Chapter 5
ELI
Islam my laptop shut and turn to glare at Will, who barges into my trailer like he owns the place.
“Ever heard of knocking?”
Will barely acknowledges the question, his gaze flicking from me to the closed laptop. Then he grins. “Why? Are you wanking?”
“Excuse me?”
He smirks, flopping onto the couch. “I can join if you want.”
I stare at him deadpan, but his blue eyes are slightly glassy. Drunk already… again.
I glance at the clock on the wall. 11:07 a.m.
“Will, it’s barely eleven.”
He shrugs, stretching out like he has all the time in the world. “I started late.”
His eyes dart over to me, and he squints. "Why are you dressed like Clark Kent? You know you’re playing a SEAL, not a superhero."
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face.
Will is a train wreck, but he’s my train wreck. My best friend. The actor who helped me land my first role.
And no matter how cold and cutthroat this business can be, I refuse to alienate him when he’s fighting his demons, which seems to be happening more often these days.
"I was talking to the girl." I keep my voice casual, as if the conversation isn’t important… as if she isn’t important.
But Will raises an eyebrow, intrigue spreading across his sharp features. "The girl?"
I don’t elaborate.
Not because I don’t trust him—Will isn’t the type to go blabbing to the press or to anyone else who’d care enough to listen. But because I’m not ready to hear lewd jokes or careless comments thrown in Amy’s direction, words that would tarnish something that still feels untouched.
She’s not like that.
She’s something pure. Something real.
Something so far removed from the glam and fakeness of Hollywood, from the hollow conversations, the fake smiles, and the perfectly curated personas. She doesn’t exist in this world of red carpets and empty compliments, where everything is performance and branding.
She makes me feel less alone.
I’ve spent years balancing between two versions of myself—the one I show to the industry, polished and charming, and the one I show to my family, the version of me that feels more like a fading memory than a reality.
The truth is, I don’t even know which one is real anymore.
But Amy? Talking to her is the closest I’ve felt to being myself in years.
And for the first time in a long time, I want to keep something just for me.
Will knows the real me—at least a part of him does.
He met the computer geek I was before all this, before the personal trainers and stylists and bullshit.
He’s the one who saw potential when no one else did, who vouched for me when I wasn’t even sure I deserved it.
And that’s why, no matter how much of a mess he becomes, no matter how far he falls, I’ll always be by his side.
The thought mollifies my resolve a little, and I decide to share just a bit more.
"You know the girl I met online?"
Will’s mouth quirks. "The Jake hater?"
I grimace. "The one and only."
His amusement deepens, and he tilts his head. "And you…" He drags the word out like he’s savoring it. "Video chatted with her?"
I nod.
Will lets out a short laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "And she’s still pretending she doesn’t know who you are?" He snorts. "Man, I’m high as fuck, and even I can tell she’s playing you."
I press my lips into a thin line, a mix of frustration and irritation bubbling inside me.
"Okay, Clark Kent." He gestures vaguely at my outfit. "You think the cap and glasses make you so inconspicuous?"
I exhale through my nose, once for the casual way he admits to being high, and again for how stupid he seems to think I am.
"I’m not an idiot, Will." I keep my voice steady. "I’m a special effects professional, or have you forgotten?"
He doesn’t seem fazed, just reaches for the dried fruit on my table, popping a few into his mouth as he eyes me. "Oh? And who did you pretend to be? Clark Gable?"
I can’t help but smirk at that one.
Will has an unhealthy obsession with Hollywood’s Golden Age stars, something that doesn’t exactly fit with his destructive bad-boy persona.
It’s one of his best-kept secrets, and for that reason alone, I let the jab slide.
"Myself."
Will pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing as if he misheard me. "I must be higher than I thought."
I sigh.
"I was playing around with a deepfake program recently," I start, then shake my head. "I don’t know, I was bored. I created a program to see what I’d look like if I’d never gotten… Hollywoodized."
Will snorts. "Hollywoodized?"
"You know what I mean." I gesture vaguely at my face. "Less polished. The nose I was born with. No veneers. My real hairline, instead of whatever sorcery my stylist does to it. A little rounder in the jaw, a little softer around the edges."
Will leans back, staring at me like I’ve grown another head. "So… you catfished her. With yourself."
I exhale. "It’s not catfishing if it’s the real me. Or at least, the before me."
Before the stylists, the PR coaching, the personal trainers—before Jake Hollander.
Amy isn’t talking to a brand. She’s talking to Eli, the guy who existed before Hollywood molded me into something more marketable. That counts, right?
But even as I think it, something twists in my gut. If it were really that simple, why do I feel like shit every time she says my name? Eli. Like it’s real. Like I’m real.
I should tell her. Every night, I think I will. And then she says something that makes me laugh, or worse, something vulnerable, and I freeze. The truth feels heavier each time I hold it back.
I shift in my seat. If I tell her the truth now, what happens? I lose her. I can already hear the disappointment in her voice, the betrayal laced in every word. And the worst part? She wouldn’t be wrong.
I almost told her last night. Almost. But then she started laughing about something stupid, and I couldn’t do it. Not when she was happy. Not when it meant shattering that.
Not yet, I tell myself. I just need a little more time.
That’s the part I can’t stop thinking about. Amy isn’t talking to Jake Hollander—the guy Hollywood sculpted out of raw ambition and some very expensive personal trainers. She’s talking to Elijah Cohen.
Or at least, the version of him that might still exist somewhere.
"And she didn’t recognize you?" Will asks, incredulous.
"Why would she? She’s not a fan, remember?" I rub the back of my neck, suddenly irritated. "Besides, even my own face doesn’t look like my face anymore. The AI just took away all the Hollywood bullshit."
To her, I’m just Eli. A guy with messy dark curls, thick-rimmed glasses, and a slightly softer jawline. I could pass for the geeky tech guy in a crime procedural, not the Hollywood heartthrob on movie posters. And that’s exactly how I want her to see me.
Will tilts his head, eyes sweeping over me with something unreadable.
"You really think you’d be happier if you never changed?"
For a second, I don’t answer. Because the truth is, I don’t know.
But when Amy looked at me today, when she saw me and smiled at me, I felt like that old version of myself still existed somewhere beneath all of this.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
His voice cuts through the quiet. “How do you think this will end?”
I blink, snapping back. “Honestly? I haven’t thought about that. I like her.”
He winces, running a hand through his hair. “You know us and normies… it never ends well.”
I exhale sharply, already done with this conversation before it even begins.
I don’t have the energy to listen to his stupid “unicorn theory” again. The idea that unless someone in our world is fame-hungry, relationships between celebrities and normal people are basically doomed.
Mostly because, as absurd as it is… there’s some truth to it.
Unless you find the one exception… the unicorn. And what are the chances of that?
I roll my shoulders, pushing the thought away. “What did you need, Will?”
His entire demeanor shifts. “I thought we could rehearse lines.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Rehearse what? We’re shooting Explosion Protocol: Blood Oath—it’s not exactly Shakespeare.”
Will raises an eyebrow, and I throw my arms out, launching into full mockery mode.
“I have literally sixty-two lines in the whole damn movie, and today’s dialogue is, ‘So what, they have an army? I have my knife.’” I rub my face and let out a tired sigh.
“Oh, and let’s not forget the follow-up gems: ‘Let’s dance, motherfuckers’ before I throw a grenade, and ‘Time to carve my way out,’ after I get shot seven times but somehow don’t die and run for six miles in the Amazonian forest.”
Will leans forward, his amusement dimming slightly. “I don’t remember you being so blasé when you signed the deal. How much are they paying you again? Thirty-one million? Yeah, I don’t remember you hesitating before.”
I open my mouth and then shut it again. Because he’s right. I didn’t hesitate. I built this career, this role, this entire persona. And yet—
“Is it because of that prince role?”
I glance at him. “No.” Yes.
Will shakes his head, half smirking, half-exasperated. “You’ll get it. Everyone knows that. Your audition is just for show.”
I don’t answer because I don’t know what bothers me more—the fact that he’s probably right, that the studio already has my name in bold, printed across the contract, or the fact that I’m not sure I’m good enough to bring Anlon to life.
Not just Anlon from the book.
But Anlon through Amy’s eyes.
Damn.
Shit.
I want to be that Anlon. Not just for this film, but for her.
I want her to see me like she sees him—to believe in me the way she believes in Anlon’s story.
How much would it take? Certainly not this.
Not me hiding behind a deepfake, playing pretend, letting a program filter my real face into something less polished, more real.
But the thing is, I know if I show her my real face, she’ll never talk to me again.
She hates Jake. No. That’s not entirely true.
She hates what he represents—what I, Elijah Jacob Cohen, used to mock endlessly before I moved to LA and let myself become part of the machine… before I stopped questioning it and started playing the part without a second thought.
At least for a while.
And I don’t want that. I don’t want to lose Elijah for now, and I especially don’t want to lose Amy’s spontaneity, her intelligence, and the way she breathes life into every conversation.
But how long can I keep this up? How long before she figures it out?
I know I should tell her. That I should rip off the Band-Aid now before this turns into something real. Before I let myself get in any deeper.
Before I let myself want her.
But I’m already in too deep. I can feel it in the way I reach for my phone the second I wake up, in the way my stomach clenches every time I see her name pop up on my screen.
She’s my escape.
And maybe that’s the problem—she doesn’t deserve to be lied to.
But if I tell her now, if I say, Hey, by the way, I’m actually Jake Hollander, she’ll be gone.
No more teasing messages. No more late-night conversations. No more her.
And I’m selfish enough to keep her a little longer… just a little longer because I’m happier texting with her for hours than I’ve ever been at some exclusive event, surrounded by people who don’t give a damn about me beyond what my name can do for them.
And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?
I could tell her now. I should… before it gets too messy. Before she gets too close.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I know exactly how this ends.
I just don’t want to face it yet.