Chapter 7
ELI
Today’s the day.
The official audition or the "formality," as Will calls it.
I wake up far earlier than I need to, but that’s nothing new. Lately, my mornings start the same way. Reaching for my phone, craving just a few more messages from Amy.
She doesn’t even realize how much of my day revolves around her now.
Will calls it catfishing. And sure, there’s a half-truth in what I’m doing, but there are no lies.
Sometimes, a small, reckless part of me wants her to figure it out… to put the pieces together and see through the deepfake. Maybe then we could start from a place of truth.
But I don’t need to know her well to understand how much she avoids the spotlight.
She’s the kind of woman who doesn’t seek or want the public eye. And anyone in my life is bound to suffer under it.
I know that.
I know the selfless thing would be to tell her the truth, apologize, and call it quits before it’s too late.
I’ve typed the message more than once. I’m sorry, Fangirl. I’m not who you think I am. And every time, I delete it. Because I want her smile more than I want to be honest, and that makes me the worst kind of coward.
But I’m already in too deep.
And I don’t want to let go.
Instead, I do what I always do.
I pull up my private account on Instabook—the one no one knows about—and check her latest post.
A new photo of Pea.
The one-eyed bastard is curled up against her chest, his latest hand-crocheted eyepatch sporting the Brazilian flag.
I chuckle, shaking my head.
Even her cat is living a more interesting life than I am.
An unexpected flicker of jealousy stirs in my chest.
Over a damn cat.
I sigh and press the button on my espresso machine, the rich aroma filling the kitchen as Lucy, my faithful housekeeper, moves around preparing breakfast.
The precisely measured fruit. The carefully portioned protein.
Prince Anlon, I remind myself.
I need to be Prince Anlon today.
Not Eli.
Not Jake Hollander.
Just him.
I settle on the balcony, my cup in hand, waiting for Lucy to bring my food. Below, the infinity pool gleams under the early sun, its still water a perfect mirror of the sky. Just beyond it, the private beach stretches toward the ocean, the tide rolling in.
The scent of salt and sand drifts up, and for a brief moment, as the waves hit the shore, there’s peace.
I should be rereading my lines for today’s audition. I should be getting into character, immersing myself in the role, becoming Anlon or at least, the studio’s version of him.
But instead, I pick up my phone and open Instabook.
Not Pea’s account.
No.
I go to her account. @AmyTheBookishEnchantress.
I smile. Enchantress indeed. She just doesn’t know the extent of her power.
Her feed is a mix of books, cozy coffee shop corners, and snapshots of the city. I don’t see her face in most of her photos—it only happens when it’s accidentally caught in mirrors, shop windows, or reflected surfaces.
Not something most people would notice… unless they’re as obsessed with her as I am.
Lucy sets my plate down in front of me, and I can’t help but sigh at the sight of it.
“Something wrong, Mr. Hollander?” she asks, her voice filled with instant concern.
“No, no, of course not. It’s perfect, Lucy.”
I like Lucy.
She’s a grandmother and exactly the reason I hired her. I don’t need young, fame-hungry assistants floating around, not with Will’s flirtatious nature and the kind of women who have already pulled their fair share of tricks on my friends.
Stealing things to sell online. Trying, and often succeeding, to seduce them for clout.
Will nearly mourned the loss when I hired Lucy. Sixty-three years old. Three-time grandma. But the fact that he complained at all just proved I made the right choice.
Lucy relaxes at my reassurance, beaming before retreating inside.
I glance down at my plate, my mouth tipping into a slight frown.
The dullest plate of food known to man. Plain scrambled egg whites. Half an avocado. A cup of plain Greek yogurt with a carefully measured handful of berries and a single drizzle of honey.
My stomach turns at the sight.
My eyes flick back to my phone, to the latest photo Amy posted.
A frothy cappuccino. A golden croissant. A book—some fantasy romance, judging by the cover.
Her caption? "Not too shabby for a rainy Wednesday."
I smirk, running my tongue over my teeth. God, I’d trade this entire breakfast for that croissant in a heartbeat.
No. I’m lying.
It’s not the croissant I crave. It’s the company of the girl who posted the photo.
I take a forkful of egg whites and grimace.
Okay, maybe I crave the croissant too.
I scroll back through her feed, studying each photo.
The glimpses I get of her there. The carefully framed snapshots of coffee cups, book covers, and rainy London streets, are so far from the woman I’ve gotten to know online.
My Amy is bright, funny, intuitive, and brave.
This woman? The one in the photos? She’s hiding, draped in oversized, colorless clothes, buried in shades of black and brown like she’s trying to disappear into the background.
She disappears in a crowd. I stand in a spotlight. Maybe we’re both just pretending to be someone we’re not.
The only difference? Mine is known and loved by millions.
Hers is only noticed by someone like me, someone looking closely enough to see past it.
I finish my breakfast. Not because I want to, not because I enjoy it, but simply because I need the macros, the protein, the perfectly calculated balance of nutrients.
All part of the strict regimen that will keep my body at the precise percentage of muscle and body fat required to maintain my Hollywood-approved standard of an action star.
People think this life is glamorous, that it’s all private jets, red carpets, and designer suits, but in reality, it’s nothing more than a thin coat of gold-colored paint slapped onto tin—cheap, fragile, and quick to chip if you so much as breathe on it wrong.
My entire existence is built around appearance.
My publicist, my manager, my agents—every single person in my professional life works tirelessly to ensure that the brand of Jake Hollander remains untouchable.
Nothing about me is accidental. It’s a product, meticulously designed, sold, and resold to the highest bidder.
But I don’t complain.
How could I?
I live in a Malibu mansion with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the ocean. I have more money than I know what to do with, and I’m one of the most sought-after action stars in the industry. I know exactly how lucky I am and how many people would sell their souls to be in my place.
And yet, it feels empty.
I’ve met actors who are truly fulfilled, who wake up every morning excited for the roles they play, and who find meaning in their work.
But they are rare, much rarer than people think, and for every one of them, there are a hundred more like Will, pretending so hard, so relentlessly, that the act is starting to make them sick.
And then there’s me.
Somewhere in between.
Happy enough, successful enough, but still waiting for something more, something real, something that doesn’t feel like it’s been polished, filtered, and pre-approved for public consumption.
And maybe… maybe that’s why I keep coming back to Amy, why I find myself craving every conversation, every message, every moment I get to slip into Eli’s skin and just exist as someone who isn’t measured by box office numbers or magazine covers.
I sigh, shaking my head at my own thoughts, before picking up my phone to send her a quick message, knowing she won’t see it for a few hours. It’s 3:30 p.m. in the UK. She’s probably still at her desk, maybe sneaking in a few lines for the fanfic we’ve been discussing.
She’s brilliant, my Amy. I’ve told her that much, and I can see there’s something more beneath her writing, something she wants but doesn’t quite dare to chase yet. She reminds me too much of myself in that way—clinging to what’s familiar even while secretly yearning for something bigger.
I want to break out of the mold Hollywood has placed me in, to prove I can be more than just a pretty face throwing punches on a green screen.
But what if that’s all I really am? What if I’m fooling myself, convincing myself that I have something deeper to offer when the only thing people really want from me is another explosion, another shirtless fight scene, another billion-dollar franchise?
I toss my phone onto the table and push myself up from the chair, stretching as I glance out at the still water of the infinity pool just beyond the balcony. The sun is already high, casting long, golden streaks across the ocean, the kind of perfect California morning people dream about.
“I’m going for a swim,” I tell Lucy as I take the stairs down to the pool house.
It’s barely seven thirty, but the August heat is creeping in fast, and the pool is at the perfect temperature—cool, refreshing, just enough of a shock to wake me up.
I dive in without hesitation, slicing through the water in one clean motion, feeling the weight of my thoughts dissolve with every stroke. Swimming is the only time I feel truly weightless, like I can strip off the outside expectations and just be.
Forty-five laps later, my muscles burn in that satisfying way that tells me I’ve pushed my limits just enough. I haul myself out of the pool, water falling off my body as I grab a towel and head inside to shower.
By the time I step out of my bedroom, dressed and ready to head out, my phone vibrates on the nightstand.
I check the time.
It’s 5:00 p.m. in the UK.
Amy is just stepping out of work.
Amy: Oh, Halloween? Okay, that’s good to know! I sent you an email just before leaving the office with a few scenes. I think I managed to fix the uncle plot hole.
I want to open it, want to read through every word she wrote, but my audition is in an hour, and I know if I start reading now, I won’t be able to focus on anything else.