Anri POV
My name. First on the call sheet.
"Anri Sevilla as Elira."
There it was. Bold black ink, neatly laminated, taped to the door of my trailer. I stared at it for a second longer than I meant to.
I should've taken a picture. Posted it. Sent it to Riane and Carla. Hell, maybe even Steph. But I didn't.
Maybe because part of me still felt like it wasn't mine. Like it belonged to another version of me—one lighter, freer, more certain she belonged here.
The wind nipped at my cheeks as the AD called for first positions. London's cold had teeth—sharper than Melbourne's. Like it was trying to wake me up.
Crew bustled all around. Makeup retouches. A lighting guy adjusting something on a crane. Wardrobe handed me a faux-fur cape to go over my costume—a lilac gown with a plunging neckline, sheer sleeves, and silver moons stitched along the hem. Every detail shimmered. Every stitch whispered money.
I looked like Heart Evangelista dropped into a fantasy war epic. Every outfit felt like something from a couture editorial—silk corsets, pearl veils, velvet capes, thigh-high leather boots. I was dressed like a princess every day.
I should've felt like I was dreaming.
And yet, all I felt was tightness in my chest. A pressure that sat behind my ribs like a clenched fist.
Why wasn't I happy as I expected?
This—this—was the moment I prayed for. Every silent wish I made under the harsh lights of the OR, standing in blood-slicked shoes during a lap chole.
Every time I taped gauze and murmured a quick Hail Mary in my head before checking a patient's vitals. Every second I spent juggling double shifts just so I could afford another term of acting classes.
I survived Stephanie Min's chaotic agency management. Took every audition. Said yes to every part—speaking role or background filler—just to be seen. Just to matter.
And now, I was here.
Big-budget Netflix fantasy drama. A complex, powerful role. A global set. A team that flew me out. A fanbase that was already speculating on my chemistry with my co-stars before the pilot even dropped.
I was no longer just the side chick in a shampoo ad. I was the lead. I was Elira.
So why did it feel like I couldn't breathe?
"You're shaking," Jacob said, glancing down at my hands.
I flexed my fingers and forced a smile. "Cold. I'll live."
Jacob, who played my character's bodyguard-turned-lover, had a rugby player's build, tanned skin, and striking green eyes that somehow made him more puppy than predator. He had the energy of someone who grew up being everyone's favorite. Easy charm. Easy to like.
He leaned in conspiratorially. "If you faint, I call dibs on carrying you off set. Princess-style."
"Noted," I said, voice dry. "Just make sure the cape flows dramatically."
He grinned and stepped into position beside me.
Then there was Andres.
My character's contract husband. My enemy. My reluctant protector.
Fair skin, black hair, steel-blue eyes. The kind of face casting directors drooled over. The kind of presence that turned heads even in silence. His every move was calculated. Every glance cold, controlled. And somehow, it made the tension between us electric.
Elira was supposed to hate him. I barely had to act.
But Andres was kind, too. Just... guarded. A British-trained actor with enough range to flip from villain to romantic lead in a heartbeat.
There was something intimidating about both of them. Not because they were unkind—but because they belonged. In this world. In this industry. In this kind of luxury.
And me?
I still felt like I was sneaking into a life I hadn't earned, like someone might tap me on the shoulder and ask if I was lost. Like I should've been wearing scrubs instead of a corseted gown.
I was grateful. Of course I was.
But sometimes, gratitude felt like a heavy dress you had to wear all day. You smile. You say thank you. You don't let anyone see you doubt.
But I did. Quietly. Constantly.
Because even with the cameras rolling and the couture fits and the full glam, part of me still wondered...
Was it enough?
Was I?
Later that night, I finally caved.
I admit it. I couldn't stop thinking about that person.
Lucien.
Later that night, after a long shoot and too many half-finished thoughts, I caved. Not to him.
To Carla.
Me:
Did I overreact?
After all, after that last conversation with Lucien, I didn't wait around. I packed a suitcase, left the apartment, and went straight back to the share house.
Most of my things were still there anyway, like I'd never fully let myself settle into his world. A few days later, I flew to London. No closure. Just distance.
Two seconds later, my phone buzzed with a FaceTime call. I picked up.
"You did not overreact," Carla said the second I answered. "Do not spiral. Not while you're literally cosplaying a fashion icon every day."
I exhaled.
I was wrapped in a silk robe, still wearing the weight of the eyelash extensions. My hair was curled to perfection, and I hadn't even taken my heels off yet. But all I felt was hollow.
"I just..." My throat tightened. "I miss him. And now I keep thinking maybe I was too dramatic. Maybe he was just trying to keep things simple."
Carla sighed. "Babe. He's Lucius Tantoco. Grandson of tycoon Elliot Tantoco, and from one of the richest families in the Philippines. No—Asia. You didn't find out because he told you in some sweet, vulnerable heart-to-heart. You found out because people recognised him in the background of my Instagram story. That's not 'simple.' That's emotional tax evasion."
I let out a choked half-laugh. "You're insane."
"But am I wrong?" she shot back. "He should've told you. Point blank. No riddles, no family-name scavenger hunt. And the fact that he didn't? You were allowed to walk away."
I stared at the floor. "But what if he really was just trying to get to know me as me?"
Carla leaned into the camera like I was being slow on purpose. "Then he should've been honest about that, too. It's not hard. Just say, 'Hey, I want to get to know you without the pressure of my last name. Is that okay?' See? Done. Not everyone gets to play just some executive for character development."
Riane suddenly appeared in the frame, toothbrush in her mouth and hair tied in a fluffy bun. "Carla is being savage," she said, voice muffled, "but also, right."
"Thank you," Carla said, holding up her hands like a preacher. "I'm not saying he's evil. But he made a choice. And you don't have to keep punishing yourself because you didn't accept his mystery man agenda with open arms."
I didn't respond. I didn't need to. They knew me too well.
Carla softened a little. "Look, I know you're used to being the understanding one. The forgiving one. But it's not your job to accommodate someone else's secrets."
Riane spit into the sink, came back, and plopped onto Carla's bed, eyes serious now. "He's a grown man, Anri. What, early thirties? He's not a lost boy with commitment issues. He knew what he was doing. And if he really wanted to fix things, he'd have reached out by now."
"That's the part that's driving me nuts," I admitted. "I told him I needed space. But I didn't expect him to actually give it. Like—he didn't even check in. No call. No text. Just... silence."
"Girl, you forgot," Carla said dryly. "Men take instructions way too literally. Especially emotionally repressed, high-functioning billionaire men."
"That's oddly specific," Riane murmured.
"Because it is," Carla said with a pointed look. "Lucien was perfect on paper. And in real life, too—most of the time. I get it. I do. But just because he was good to you doesn't mean you owe him peace over the part he wasn't honest about."
I swallowed, voice quieter now. "He made me feel like I was enough. And now I feel stupid for missing him."
Carla's voice gentled. "You're not stupid. This was your first real relationship."
Riane leaned in. "First boyfriend. First dick, for crying out loud. Of course you're attached."
Carla nodded. "You're not crazy. You're just reacting like a normal human being. It's allowed."
"It's not weakness," Riane added. "It's literally experience. Emotion. Hormones. Memory. Anyone in your position would be spiraling."
"You're not dumb for missing him," Carla said. "You're just adjusting to what it all meant. That's not stupidity—that's growth."
"Hydrate," Carla said, holding up a water bottle. "Moisturize. And stop blaming yourself for other people's omissions."
"Also," Riane added, "when you're done overthinking, go look in the mirror. You're literally glowing. If he doesn't come running back, someone else will. British accent optional."
I let out a real laugh this time. One that caught in my chest but somehow made me feel a little less alone.