Chapter 2
AMY
Iturn my head and hiss as a bolt of pain shoots from my neck down to the middle of my back.
Note to self: Falling asleep drunk on my two-seater Hepburn sofa is a terrible idea.
I sit up with a groan, blinking against the blinding sunlight because, of course, today of all days, the sun decided to show up.
I push to my feet and sigh, eyeing my dead laptop on the coffee table and the empty wine cup next to it.
Last night? Not my proudest moment.
I shuffle to the kitchen and start the coffee machine, then plug in my laptop and turn on my phone, which, of course, also died overnight.
As the machine roars to life, promising me the nectar of the gods, my phone chimes, signalling it’s awake, except it’s having a complete meltdown.
"What the hell?"
I frown as notifications start rapid-firing, and my phone blows up with emails—428 of them.
I blink. That… can’t be right.
Must be some stupid software glitch. Makes sense. I’m three days out of warranty, after all.
I take a long sip of coffee, letting out a satisfied sigh as the caffeine hits all the right places.
Then I grab my phone and refresh the email app.
My frown deepens.
This isn’t a glitch.
I’ve either been hacked, or I did something very, very stupid last night.
And considering the empty wine cup and my questionable life choices, I have a very bad feeling about which one it is.
I crack open my laptop, waiting for the damage report.
Four hundred twenty-seven of the emails are from the HollanderNation forum.
One is from Wowcher.
I let out a slow breath, staring at the screen.
I’m a popular gal, after all.
My heart pounds as I open the emails, one after another, reading in stunned silence.
Each message is worse than the last.
Hateful words leap off the screen. Accusations of jealousy, stupidity, and worse.
Threats.
To me. To my family.
@JakeLover99: You jealous, bitter cow. You wouldn’t know talent if it hit you in the face.
@Hollander4Ever: LMAO, another fat, ugly fangirl mad that Jake would never look at her. Stay mad, loser.
@Jake’sWifeIRL: Hope you choke, you miserable hag. We don’t need your negativity in our fandom.
@TeamHollander: We’ll find you.
My stomach churns. A cold sweat breaks out along my spine.
Jesus. These women are batty.
My hands shake as I scroll through the onslaught of vitriol. The sheer intensity of their anger is overwhelming.
Then there’s the truly unhinged ones:
@MrsHollander69: Jake is a literal GOD. Anlon WISHES he had his abs. You should be ASHAMED.
@Jake’sThirstTrap: LMAO you probably write fan fiction about Anlon crying in bed. What a loser. Blocked and reported.
@Hollander’sGoldenHair: Who even IS Anlon? You book nerds need to touch grass.
I clutch my coffee mug like it’s a lifeline.
I’ve stirred a hornet’s nest.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself.
I need to delete this account immediately and pretend I was never here.
I pull up the forum page, heart hammering, and stare at the login screen.
What the hell did I pick as a password? I type my usual ones.
Rejected
My phone keeps beeping in the background, announcing more unwanted emails.
I click on the password hint, desperate.
Hint: jakesuxballz.
I freeze before letting out a snort. Drunk Amy had game, for sure.
I enter it, and, miracle of all miracles, I’m in.
A small, triumphant yelp escapes me.
Pea, curled up in his perch, shoots me an unimpressed glare.
“Sorry, my boy,” I mutter, rubbing my temples as I scan my account details, my now sober—but slightly hazy and sore—brain trying to process my next move.
Username: Anlondeservesbetter.
I grimace. Okay. I definitely stirred shit with this one.
But honestly? Anlon does deserve better.
A chat box pops up on the side of the screen.
Mod002: I’ve closed the thread now, but you know it’s never smart to question someone’s acting abilities on their own fansite.
I purse my lips, cheeks heating up.
Mod002 is looking for a fight. I crack my knuckles, ready to respond.
Me: I don’t appreciate you questioning my intelligence. I wasn’t even that mean. I genuinely asked if anyone knew whether his acting range went beyond what we’ve seen on-screen.
Okay, in retrospect, it’s a leading question that implies he has the emotional range of celery, but I didn’t actually say it.
Me: You fans should be a little less sensitive.
For good measure.
His reply comes almost instantly.
Mod002: Less sensitive? That’s rich coming from someone using “AnlonDeservesBetter” as a username.
I suck in a breath, my cheeks burning.
Oh, that lands.
Mod002 is looking for war.
I crack my knuckles again, gearing up for battle, when I see the three dots bouncing on the screen, another message incoming.
Mod002: Full disclosure: I’m not a fan. I couldn’t care less about Jake Hollander or his roles. I’m a paid mod.
I narrow my eyes at the screen, unsure if that makes things better or worse.
Me: Obviously not a very good one if you let the threats go on for that long before closing the thread. I’ve got hundreds of hateful emails to delete.
Mod002: Consider this a lesson in internet warfare.
I blink.
A lesson?
Me: Oh, so you did me a favor by letting them rip me apart?
Mod002: Please. I shut it down before it got too bad. You’ll survive.
Me: Right. Because death threats are just mild inconveniences.
Mod002: If I reported every overdramatic stan in this forum, I’d be out of a job.
Damn. That one is cocky. He has to be a man.
I mutter at the screen, my fingers twitching to type back.
Then I glance at my now-empty coffee cup.
Nope. I do not have enough caffeine in my system for this.
I stand up and head for the coffee machine, scratching Pea behind his ear as the cup starts to fill.
The warm, soothing aroma of robusta permeates the room, grounding me.
I huff out a small laugh. “That boy is an ass… but it’s entertaining.”
I enjoy bantering through the screen.
If this happened in real life?
I’d stammer an apology and walk away, cursing myself for not putting my foot down.
I return to my laptop.
Four new messages from Mod002.
Mod002: Did I win that one?
Mod002: Hey? Anlon fangirl, are you still there?
Mod002: Come on, talk to me. I'm bored.
Mod002: Come on, Fangirl! Do you want me to apologize?
I scoff, but before I can type anything, another message pops up.
Mod002: Also, what’s your name? I don’t want to call you Fangirl. I’m Elijah, but my friends call me Eli.
I smile at the screen before I can stop myself.
It’s bloody ridiculous, but somehow, the fact that he wants to keep talking pleases me.
Me: I just made myself coffee, Elijah. I’m in London.
I use his full name on purpose.
We’re not friends—at least not yet.
Elijah: Oh, you’re London-bound! That’s pretty cool. It’s 1 AM here in LA.
Me: Of course, you’re in LA. Wannabe actor? Is that why you’re moderating for fancy Hollywood stars?
Elijah: Damn, judgy much? No wonder you’re in a chat room first thing in the morning, fighting with a faceless moderator.
I wince, grateful he can’t see my face.
Ouch. Okay, fair point.
I am being a bitch, and I’m not even sure I can fully blame it on my slight hangover.
Me: I’m sorry, that was uncalled for. You do you, Elijah. And… sorry for giving you extra work. Have a great day.
I move my cursor to delete my account…
And watch as the option vanishes from my screen.
Elijah: No, don’t go yet. I was just joking with you.
I narrow my eyes.
Me: Did you just remove my delete option? I don’t think that’s ethical.
Elijah: I don’t remember reading that in the Moderator Oath I signed in blood.
Me: Ass.
Elijah: Come on, Fangirl, tell me your name, and I’ll tell you what my day job is.
I sigh.
Me: I’m Amelia, but my friends call me Amy. You can call me Amelia.
Elijah: Lol, come on, we’re friends now. That’s pretty, Amy. Based on your reluctance, I expected something horrible like Gertrude.
Me: That’s my mother’s name.
I grin at the screen as the typing dots appear, disappear, then reappear.
Elijah: Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.
Me: Yes, you did, but that’s fine. My mother’s name is Susan.
A shocked-face GIF pops up, and I laugh out loud.
Elijah: I deserved that one.
Elijah: Okay, fine. Since you played along. I'm a special effects professional. Animation, mostly.
Me: So you do work in the industry.
Elijah: I never said I didn’t.
A pause.
Elijah: Tell me, Amy, my friend, what do you do in life?
I smile, channeling my mother’s tone.
Me: Well, I, too, work in the industry.
Elijah: Oh, I see. So you’re the wannabe actress. What happened? Did Jake reject you? Or did you not get a part in his movie?
I arch an eyebrow, surprised.
That’s a little intense for Mr. "I don’t care about Jake Hollander."
Me: Look who’s being the judgmental asshole now. I’m an accountant for a major studio.
Elijah: Pinewood?
I curse myself.
Way to give your details to a complete stranger, Amy. Here’s another way to end up on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries.
Elijah: Don’t worry. I’m thousands of miles away. I’m just glad to have a friend on the other side of the screen.
I stare at his message. Friend? Before I can overanalyze it, another message pops up.
Elijah: I’ll tell you a little more about myself if you want. I’m 26, from Indiana, moved to LA five years ago, fresh out of Purdue University. I started moderating to pay for my expenses, and it was pretty laid back. My first gig was for Will Winters, believe it or not.
I grimace.
Will Winters.
Another Hollywood heartthrob, older but a complete drug-and-alcohol-infused Casanova. Also Jake Hollander’s friend and former mentor.
Elijah: Your silence tells me you’re not a fan of him either.
Me: It doesn’t matter. At least this one is too old to be considered for the role of Anlon.
Elijah: He could play his dad?
I snort, sending him a couple of laughing emojis.
Me: I take it you haven’t read the books. Anlon’s father was the worst traitor in history and was killed in book one.