Anri POV
I didn't plan on talking to anyone that night.
I'd just come from an acting class—sweaty, exhilarated, still buzzing from whatever version of myself I'd just embodied during scene study. I slipped into this quiet bar in Carlton because it was calm, had real glasses, and didn't reek of desperation and stale beer.
It was supposed to be a solo drink. One cocktail, one private moment to feel like the woman I was determined to become.
And honestly, I looked the part. Black wrap dress, sharp lines. Hair sleek, tucked neatly behind my ears. Boots with enough heel to feel powerful but still comfortable. Minimal gold jewelry. Not asking for attention—just naturally impossible to overlook.
I chose the corner booth. Ordered a Negroni. Ignored the lingering stares. Opened Instagram to respond to DMs from brands offering flatlays and mirror selfies.
I had a few thousand followers now; modest, but enough to make me wonder if this might become something bigger.
If I had a dollar for every woman who messaged asking about my tailored trousers, I wouldn't still be splitting rent with two other nurses. I could've been saving for a house or something equally practical.
Instead, I was here—in a bar, exhausted from a ten-hour shift at the hospital's operation room, followed by three hours of Meisner, chasing a dream I couldn't afford but couldn't abandon either.
That's when he sat down.
He didn't ask permission. Just slid into the booth as if his name were engraved on the table.
Dark coat, perfectly tailored. Quiet, effortless confidence. He had that expensive stillness you couldn't fake—the kind of man who's either deeply powerful or pretends exceptionally well.
I looked up from my phone slowly.
He was striking. Masculine bone structure, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, short dark hair neatly styled. Skin golden-olive and smooth.
His face was flawless, but clearly more familiar with boardrooms than beaches. His gaze held a kind of calm authority, expecting attention without ever demanding it.
"You're bold," I said, not smiling yet. "Or just really bad at reading the room."
He blinked—dark lashes framing intense eyes. His voice was deep and polished, a faint American accent wrapped around something more international. Ivy League, maybe. Privileged.
"I think I'm in the wrong place."
"You think?" I sipped my drink slowly. "Because this looks like my Negroni and my booth."
He nodded once, unfazed. "I was told to look for a woman in black. Red lips. Corner seat."
"Congratulations," I drawled. "You just described every emotionally unstable femme fatale in cinema history."
His lips twitched into a subtle smile, the kind he probably didn't give away often. "I'll go," he said, beginning to stand.
I shrugged lightly. "You can stay. It's not like my evening was going anywhere exciting."
He paused, watching me carefully, then sat again.
"Blind date?" he asked.
"More like ghosted meeting with a useless agent." I glanced over him again—his tailored collar, expensive shoes, the understated watch quietly announcing wealth. "And you?"
"Work trip."
"Boring."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're not going to ask what I do?"
"No," I replied smoothly, stirring my drink. "Because you're either the kind of man who mentions it in the first five minutes, or you're the kind who never wants to be asked. I'm guessing you're the second."
He leaned back slightly, eyes sharpening with interest. "You're good at reading people."
"I'm a nurse and an actress." I met his gaze directly. "I read people for survival."
"Strange combination." he mused.
"Strategic," I corrected. "Nursing got me citizenship, stability—something to silence society's expectations. Acting is what actually feeds my soul."
"And you do both?"
"Until one pays better." I sipped again, eyeing him carefully. "Hopefully not the one involving scrubs and blood clots."
He studied me for a moment. "Do you enjoy it? Acting?"
I met his eyes—deep, perceptive, like he'd already guessed the answer.
"I love it," I said quietly. "Not in a cute, hobbyist way. It feels necessary. Like if I were born rich or free or with any kind of privilege, it's what I'd have chosen first."
He nodded slowly, thoughtful.
"And what would you have done," I asked, "if you weren't whatever mysterious thing you are?"
He laughed softly, genuine and unexpectedly warm.
"Good question. Maybe nothing. Maybe I'd just be...still."
"That's not a job," I said flatly. "That's depression."
His eyes widened, startled, then softened with amusement. "You're very direct."
"You keep saying that like it's a problem."
"It's not." He regarded me steadily. "It's rare."
I glanced at his glass, empty now. "Want another?"
He considered carefully. "If I say yes, does that mean I'm buying?"
I raised a brow. "It means I haven't kicked you out yet."
He smirked. "Then I'll take my chances."