Anri POV
Stephanie Min had the nerve to summon me with an "urgent" text and then show up to our meeting in joggers and a silk blouse that didn't match. She was already halfway through her dirty chai when I arrived, sitting in our usual booth at a café with too many plants and not enough seating.
"Did someone die?" I asked, setting down my purse. "Because this better not be about another toothpaste ad."
Steph pushed her sunglasses up onto her head and looked at me like I was being dramatic—her, the woman who once fake-cried during a client's callback just for luck.
"No one died," she said, clicking something on her laptop. "But your old life? That's officially over."
She turned the screen toward me.
It was an email.
From casting.
A role offer.
Elira. Netflix.
I blinked. "This is... legit?"
"Shoots in London. You're the lead," Steph said, sipping like this happened every Tuesday. "They loved your self-tape. And the look test? Nailed it. You're booked."
My mouth went dry.
Steph leaned back, satisfied. "Told you trusting me wasn't a waste."
I looked at her slowly. "Steph... just recently, you sent me to a callback where they asked me to pretend I was a baguette."
"And look how far we've come," she grinned. "This is it, Anri. Your big break."
I swallowed. "Elira. Like... Elira."
She raised her brows. "And you thought she'd go to a white girl from Perth. Please. You are Elira. You're gritty and sharp and beautiful and born for it. Just wait till they see you onscreen."
I nodded, slowly. Letting it land. Letting the weight of it settle in my chest.
This wasn't just a job. This was the turning point. From Pampanga to Melbourne. From nurse to actress. From disposable background extra to someone.
This was the start of everything.
That night, I dressed the way I always did when I wanted to feel powerful—elegant, polished, soft in the right places. I wore a deep emerald slip dress that clung like water, the fabric silky and weightless as it fell around my legs. Thin straps, a square neckline, open back. I paired it with gold earrings, a dainty chain at my throat, and heels just high enough to make me walk slower.
I didn't want to look like I was trying too hard.
I just wanted to look like I belonged here—on the cusp of something big. My big break. My name on a Netflix series. A London shoot. A future that, until now, had only existed in my dreams and Google Docs.
The restaurant was one of those places with moody lighting and polished marble walls—hidden down a city laneway like a secret only people with black cards were allowed to know. The kind of place I never would've found on my own, much less reserved. But Lucien had.
When I stepped into the private dining room, soft jazz spilling in from the hallway, I paused.
Lucien stood by the window, backlit by the glow of the skyline. Navy button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, no tie. Understated but sharp. His jaw was clean-shaven, hair a little messier than usual, like he'd run a hand through it too many times.
His eyes landed on me, and everything else—the music, the lighting, the weight of the day—went still.
"You look—" he started.
I raised a brow as I walked closer. "Say it. You already paid for dinner."
He chuckled under his breath. "Beautiful."
Carla and Riane were already seated at the table, champagne flutes in hand and plates half-touched.
Carla immediately jumped up. "Look at our international star!"
"Okay, Netflix money coming through!" Riane added, grinning like she'd won something too.
I laughed and hugged them both, careful not to smudge my makeup. "It's not money yet. Just a lot of contracts."
"But still." Carla pulled me into a second hug. "Elira? Are you serious? London? Girl, you're going global."
"She earned it," Lucien said from behind, pulling out the chair beside him for me like a gentleman straight out of a K-drama.
I gave him a suspicious look as I sat. "Wait. You told them?"
Carla smirked. "Of course he did. He planned all of this! Messaged us both like some secret agent. Asked what your favorite flowers were."
Riane nodded solemnly. "Which, by the way, I didn't even know. So ten boyfriend points to him."
Lucien just shrugged, eyes never leaving mine. "I wanted to get it right."
There was a bouquet at the end of the table—white tulips, eucalyptus, and tiny sprays of gold-dyed baby's breath. My exact aesthetic. Minimal, with a little flair. The card just said: For Elira.
Dinner was warm and chaotic. Kare-kare sliders, adobo-stuffed bao buns, halo-halo panna cotta for dessert. Champagne kept flowing, and so did the laughter. We gossiped about other actors, about our horrible hospital patients, about Riane's last Bumble date who was—quote—"so mid I wanted to file a complaint."
And every few minutes, I caught Lucien watching me.
Not in a way that demanded anything. Just watching. Like I was the best part of the whole room. Like he was still a little stunned this was real.
Carla leaned forward halfway through dessert, eyes sharp with interest. "So. How did you know she'd get the role?"
Lucien didn't even blink. "I didn't. But I believed she would."
My throat tightened. I swallowed hard and looked down at my panna cotta like it held the cure for emotion.
"Okay, before I start crying," Riane announced, reaching for her phone, "we need a group photo. Something to commemorate our girl's global takeover."
We scooted in. I sat in the middle—Lucien on one side, Carla and Riane on the other. The light overhead softened our features, turned our glasses into warm amber, made my dress shimmer just right. Riane held the phone up high. "Everyone smile like you're rich."
Click.
Carla grabbed it before anyone could blink and started posting it to her Instagram story the caption: Our girl's going global!