Chapter 7 #2
The studio is only six miles away, which should be more than enough time.
But in LA traffic? If there’s even one accident on PCH, I’m screwed.
Me: I can’t wait to read it, Fangirl. Also, let me know if you ever need to brainstorm sex scenes. I’m entirely at your service.
I don’t wait for her response. I already know she won’t reply, not right away. No doubt she’s on the train home, cheeks flushed, probably cursing my name under her breath.
I chuckle to myself, picturing her flustered expression. I love seeing her blush over video calls, even with the poor lighting and grainy resolution, and despite knowing I shouldn't, I keep wondering what it’ll be like when I see it in real life.
Because, in my more delusional moments, I let myself believe this could work.
That somehow, some way, we could make this into something real.
I grab the keys to my Range Rover and my wallet and head out. As soon as I hit the driveway and the electric gates start to slide open, I spot them.
Paparazzi.
Two of them crouched on the sidewalk across the street, cameras poised, waiting for their payday.
I roll my eyes.
They won’t get much. My windows are tinted to hell, and they’re not catching a damn thing beyond the silhouette of my head against the driver’s seat. But that won’t stop them from selling some grainy shot with a headline speculating about where I’m going and who I’m seeing.
Jake Hollander Spotted Leaving His Malibu Home—Secret Project in the Works?
Hollander's Mysterious Late Morning Meeting—Is This the Role of a Lifetime?
Jake Hollander’s Intense Stare Behind the Wheel—Is Hollywood’s Golden Boy Hiding Something?
I’ve seen it all before.
I focus on the road.
The traffic is a nightmare, of course. It always is. I end up being ten minutes late, which doesn’t sound like much, but for me, it is. I hate being late. It messes with my head.
But I also know they don’t care. I’m Jake Hollander, so nothing starts before I get there.
The studio looms ahead, all glass and polished metal, a fortress built on expectations, curated images, and marketable faces.
I cut the engine and grip the wheel. Exhale.
This is it.
I should be used to this feeling by now. The weight of a role pressing down on me before I’ve even stepped into the audition room. But today, it’s different.
Today, I need this. Not for the money, not for the brand, not for the next billion-dollar franchise.
For me.
For once, I don’t want to be the safest choice. I want to be the right one.
A tap on the window snaps me back. The valet is waiting.
I force a smile and put on the easy charm. The practiced grin. The confidence they expect. And then I step out of the car, the persona of Jake Hollander sliding into place like tailored armor.
But beneath it, Eli is still there.
And today? He’s the one who’s going to win this role.
I hand him my keys and head inside. A PA rushes forward, all nervous energy, apologizing to me like it was their fault I got caught in traffic.
This industry is so backward.
I follow them through a maze of hallways, past glass-walled offices and soundproofed conference rooms, until they usher me into the audition meeting room.
I take a second to assess the faces around the table.
The director. Two main producers. The casting director.
And at the far end, sitting with a script in front of her, Melinda James, the author of The Chronicles of Persefia.
I didn’t expect her to be here.
And unlike the others, she’s not smiling.
She’s watching me, her gaze steady and unreadable, like she’s trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here.
I like that.
She doesn’t know how many zeros my name will add to the box office numbers.
How many women will show up just to see me take my shirt off.
And unlike the others in the room, she doesn’t seem to care.
It’s refreshing, really.
The director and producers stand to greet me, their smiles wide, their words dripping with the usual Hollywood flattery—how much they admire my work, how thrilled they are that I could make time for this, how they’ve already envisioned me as Anlon.
It’s the same spiel I hear in every room I walk into, a rehearsed scene where I nod in all the right places and offer just enough charm to keep them invested.
Melinda James, however, stays seated. Her hands rest calmly on the script in front of her, her expression almost clinical, like I’m under a microscope and she’s cataloguing every flaw.
She reminds me so much of Amy, and I admire her more because of that.
I shake hands, exchange pleasantries, and take my seat. There’s a brief moment of small talk, the usual “How’s filming going?” and “What’s next after this?” before the casting director clears her throat and steers the meeting toward the real reason we’re all here.
“We’re beyond excited to see your take on Anlon,” the casting director says, sliding a stack of papers toward me. “We’ve selected a few key scenes. Moments we feel are critical in capturing his essence. Feel free to take a few minutes to look them over before we begin.”
I already know what’s coming.
A fight scene, probably. A brooding, shirtless moment for the trailer. A few stoic lines delivered over dramatic music. Nothing of substance, just the same mindless, predictable beats Hollywood expects from me.
They don’t actually care if I bring depth to Anlon.
They just want my name in neon lights. Want me to be passable enough so that when the real work is done, when they stack the cast with critically acclaimed supporting actors who will carry the emotional weight, I won’t stick out like a sore thumb.
They’ll be paid three or four times less than I am. But that’s the industry. The art, the message, the story itself? None of it matters.
And to be honest? I never really cared either.
Not until Amy.
Not until she spent hours breaking down what this series meant to her. What Anlon meant to fans like her.
I never understood the depth of his evolution, never saw him as anything beyond the standard fantasy prince-turned-hero until I helped her work through the intricacies of her fan fiction plots.
And now? Now I can’t unsee it.
I flip through the pages and shake my head, tension coiled tight in my chest. “I don’t think this is the right scene.”
The room goes still.
The casting director fumbles with the script. “I… Well…”
They weren’t expecting this. I don’t say no, not to scenes, not to directors, not to producers who sign my checks.
Across the table, Melinda James’s head tilts, curiosity flickering across her face.
I press on.
“I have an idea,” I say, setting the script down. “You’re planning for each book to be adapted into a single film, right?”
The director glances at the producers. They exchange looks before one of them nods.
“Perfect.” I lean forward. “Then the key moment, the real moment that defines Anlon, is toward the end of the book. It’s when his entire understanding of the world shatters.
When everything he thought was true, his father’s legacy, his kingdom’s righteousness, his own role in history, turns out to be a lie.
He’s not the hero he believed himself to be.
His people don’t admire him. They fear him.
His kingdom isn’t the beacon of hope. It’s the source of suffering.
His father isn’t a noble king but a tyrant.
And the princess he’s promised to? She doesn’t love him.
She doesn’t even want to marry him. She’s being forced into this alliance, just like he is.
And the person who opens his eyes to all of this?
Not a warrior. Not a knight. Not a royal advisor.
A servant, Celandine. Someone seen as weak in his world yet embodies the kind of bravery he’s never known. ”
The room is silent.
They all turn to Melinda.
Of course they don’t know.
Why would they?
The cinematic appeal matters more to them. The box office potential.
But she knows.
And from the glint in her eyes,, I think she finally sees me.
She nods, and something inside me loosens. Relief, yes, but also something else. Pride.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve earned my place in this room.
Like I’m not just here because I look the part, or my name will sell tickets, or my abs will make headlines.
I imagine Amy sitting beside her, arms crossed, that sharp, assessing look on her face—the one she gets when she’s deep in thought, unraveling plot holes, dissecting motivations.
I picture the way her eyes would light up, the way she’d soften at the edges, realizing, maybe for the first time, that I understand.
That I get it now.
That I want to get it.
I steady myself, forcing the noise, the expectations, the pressure to quiet.
And then I step into the moment.
I become Anlon.
The silence settles, thick and suffocating. I let the silence hang. Let them wonder. Let them doubt.
And when I speak, my voice is quiet and wrecked.
“You lied to me.”
It’s not an accusation. Not yet. Just a truth. A sharp-edged thing that cuts the moment it leaves my lips.
I lift my gaze, staring straight ahead at nothing and everything. In my head, I see the king. His lined face. His impassive eyes. The way his mouth tightens just slightly, just enough to tell me he knows.
My breath shudders.
“You let me believe this place was good. That it was safe. That we were safe.”
The words hit harder this time. I am Anlon now. It bleeds into the way my fingers curl into fists at my sides, into the way my chest tightens under the weight of it all. I breathe in through my nose, but it doesn’t steady me. Doesn’t help.
Because it’s not just about the lie, it’s about what it took from me.
I shake my head, almost to myself, my voice fraying at the edges. “Do you even know what you took from me?”
My voice breaks, but I don’t stop.
“I spent my whole life believing in this family. In this name. I bled for it! Fought for it! And all this time, you—”
I exhale sharply, shaking my head, disgust curling in my gut like something rancid.
“You just stood there. Watching. Letting me be the fool.”
The air in the room feels thinner. My throat burns, and my hands tremble. I let them. I let them see it. Because this isn’t just a performance, this is the truth, tearing me apart from the inside out.
My voice trembles as I speak. “But I was wrong.” A pause. A glimpse of something dangerous in my expression. “Not anymore.”
I take a step forward, my voice lowering. My pulse kicks up. “This ends now! With your blood on my hands. And if that curses my soul to hell, then so be it. I’ve already committed unforgivable sins in the name of justice, justice that was nothing more than manipulation.”
A beat of heavy silence.
I blink, and only then do I feel the warmth streaking down my skin. Silent tears. I don’t wipe them away.
I stand in it and let it soak into my bones. Let it hurt.
The king doesn’t move. My brother doesn’t speak. Of course they don’t. Because in this moment, I am Anlon’s despair.
I take a step back. Then another. My breath is uneven, my chest rising and falling like I’ve just survived something that tore me open from the inside.
I force myself to nod one last time. One last acknowledgment that the boy I was, the boy who believed in them, is gone.
That last tear of broken innocence burns in the back of my eyes.
No one speaks.
No one moves.
Then… I blink. Back into myself. Back into the casting room.
I can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner. The scrape of a chair shifting slightly, someone adjusting and sitting up straighter.
One producer lowers his eyes, jaw tensing like he’s just realized he miscalculated. Another shifts in his seat, eyes darting to the others, waiting for someone to speak first.
Like they’ve just realized they underestimated me.
I see one of the producers blink rapidly, his lips parting like he’s about to speak, but he doesn’t.
Melinda James exhales, her fingers curling tighter around the script in front of her. Her gaze flickers, something sharp and knowing behind it.
She felt that; the tears in her eyes say as much.
They all felt it.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a prop. I don’t feel like a name or a face. Or a body someone else molded.
For the first time, I feel like an actor.
And then, Melinda leans forward, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You are Anlon."