trajectory of my entire renter-girl life.
The place was sleek and modern. High ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows, smooth wood flooring that practically hummed under your socks. Everything smelled faintly of cedar and expensive linen. The furniture was all soft neutrals and clean lines—luxurious, but never loud.
Melbourne had real housing prices. The kind that gave you chest pain and made you question your entire life plan. People my age were lucky if they could afford to share a half-decent rental with two friends and a bathroom that didn't leak.
But here I was.
Getting an entire apartment handed to me by the guy I was dating.
Dating?! That still sounded ridiculous in my head.
I glanced at Lucien. He was dressed in a black sweater and trousers, hair slightly mussed, reading something with that unreadable expression of his—the one that said he was solving three problems in his head while also wondering if I was going to distract him again.
"You're really doing work?" I asked, nudging his knee with mine.
He nodded. "Quarterly numbers. But I'm here."
I exhaled, letting my head rest against his shoulder. "I feel like I'm dreaming."
He looked down at me. "You didn't believe me when I said I'd come."
"I didn't think you'd buy property and transfer titles," I muttered, pulling the soft throw blanket tighter around my legs.
He grinned, eyes flicking back to his screen. "You'll learn I don't bluff."
I watched him for a second longer.
How? How was this real? I knew he was an executive at Maharlika Airlines in the Philippines—but I thought that meant... I don't know. Regular rich. The kind with a nice penthouse, a driver, maybe a bonus or two. Not buy-an-entire-Melbourne-apartment-and-name-it-after-you rich.
I had genuinely thought—somewhere deep in my self-righteous, hardworking, immigrant-mindset brain—that I might be the better one in this equation. After all, I was the one with Australian citizenship. The one who built her life here from the ground up.
But Lucien... clearly operated on another level. And yet, he never made me feel like I was beneath him.
I didn't realize I was staring until he closed his laptop and turned to me. "What?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just... recalibrating."
He raised a brow.
"Tomorrow," I said, sitting up straighter, "I'm introducing you to my friends. They're finally free."
"Carla and Riane?" he asked.
I blinked. "You remember their names?"
"You mentioned them. Loud. Nurses. Protective. I took notes."
I grinned. "They're gonna grill you."
"I'm ready."
The next evening, we went our way to the share house. The lights were already on, and as we walked up the driveway, I could smell garlic, something baking, and—wait—was that adobo?
"They cooked?" I whispered.
Lucien leaned in. "You sound surprised."
"Their schedules are always chaos. This is suspiciously domestic."
He looked amused. "Maybe they like me already."
"They haven't even met you yet."
"Even more impressive, then."
I elbowed him. "Be humble."
He smirked. "No promises."
The door opened before I could even knock.
Carla stood there in fluffy socks and a mismatched pajama set, holding a pair of tongs like a weapon. She froze for one second—just enough to scan Lucien from head to toe—then shrieked.
"Oh my God. You're real!"
I barely had time to speak before she launched herself forward and practically dragged us inside. Riane peeked out from the kitchen in an apron, spatula in hand, and grinned like she'd won the lottery.
"Finally," she said. "Took you long enough to bring him over."
I stared at both of them, instantly filled with regret. "Okay. Calm down."
Lucien, of course, was polite and unbothered. "Hi. I'm Lucien."
"Oh, we know," Carla said, shaking his hand like she'd just met a celebrity. "Anri wouldn't shut up about you."
"I literally said nothing—"
"You smiled when we asked if you were seeing someone," Riane cut in, pointing her spatula at me. "And you never smile. That was our first clue."
"And then you were like, 'No, it's not serious, we're not anything,' but you had that look," Carla added. "Like the look you had that one time your favorite surgeon complimented how good you were with assisting with the surgery."
I groaned. "Please stop comparing my love life to the operating room."
"But it is serious," Riane said, turning to Lucien with a conspiratorial grin. "Right? You're her first."
My soul left my body.
"Riane—!"
"First boyfriend," she clarified innocently. "Obviously."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Obviously."
I covered my face. "I should've let you meet them separately. In public. Where they'd be slightly more civilized."
"Oh, this is us being civilized," Carla said cheerfully. "We even cooked."
Lucien glanced at the table, where there was a suspiciously perfect spread of garlic rice, lumpia, roast veggies, baked salmon, and a pandan cake. "This is impressive."
"We're nurses. We've kept people alive on two hours of sleep and instant coffee. This was nothing," Riane said, flipping her hair like it was war paint.
"And we had to make a good impression. You're our girl's first... first guy she's ever introduced to us!"
Carla leaned toward Lucien with a teasing smile. "Honestly, when Anri first told us about you, we already knew. She's so picky with men, we figured if she liked you at all, it was only a matter of time before she folded."
Lucien glanced at me. "Folded?"
I stared back at him. "Don't even start."
He smirked.
Carla tilted her head, squinting at him like she was doing a clinical assessment. "You're Chinese-Filipino, right?"
"Yes, that's right." Lucien answered simply.
"Oh my God," Carla whispered, turning to me with a theatrical gasp. "That explains everything."
Lucien blinked. "The what?"
I shot her a warning look. "Carla."
"No, be honest," Riane said, laughing. "You've always had a type. You like chinitos!"
"Don't forget the height and broad shoulders," Carla added. "You gush over them."
Lucien looked over at me—smug, silent, clearly filing that away for future teasing.
I wanted to die. Or leave. Or at least change my name and move cities.
"I'm leaving," I muttered.
"Too late," Carla chirped. "We have stories."
"You promised not to—"
"We lied," Riane said sweetly. "It's what friends do."
Lucien turned to me, entirely unbothered. His eyes were warm, lips twitching. "I think I like them."
I pressed my lips together. "You would."
He leaned in just a little, voice low. "You're cute when you're nervous."
I elbowed him in the ribs—not hard, but enough to make my point.
He smiled, wide and boyish. "You're enjoying this more than you let on."
I wasn't.
Except... okay. Maybe a little.
Because as chaotic as it was, seeing him here—in my city, in this house, with the people who knew me best—felt different.