Chapter 8
AMY
Today sucks.
There are no two ways about it.
Firstly, Maya is off today, which means I’m forced to eat lunch in the chaotic lunchroom, pretending I don’t notice how awkwardly I sit here, avoiding eye contact and scrolling through my phone like I have something important to do.
That alone would be manageable if I wasn’t running on a pathetic three hours of sleep after staying up way too late chatting with Eli. This current state of sleep deprivation is starting to trigger a flare-up, my joints aching in protest at the lack of rest.
And, like the sore, sleep-deprived idiot I am, I forgot my headphones, which means I have no choice but to endure the mind-numbing conversations happening around me—on the train this morning, in this lunchroom now, everywhere.
But the real killing blow?
It comes halfway through my pasta and tuna salad.
I scroll absently through my feed, mid-bite, when a headline freezes me in place.
Breaking News: Melinda James Confirms Casting Choice—Jake Hollander Will Be Prince Anlon.
I snort loudly, drawing a weird look from the guy across from me. I don’t care; I keep reading.
"I was impressed by Jake’s ability to understand Anlon and his motivations. It was like he was a fan of the series himself. I’m confident we found the perfect Anlon."
I snort again. This time, nearly choking on my food.
What a load of shit.
There’s no way Melinda James, the Melinda James, actually chose Mr. Abs-for-Brains because she genuinely believes he’s the perfect Anlon.
She has to be contractually obligated to say that.
Studios love pushing the biggest name possible, slapping his face on posters, and selling tickets off the back of his jawline alone.
I stab at my salad with unnecessary aggression.
Maybe she didn’t have a choice.
I’ve seen some of the contracts Maya works on. It’s entirely possible she had zero say in casting, that her hands were tied from the beginning.
That has to be it because Melinda James is way above selling out like that.
I finish my food, scowling at it like it personally offended me.
And honestly? I just want this entire day to be over so I can go home and…
I pause.
For the first time all year, I don’t want to vent to Maya. No. I want to vent to Eli.
And I don’t know what that means for our relationship.
Well, no, that’s a lie. I know exactly what it means.
I’m completely, hopelessly smitten with my online crush.
And I’m screwed.
"Penis," I mutter under my breath.
The man sitting across from me stiffens slightly, giving me a wary side-eye before hastily returning to his sandwich.
I suppress a laugh, but internally, I know what this is. I’m spiraling.
I’m screwed and scared, but also… I want to be brave.
Eli makes me want to be brave in ways I never expected.
It’s in the way he compliments my writing style when he reads over my fanfics, the way he hypes up my Instabook photos, and the way he’s genuinely impressed by my crocheting and knitting skills.
With him, it’s never, "Oh, that’s cute." It’s, "That’s incredible.
You made that?" Like he actually sees me.
Sometimes, I tell him things I haven’t even told Maya. Not because I mean to but because, with him, I feel seen. And safe. Like the version of me that I hide from the world finally has someone who wants to look.
And honestly? It’s good to feel valued.
My family loves me. I know they do. But with them, I’m reliable Amy. Convenient Amy. Serious Amy. I’m the one you call for Excel knowledge and advice on how to pick the best slow cooker.
But with Eli? I’m smart Amy. Fun Amy. Maybe even—dare I say it—beautiful Amy.
“Why are you smiling at me like that?”
I blink up and come face-to-face with Pete.
Sleazy Pete.
One of the sales guys, or, as I like to call him, the office’s own discount Casanova.
He’s the guy who tries (and fails) to hit on every single woman in the building.
And when that doesn’t work? He always ends up at my table last, with his usual sleazy grin and some half-assed, "Well, you’re the last one on my list, so… "
Twat.
Normally, I’d just shake my head and go back to my plate, willing him to disappear.
But today? Today, I’m Eli’s Amy.
So I snort, leaning back in my chair. “Please, Pete. Like I’d waste actual muscle movement on you.”
His jaw drops.
I stab another bite of pasta, chewing with satisfaction.
Screw it. Maybe being Eli’s Amy isn’t such a bad thing after all.
The rest of the day is not much better.
Jolene is still marveling over Jake Hollander’s big new role, and her enthusiasm is so over-the-top that even Lizzy, our resident Hollywood gossip enthusiast, looks mildly exhausted.
“And get this,” Jolene continues, practically vibrating in her seat.
“They’re shooting at Pinewood Studios! Can you imagine just walking to the break room and casually bumping into Jake Hollander?
Like full-on rom-com moment. Coffee spills, lingering eye contact, and boom, love story of the century. ”
I glance at Lizzy, who is carefully wiping her glasses, looking like she’d rather gouge her own eyes out than engage in this conversation.
Maggie, on the other hand, hums noncommittally, offering a polite “That’s… nice” while flipping through an invoice.
I don’t bother correcting Jolene’s fantasy. None of us do. We, the veterans of the corporate trenches, just share a knowing smile.
Because in reality?
A lot of films are shot here. Big-budget Hollywood blockbusters, award-winning indie flicks, even the occasional TV drama.
However, in the five years I’ve worked here? I have never, not once, seen a celebrity, A-list or otherwise.
We work on the fifth floor of the admin building in the gray, windowless reality of accounts payable and procurement spreadsheets.
The closest we get to the magic of filmmaking? Approving invoices for the catering department.
Even the meeting rooms in this building are never used for production-related business. The big-shot meetings happen in the city, in our much sleeker office there.
Not here. Not in the gray suburb where dreams go to die, buried under stacks of financial reports.
But still.
I let Jolene dream her coffee-spill love story with Jake Hollander.
No harm in indulging in a little fantasy. After all, I’ve been living in one myself for the past couple of months.
The whole thing is straight out of a rom-com—an online crush, a lucky meeting, the almost-instant connection. Who am I to judge Jolene for dreaming of bumping into Jake Hollander at Pinewood Studios when I’m here, daydreaming about a man I’ve never even met in person?
By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m practically giddy despite the creeping fatigue and the telltale aches radiating through my joints. It’s a full-blown flare-up, and I know what that means: a weekend spent in bed resting, whether I like it or not.
I wince at the thought. This was the weekend I was supposed to go home and help Laura with wedding prep as part of my bridesmaid duties.
Neither of us really wanted this arrangement. She asked me out of obligation, and I said yes for the same reason.
It’s not that I dislike her. She’s nice. Perfect for my brother, really, but we have nothing in common. And yet, here we are, forcing a bond simply because it’s expected of us.
I smile wryly to myself. How very British.
As soon as I step onto the train platform, I pull out my phone. First, a flood of photos from Maya at her spa break with her mum, complete with captions like “Best day ever!” and “Can’t believe I have to go back to work tomorrow.”
And then—Eli.
His message pops up, right on cue, like it always does.
Eli: Morning/Afternoon, Fangirl. How was your day? Did you break any hearts?
I bite my lip, my heart giving a ridiculous little jolt.
He knows what time I leave the office. He remembers.
It’s such a small thing, barely significant, and yet—it means something.
Me: No… but mine was broken.
Eli: Prince Anlon?
I exhale, already feeling the tension in my chest begin to loosen.
He gets me. I smile down at my screen.
Me: Prince Anlon.
Eli: Tell me everything. Who do I need to fight?
I snort, shaking my head as I step onto the train, grabbing onto the overhead bar for balance.
Me: Just the entire Hollywood machine.
Eli: Oh, that’s easy. Give me a second to grab my sword.
I bite my lip, trying to suppress the stupid grin stretching across my face.
Me: Hurry up then. I need vengeance.
Eli: I live to serve.
I settle into my seat, tucking my bag onto my lap, already feeling the weight of exhaustion sinking into my bones. I know I should pace myself—rest when I can, especially with the flare-up looming—but Eli makes it so easy to forget.
I haven’t told him about my health yet. Not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. But people tend to see me differently once they know, whether they realize it or not.
I’ve been tempted though. He makes me want to. The way he listens, the way he never makes me feel like too much, it’s dangerous. And the more I open up, the more I forget that he’s still a stranger.
And Eli? He makes me feel lighter, sharper, more me than I have in a long time. I don’t want to lose that.
Me: They announced it today. Jake Hollander is playing Anlon.
Eli: Ah. The infamous abs-for-brains.
Me: Exactly! I mean, come on, did they even TRY?
Eli: I read an article, and Melinda James said he “understood” Anlon, right?
Me: Ugh. Don’t remind me. There’s no way that man understands Anlon. He probably skimmed the Wiki page five minutes before the meeting and called it a day.
Eli: Or, plot twist—he has a secret bookish side. Maybe he spent nights annotating his copies, crying over character deaths, swearing oaths of fealty.
Me: Oh please! The only oaths he swears are probably gym-related.
Eli: Fangirl. You wound me.
Me: Why would it wound you? You’re so different than he is.
Eli: Fine. Fine. But what if he is good? What if he surprises you?
I stare at my screen, my fingers hesitating over the keyboard.