Fangirl

Chapter 1

AMY

Anlon steps closer, his piercing blue eyes locked onto hers. His fingers brush against the simple maid’s dress she wears, reverence in his touch.

“You are all I have ever wanted, Celandine. All I will ever need.”

“OH MY GOD, PRINCE ANLON!”

My fingers freeze on the keyboard. My heart slams against my ribs.

I whip around, praying no one has a direct line of sight to my screen.

The Chronicles of Persefia fan fiction isn’t exactly work-appropriate material but hey, it’s my lunch break.

I can do whatever I want, and making sure I give my favorite couple in literature history the happy ending they deserve is worth it.

I clamp my lips shut, swallowing the panic clawing its way up my throat. No way they know what I’m doing. The office colleagues aren't mind readers.

A weary sigh drifts from the desk beside mine. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s happening this time, Jolene?” Maggie, our head accountant and resident no-nonsense grandmother, mutters without looking up.

“Jake Hollander!” Jolene, our new accounting trainee, squeals, jabbing a neon-pink fingernail at her screen.

I roll my eyes. Of course. Hollywood’s favorite abs-and-stuntman combo. This has nothing to do with The Chronicles of Persefia. I probably just heard what I wanted to hear.

“The Hollywood actor?” I ask, only half-interested.

“Yeah! He’s up for the role of a prince…” She squints at her screen, lips pursed. “Prince Anlon something?”

My stomach drops.

“Prince Anlon of Persefia?” I try, willing her to say no.

She nods eagerly. “Yeah! You know it?”

“Yes, I’ve heard of it.”

Heard of it? I am obsessed with the series.

Twelve books of pure escapism. A world that kept me afloat when my fibro flared and I was too exhausted to get out of bed.

A series that kept me entertained on days when my joints hurt so much that they brought me to tears.

A world that let me dream, that made me believe even a weak, ordinary girl could become a hero in the eyes of a beautiful prince.

A world that did not deserve to be sullied by Hollywood’s favorite abs-for-brains action star.

“Jake as a hot prince.” Jolene sighs, placing a hand on her chest, eyes glazing over in a dreamy haze. “I hope he’s naked a lot.”

I physically flinch. This! This is the problem right here. Anlon is so much more than his abs. He’s about emotions, bravery, self-sacrifice—not mindless, shirtless fight sequences. Any Hollywood action hero would be a terrible choice.

I have to do something.

“Have you read the books?” I ask the room, scanning for a kindred spirit. Someone, anyone, who understands.

The three women just blink at me, not used to me engaging in conversation. I usually reply politely without engaging much in anything. Maybe my manager had a point during my annual review. I might need to work on my social skills.

“I tried with all the hype, but fantasy’s not really my thing,” Genna admits. She’s the one closest to me in age. “You?” she asks tentatively.

“Some,” I say, somehow managing to sound completely detached as I glance at my screen—where my latest Persefia fanfic is waiting for me.

Some.

I’m one of the stars of AO3 - Archive of Our Own, the biggest fanfiction site on the internet, with thousands of reviews on my fanfictions. And the one I’m working on now? My own version of the final book, the one that won’t hit bookstores for another eighteen months.

Four years between books should be a crime.

“Jake Hollander is a very versatile actor,” Jolene chimes in, her tone defensive. “Everyone in the industry says so.”

I don’t have the time—or the willpower—to argue. I shrug and turn back toward my screen. “If you say so. I don’t care anyway.”

Except I do. Very much.

And I’ll probably be drafting a strongly worded email to everyone I can think of, starting with Melinda James, the author of The Chronicles of Persefia.

A strongly worded email…

I roll my eyes at my own screen. Wow, Amy Sinclair. True badass.

I refocus on my fanfic for the rest of my lunch break.

At least here, in this world, Anlon realizes the truth—that the maid, Celandine, is the one for him. Not Princess Kataryn.

Because this is a world where the underdog wins. Where kindness, bravery, and intelligence beat out glamor, beauty, and power.

No wonder I’m addicted to Persefia.

I reread every volume, year after year, disappearing into its perfect dystopia. A place where I can lose myself for as long as there are words on a page or for however long I can keep writing my own fantasies.

An hour at lunch. That’s all I get.

And then it’s back to spreadsheets, supplier accounts, invoices, reconciliation balance sheets, and the dull, gray reality of the real world.

It’s already dark outside when I step onto the Overground.

To be honest, at this time of year, I live like a vampire. Leaving for work in the dark and coming home in the dark.

Audit season. As the only single and childless accountant on the team, I keep getting “voluntold” for every out-of-hours project.

I sigh, sinking into the scratchy seat, my favorite podcast playing in my ears, a balm after a chaotic day.

Twenty-five minutes to unwind, escape reality, and not think about spreadsheets.

I’m just starting to exhale the stress of the day when my phone vibrates in my hand. Mum flashes across the screen.

I groan. “Nope. Not doing that on public transport again.” I hit decline.

It’s too late, and I’m too damn tired.

Instead, I take the opportunity to message the Indian takeaway under my flat, placing my usual order—vindaloo and naan.

It’s been a long day. I deserve it.

Even if it’s a little sad that I’m now on a first-name, texting basis with my local takeaway.

Mum: 999 emergency call me.

I sigh, glancing at my phone. I’m only two stops from home.

The problem with my mother is that a “999 emergency” could mean anything from an actual death to Tesco running out of green milk.

Whatever it is, it can wait until I’m back in my flat.

When the train arrives, I’m greeted by a thin drizzle because, of course! The day that keeps on giving.

I rush to the takeaway, my order already waiting on the pickup counter. A little too convenient. Maybe I order from here too often.

Grabbing the bag, I dial my mother as soon as I step outside.

“What took you so long?” she demands, not even trying to hide her annoyance.

“It’s been fifteen minutes since your text, Mum. I was at work.” I juggle my phone and takeaway as I grab my mail from the entrance hall.

She sighs dramatically. “It’s Friday night, Amy. How are you supposed to meet someone if you’re always working?”

Ah, yes, my nonexistent love life. Clearly ruined by a few extra hours of overtime.

Not the fact that I’m introverted, chronically ill, socially awkward, and mildly terrified of dating apps.

But sure, Mum. Let’s go with that.

“Is this really what you want?” she presses. “To be an accountant forever? Is that your dream?”

Ah. Nope. Apparently, today is the day she wants to have this conversation.

I huff out a breath as I climb the stairs to my second-floor flat, my takeaway bag knocking against my thigh.

“What’s your 999 emergency?” I ask, dodging the question entirely.

Anyone who tells you that being an accountant is their lifelong dream is lying. And if they actually mean it, they need urgent psychiatric help.

I have dreams—too many, if anything. So many that I end up doing none of them.

I switch my phone to hands-free, set it on the kitchenette table next to my food, and shrug off my coat and shoes.

“Are you coming to Steve’s wedding?”

I frown at the phone. “That’s your emergency? Steve is my brother. Of course I’m coming.”

Pea, my one-eyed tabby cat (full name: One-Eyed Pea), jumps onto the table and swats at my phone.

I grin, scratching behind his ear. “That’s my boy,” I mouth at him.

“I’m asking because you haven’t sent back your RSVP.”

I take my food out of the bag and glance at the fridge, where the RSVP card is still pinned under my Persefia crest magnet. The irony is not lost on me.

“The RSVP isn’t due for another two weeks, and the wedding’s months away. I’m the groom’s sister and a bridesmaid… my presence is kind of mandatory at this point.” Very much against my will, might I add.

It was a pity request from Laura. I knew that.

Poor, single Amy.

Almost thirty and still alone.

Not sure what’s up with these people, but apparently, turning the big 3-0 will render me undesirable perished goods.

Are women milk in this society?

They all act like being single is some kind of shameful affliction I have to carry around.

“It’s more about the head count,” Mum says. “Are you coming with someone?”

Ah. So that’s the real reason for her call.

I scan the room, trying to locate the bottle of wine I bought for the weekend. This is a discussion that requires alcohol.

“Amy?”

“Yes?” I unscrew the bottle and grab a small glass from the cupboard.

“Are you bringing someone? Ben, maybe?”

Ben? I put the small glass back and grab a coffee mug instead.

This conversation is going to need a lot more alcohol than anticipated.

“Ben, as in my ex from uni?” I sit down and take a long sip. “Ben, as in the guy who broke up with me four years ago and is now married, Ben?”

“Oh, don’t start with that tone. What do I know? You never tell me anything.”

And this is exactly why.

I grab the pile of mail and rip open the first envelope.

My eyes land on a black-and-white headshot, and I grimace.

“Mum, why is Aunt Marie sending me headshots of cousin Bianca?”

“Well, because you work in the industry.”

I sigh and let my forehead drop onto the wooden table.

“Mum, I’m an accountant for Pinewood Studios. That’s hardly working ‘in the industry.’” I lift my head just enough to glare at my phone. “And I’m not even involved with the financial side of anything glamorous—I manage suppliers’ accounts. You’ve got to stop saying that.”

“Is it wrong that I’m proud of you?”

“You’re proud of the version of me you’ve made up in your head.” I let out a sigh. “Look, I have to go. Just say yes for the plus-one.”

“Oh, so you are seeing someone!”

Her voice reaches a frequency so high only whales can hear it.

“Goodnight, M—”

“Just give me his name, and I’ll leave you alone.” She pauses. “The whole weekend.”

That’s the best trade-off I’ve ever heard.

“Anlon.”

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and all the wise men, why on earth did I say that?

“Anlon? Is he Christian?”

“Goodnight, Mum,” I say firmly before hanging up.

I look up to find Pea staring at me from his perch on the cabinet.

“Don’t judge me. I panicked, okay?”

Pea meows before turning tail and leaving, his disapproval loud and clear.

Betrayed by my own cat.

I finish my food, change into the fluffiest pajamas I own, and curl up on the sofa with another mug of wine—the one that’ll officially send me from buzzed to tipsy.

Then I grab my laptop and open it up.

I always write the best sex scenes when I’m a little tipsy.

And my fan fiction readers, along with Anlon and Celandine, deserve nothing but my finest work.

I turn the TV on for background noise, not really paying attention until a shirtless Jake Hollander jumps out of a helicopter and straight into the ocean.

I freeze.

This. THIS is supposed to be Prince Anlon?!

I snort, swirling my wine. This entire movie is a war crime.

Pea, fast asleep on his perch, remains oblivious to my emotional distress.

I throw a hand toward the TV. “Did he really need to jump shirtless? It must be freezing! They’re in the middle of the ocean! And from this height? Is he a robot?”

Just before he hits the water, the helicopter explodes.

I gape as he swims effortlessly into the deep sea, flames covering the surface, debris slicing through the water like bullets.

“WHY is the water even burning? What’s flammable down there? Am I missing something?”

I drink more wine.

“And how fast can he swim? He’s been underwater forever. Is he a robot and a merman? What even is this movie?”

The title flashes across the bottom of the screen: Tsunami Vengeance: Rise of the Aqua Commando.

I groan.

Could the title be stupider? I don’t think so.

The adaptation is going to be a disaster.

Anlon isn’t just any prince.

He’s a battle-scarred, reluctant leader who fought against fate itself, willing to sacrifice everything for his people.

He is layered. Complex.

The kind of hero who didn’t just win battles, he won hearts.

And Hollywood wants to hand him to a guy with the emotional range of celery, whose last movie involved punching a shark.

No, actually, that’s mean to the celery.

I glance down at my laptop and, in a moment of alcohol-induced brilliance, type his name into the search.

Below the endless half-naked photos, I spot his official site.

I click.

The site has a forum.

And somehow, my wine-soaked brain decides that making an account and confronting the rumors head-on is a very good idea because maybe if I said it loud enough, someone would listen.