Chapter 9
ELI
“You’re not wearing that.”
I glance down at my sweater, then back up at Jennifer, my publicist, who stands in front of me looking like she walked straight out of a high-end fashion campaign.
Everything about her is designer, from the sleek black dress hugging her frame to the sharp red-soled Louboutins clicking against the hotel floor.
She barely spares me a glance before going back to scrolling on her phone. “I don’t care if it’s Comic-Con, Jake. It’s New York, and that,” she gestures at my sweater like it personally offended her, “is positively hideous.”
I don’t just feel irritated, I feel angry.
Not because she doesn’t like it. Not even because she’s being her usual controlling self.
But because she’s dismissing something Amy made for me.
Something she spent hours on. Something she crafted with care, with no ulterior motive, no agenda, just because. And when I first pulled it from the box, I swear I caught the faintest trace of floral perfume. Hers, I’m sure.
I run my fingers along the sleeve, tracing the tiny embroidered skeleton she stitched just for me, and feel something hot settle in my chest.
I lift my gaze back to Jennifer, cocking my head slightly. “It’s interesting,” I say coolly, stepping past her. “The way you think you have any right to tell me what to wear.”
She startles, looking up from her phone. “Jake, I do have a right. Your image—”
I stop in the doorway, cutting her off. “You work for me, Jen. Not the other way around.” My voice is sharp and colder than she’s used to from me, and I watch with satisfaction as she stiffens. “Maybe you forgot that.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it, eyes darting between me and the sweater like she’s trying to figure out why I’m suddenly drawing a line here, of all places.
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough to make my point.
“It’s fucking October in New York. I agreed to come to this shitshow because Landon begged me to, but push me one more time, and I’ll walk back into my room, cancel my appearance, and you can explain to your boss why the fucking lead isn’t showing up to his panel. ”
Jennifer turns bright red.
I don’t care.
This isn’t just about the sweater, it’s about her. About Amy. About the fact that, for once in my life, something matters that has nothing to do with PR, publicity, or pleasing the masses.
This sweater? It’s mine.
And I’m wearing it for so many reasons.
One, because it’s probably the first thing I’ve received in years that truly comes from the heart. No strings, no ulterior motives, no industry bullshit. Just care. Thoughtfulness. Her. And putting it on? It feels like a goddamn safety blanket, like I’m carrying a piece of her with me.
I’m also wearing it because… I want her to see it.
I want her to find out.
Every day, I tell myself that today is the day I come clean. Today is the day I stop hiding behind Eli and tell her the truth. But then the moment comes, and I cave. Every. Single. Time.
Because I crave her company too much. Because I’m selfish. Because I know the moment she finds out, there’s a very real chance I’ll lose her.
So, I’m taking the coward’s way out.
I’m hoping she finds out on her own.
And then what, idiot? What will you do then?
I don’t have time to dwell on the answer. The door swings open, and suddenly, I’m being ushered into the green room, where Will and a couple of the other actors are waiting for the panel.
I take a deep breath, forcing everything else out of my head. Right now, I have a role to play.
Will spots me immediately. He looks good—rested, put together—but I know better.
I always do. I see it in the slight sway of his stance, the way his blue eyes shine a little too bright.
He’s a high-functioning alcoholic, and no amount of grooming or perfectly tailored designer clothes can hide that from me.
I’ve tried to help him. Twice, I convinced him to go to rehab. Twice, he walked right back out. His demons have their claws in him, and no matter how much I fight for him, he fights harder against himself.
He grins as I approach, nodding toward my sweater. “Okay, I love what you’re wearing.”
I arch a brow, glancing pointedly at his designer jeans and pressed shirt.
He smirks. “No, really. This is great for me. For once, I won’t have any competition. I’ll be the only stud up there. Sitting beside my grandma.”
I flip him off, and he just laughs.
“Let me guess, it’s from the Brit accountant.” His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with humor. “You know, I saw porn once where—”
“Can you not?” I cut him off, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Will knows too much. Not because he figured it out on his own, but because I got drunk, really drunk, a few nights ago. We were celebrating the end of editing on Explosion Protocol, and after enough beers, my shame and inner conflict started pouring out just as easily as the alcohol.
The thing is, Will handles his liquor a hell of a lot better than I do. He was barely tipsy while I was spilling my guts like some tragic, lovesick idiot.
I should have stopped there. Should have drawn the line. But instead, I told him about Amy.
About how we met and how I spend more time talking to her than doing anything else. About how, yeah, I know it’s kind of catfishing—not just because of the name or the deepfake, but because when she asked for my address to send me a surprise, I didn’t give her my real one.
Instead, I gave her my cousin’s address in Burbank.
I knew what I was doing was wrong. And yet, I did it anyway.
I run my fingers over the tiny skeleton embroidered on the sleeve, a stupid little detail she added just for me. Something so thoughtful, so personal, and all I gave her in return was a lie.
Not out of cruelty. Not even out of carelessness, but because the truth would’ve meant losing this. Losing her.
I exhale sharply, pushing the guilt down. If she ever finds out. No, when she finds out, I just hope she’ll understand why I couldn’t let her go.
Will slaps a hand against my shoulder, his usual smirk in place. “You’re addicted, my man.”
And for the first time, I don’t deflect. I don’t make a joke or roll my eyes.
I just exhale. Tired. Done lying—not just to him or to her, but to myself.
“Yes. I am.”
He doesn’t laugh like I expect him to. Doesn’t crack some offhand comment about me being whipped. Instead, he just nods quietly, like he gets it. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to need something—or someone—so badly it consumes you.
His silence lingers, but before I can say anything else, a man with an earpiece walks in, clipboard in hand, already ushering us toward the stage entrance. The usual pre-show routine begins—last-minute touch-ups, arrangements, and running through the order of entrance.
Lead stars last, which means I’ll be going in after Will and Camilla.
One by one, the names are called. The short line of seven moves forward.
Will lets out a loud, dramatic sigh before stepping through the curtains, and the moment he appears, the room erupts.
Screams. Applause. The deafening roar of a thousand fans losing their minds at the sight of their favorite bad boy in Hollywood.
Will’s thirty-five, but he’s still in his prime as far as the industry and his devoted following are concerned.
Then, there’s a pause. A brief lull.
My palms start to sweat.
I’ve done this a hundred times before. I know how this goes, but the nerves never fully disappear. The self-consciousness is always there, buried under the layers of PR training and Hollywood polish.
“And last but certainly not least, our leading man… Jake Hollander!”
The crowd explodes.
I step onto the stage, greeted by a wave of flashing lights, screaming voices, and outstretched hands.
The energy in the room is electric, the kind of buzz I’ve grown used to over the years.
I wave, flashing the easy, practiced grin that’s become second nature by now, a signature move perfected over time.
It’s surreal to think that just five years ago, I was the fresh-faced kid stepping onto the set of Primal, playing second fiddle to Will as his young army recruit.
Back then, he was my mentor, both on and off-screen, guiding me through the maze of Hollywood with his reckless charm and bad decisions.
And now? Now, I’m the one headlining the panel, the name on the marquee, the face on every billboard.
I should feel on top of the world.
Instead, as I cross to the center of the stage and sink onto the sofa next to Camilla, I feel it again. That weight. The creeping exhaustion of playing the role of Jake Hollander every single day.
It’s been getting heavier lately.
And I know exactly why.
Because every second I spend as Eli with Amy, I get a taste of something real. And the more time I spend in that world, the harder it is to keep playing my part in this one.
The host settles into his chair, beaming as the crowd starts to quiet down just enough for the panel to begin.
“Alright, let’s get to it! We are so excited for this film.
The action, the intensity, the drama—you guys really delivered.
So, Jake, tell us—what can fans expect from Explosion Protocol: Blood Oath? ”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, falling into the well-oiled rhythm of promo interviews.
“You know, it’s bigger, it’s bloodier, and it’s got a lot more at stake.
My character, Logan, is out for revenge after the betrayal in the last film, but this time, it’s not just about survival, it’s about redemption. ”
Camilla, sitting beside me in a sleek, form-fitting jumpsuit, chimes in. “And, of course, there’s the whole ‘will they, won’t they’ tension between Logan and my character, Nadia.” She winks at the crowd, earning an excited cheer from the fans.
The host grins, nodding along. “And we love a good enemies-to-lovers arc.” He shifts slightly, cueing up the next topic. “But speaking of romance…”
I already feel it coming.