Anri POV
Ayla Villarama had been the main event tonight. She walked in like the party was hers and Lucien was the headlining act. Every move was dramatic, every laugh fake, every touch on him stretched out for effect. She didn't flirt—she performed.
Lucien looked like he was five minutes away from calling security.
At one point, he scanned the room like he was actively searching for an exit—or a witness.
I watched from the edge, champagne in hand, quietly enjoying the show. Waiting for it to end.
It didn't.
So I slipped out to the balcony.
The night air was cooler than I expected, a welcome contrast to the heat and noise inside. My heels tapped softly on the stone as I crossed to the railing and let myself breathe.
Just for a second.
"Escaping?" a voice behind me said.
I turned—and there he was.
Lucien stepped onto the balcony like he owned the place. Suit still perfect, tie slightly loose. No smile. Just that dry, unreadable look he always wore when he was past the point of politeness.
"You found me," I said, trying for casual.
"You always disappear to the quiet corners."
"Only when the drama gets too loud."
He huffed a tired laugh. "I was two seconds from calling the police."
I raised a brow. "Seriously?"
"She grabbed my arm like we were dating," he said flatly. "Wouldn't stop touching me. At one point she asked if I liked brunettes because she 'used to be blonde'—what does that even mean?"
I choked on a laugh. "She tried to rebrand mid-conversation?"
"She brought up her ex three times. Said they 'still text sometimes.' I wanted to yeet myself out the nearest window."
"You should've seen your face," I said. "You looked like you were being held hostage."
"I was. I kept trying to leave and she'd cut me off with some story about her influencing career. I don't even think she was invited. Who let her in?"
I gave him a look of mock sympathy. "A tragedy. You're so brave."
"She asked if I'd take a selfie with her. For her story. I'm a walking PR liability now."
I winced. "That's dark."
Lucien gave me a sideways look. "You enjoyed watching that, didn't you?"
I shrugged, smiling. "Maybe a little. You looked like you needed saving."
"And yet here we are," he said dryly. "No rescue in sight."
"Well," I said, leaning on the railing, "Ayla's pretty. You could've done worse."
His brow twitched. "You think she's my type?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Isn't she?"
Lucien gave me a flat look. "No. She's not."
That caught me off guard. "Then what is your type?"
He didn't answer right away. Just looked at me.
For a second, I wished I hadn't asked.
In the Philippines, the beauty standard was all about being half-white—fair skin, a foreign last name, high-contrast features. In Australia, it was blonde hair, blue eyes, straight-up European.
Different countries, same story. White, or close enough. Pretty always meant imported—like you had something foreign in your blood. Like you belonged somewhere better.
Ayla fit that perfectly.
She had the typical mestiza look—skin as fair as snow, sharp features, light eyes, and just enough of a foreign accent to sound expensive. That kind of Eurocentric beauty people praised on instinct. She didn't have to try. She was the standard.
And me? I was never that. Not there, not here.
So really—what did I think he was going to say?
Finally, he said, "My type? She's got small almond eyes. Kind of chinita, but not really."
I blinked.
"She's got very fair skin," he said. "But it tans fast. Holds the sun for days, even when she tries not to."
I swallowed.
"She's also got long, straight black hair."
My heart thudded.
"A tiny mole," he added, reaching up to gently touch just above my left eyelid, "and another one here—" his fingers brushed just under my chin, "—but you only see it when she laughs."
I forgot how to breathe.
"And she's standing right in front of me." His voice dropped.
Heat climbed up my neck. I blushed—hard.
"Lucien," I said, a warning that didn't sound convincing.
But he wasn't finished.
"She's got this waist I still remember holding," he murmured. "Hips that made it real hard to think straight."
"Stop," I whispered.
He stepped in closer. His voice dipped low, velvet and heat.
"And that body..." His gaze moved over me, slow and deliberate. "The way she used to press up against me—like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she could feel what it did to me."
"Lucien."
"My hands on her hips. Her breath in my ear. Her nails in my back."
Then his eyes locked on mine.
I was vibrating. Warm all over. My breath shallow, glass forgotten in my hand.
"And you think I'd want that annoying girl?" he asked. "When I still dream about the sounds you made that night?"
I stared at him.
Then he said, quieter, "You didn't even notice, did you?"
"Notice what?" I asked, voice tight.
"The way those guys were looking at you tonight."
I blinked. "Huh?."
He smiled—not smug, not playful. "Of course you didn't."
He reached up, thumb grazing my cheek, tilting my face toward him.
His touch lingered—gentle, certain. "You're my type," he said. "Every inch of you."
The air between us snapped tight.
Then I looked at his lips.
He noticed.
And that was all it took.
Lucien leaned in—slow, deliberate—like he wanted me to know it was my choice. Like he was offering, not taking. His breath brushed mine. He paused for just one second.
I didn't pull away.
His lips met mine with heat and certainty—no hesitation, no testing the waters. He kissed me like he already knew exactly how I tasted and had been starving to remember it.
One hand slid to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair, anchoring me to him. The other settled at my waist, steady and possessive, like he was afraid I'd vanish if he didn't hold tight.
Our bodies collided—chest to chest, breath to breath—like we'd both been waiting too long.
I gasped into him, and he took it—tilted his head and deepened the kiss, drinking me in like he couldn't get enough. His lips moved over mine with hunger, but he stayed in control. Every movement was deliberate. Slow enough to savor. Rough enough to undo me.
I grabbed his suit, fisting the fabric, pulling him closer until there was nothing left between us but need. My body reacted before my mind could catch up—pressing into him, chasing the friction, the warmth, the rush.
The tension between us didn't just snap—it detonated.
His hand slid to my lower back, pulling me flush against him, and I felt the solid heat of him through every layer. It made my knees weak.
I kissed him back, harder this time—mouth open, breath gone, need pouring out of me. My fingers tangled in his hair, tugging like I was trying to keep him there, like letting go would undo me completely.
He groaned against my lips—low, rough, guttural—and the sound shot through me like a spark.
His mouth found my jaw, then lower, trailing heat along the skin just beneath my ear.
I shivered, every nerve in my body lighting up. My thoughts blurred into sensation.