Fangirl

Chapter 9 #2

“Jake, I have to ask—there’s been a lot of buzz lately. The internet is dying to know… is it true that you’re dating Isabella Lindstrom?”

The question hangs in the air, and I barely have a second to react before the screaming starts up again.

I school my expression, already shifting into neutral, already preparing the PR-friendly response—We’re just friends. Isabella’s great. I’m focused on my work right now.

But before I can even open my mouth—

“Nah, nah, nah,” Will cuts in, throwing an arm over the back of the sofa and shaking his head dramatically. “Now, I’m the Swedish model expert around here, alright? This kid wouldn’t dare step on my turf.”

Laughter ripples through the audience, and I exhale subtly, the tension deflating just enough.

The host plays along, grinning. “Oh? So you’re saying Jake isn’t in a relationship?”

Will smirks, nudging me. “Nah, man, if he were, I’d know. And trust me, he’s not smooth enough to keep something like that a secret.”

I roll my eyes, chuckling as the crowd eats it up. “Appreciate the vote of confidence, buddy.”

The moment passes, the conversation shifting back to the film, but I can feel it.

That lie.

Sitting there, lodged in my chest.

Because I am in a relationship.

At least, I think I am. It’s complicated. It’s not public. It’s not even official.

But it’s real. At least, to me, it is.

And Amy has no idea.

“So, let’s step away from the main questions and open the floor to the fans,” the moderator announces, gesturing toward the microphones set up on either side of the room.

A young woman steps up, visibly nervous as she clutches the mic. “I, uh… hi. I have a question for Will.”

Will grins, leaning forward with that effortless charisma of his. “We’re starting with the best; I like that. Smart girl. Go ahead, sweetheart.”

I throw him a look, but he’s enjoying himself way too much.

She stammers a little, shifting on her feet. “I, um… I heard you were making a special appearance in the new Oliver Marshall film. Is that true?”

Will lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing his chin like he’s weighing the gravity of her question.

“Ah, now that is a great question.” He pauses, milking the suspense, then smirks.

“All I can say is… I’ll be in London in three weeks.

Is it for The Last Soldier premiere? Or something more? Time will tell.”

Will soaks up the attention, grinning as the girl swoons, and I shake my head, biting back a smile. He lives for this.

But, for the first time, a small part of me is jealous.

Not of the fan worship; God knows I get plenty of that.

No, I’m jealous that in three weeks, he’ll be in London, walking the same streets as my Amy.

Close enough to breathe the same air while I’m stuck here, drowning in The Chronicles of Persefia pre-production.

Another fan steps forward, shifting nervously. She adjusts her glasses and grips the microphone a little too tight. “Hi, um… I have a question for Jake.”

I nod, leaning in slightly. “Absolutely. But fair warning—I’m not allowed to say much.”

She smiles, a little more confident now. “That’s okay! I just… wanted to ask how you feel about being cast. And what you think of the rest of the casting choices.”

Ah, the million-dollar question. I exhale lightly, keeping my smile easy.

“Well, I can say that I’m beyond honored to step into Prince Anlon’s boots.

He’s an incredible character, and I can’t wait to bring him to life.

” I pause for effect before adding, “And before you ask, my favorite book in the series is The Veil of Shadows.”

The girl gasps, practically vibrating with excitement.

Good. That was the right answer.

Book six. Amy’s favorite. The one we spent hours dissecting, breaking down Anlon’s choices, his motivations—how his relationship with Celandine deepened, and how he finally started seeing himself for who he was, not who he’d been told to be.

I shift slightly. “I’m really excited to start pre-production and get to know my scene partners. And as for the casting? I’m happy with the choices made.”

That part is true.

What I don’t say is how much of a fight it was to get here. How they nearly cast a famous underwear model-turned-actress as Celandine, as if she were just another token love interest rather than the soul of Anlon’s journey. How I almost walked away when I saw the shortlist.

Celandine is unassuming. She isn’t conventionally striking. She’s soft. Her beauty is the kind that creeps up on you, quiet and enduring. She’s real.

And I’d be damned if they turned her into just another Hollywood fantasy.

A weight settles in my chest, one that’s equal parts pride and responsibility. Amy doesn’t know any of this yet. She has no idea how hard I fought for Celandine’s casting—how, in a way, I fought for her. For the girl who loves these books the way I wish I could love my own career.

The fan at the mic shifts on her feet, adjusting her glasses again. “That’s… really cool to hear,” she says, beaming. “I know a lot of us were nervous about the casting, but knowing you actually care—that means a lot.”

I nod, something in my chest tightening. “I get it,” I say honestly. “Characters like Anlon? Like Celandine? They mean something. And it’s my job to do right by them.”

There’s a murmur of agreement from the audience, a few nods, and a couple of appreciative cheers.

And then, just as I think we’re shifting back to safer waters, someone else steps up to the mic.

“Jake,” a woman calls, her voice carrying just enough amusement to set me on edge. “Where did you get your sweater? I love it!”

I see Jennifer stiffen in the shadows and want to flip her off, but I’m not Will, so I just laugh.

I glance down at my sweater, fingers brushing absently over the soft yarn. The stitches are slightly uneven in places, the ghost on the sleeve tilting just a little too far to one side, and the pumpkins across the chest aren’t perfectly symmetrical but that’s what makes it mine. What makes it hers.

And now, here I am, standing in front of thousands of people, wearing something that, in every way, is a piece of her. A piece of Amy.

“It was a gift from a dear friend,” I say, running my fingers over the sleeve without thinking. “Hand-knitted. One of a kind—just like her.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve slipped.

“Her?” Camilla murmurs, her smirk sharpening with interest.

Shit.

“I—”

Before I can dig myself in deeper, Will claps his hands together, cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Okay, can we bring the spotlight back to me, please?” he announces, feigning offense. “I don’t do well with being ignored.”

The audience laughs, Camilla’s attention flickers, and just like that, the moment passes.

My gratitude for Will at this moment? Boundless.

In this industry, having someone who’s always got your back? That’s rarer than gold.

The rest of the panel goes smoothly—fast-paced, easy, the kind of well-oiled PR machine I’ve gotten used to over the years. Then we move to a private room where a select few fans get autographs, exchange a few quick words, and snap an on-the-fly selfie.

This is the only part of the whole ordeal I actually like.

Meeting the fans, seeing their excitement, knowing that for a couple of hours, our films give them something to escape into. It makes all the bullshit worth it. It reminds me why I wanted to do this in the first place. And I’m grateful for every single one of them.

Money is a limited commodity, I know that firsthand. I lived that life until recently. So the fact that these people are spending their hard-earned cash on a ticket to see me? That humbles me in a way not much else does.

I’m not yet as jaded as some of my costars.

The rest of the day is a blur of press junkets, interviews, and endless meetings. And unfortunately, at some point, I have to change, because as much as I love this sweater, it’s really, really hot under these lights.

When I ask an assistant to grab something lighter from my wardrobe, I do my best to ignore Jen’s smug, satisfied smile.

Most of the interviews focus on Explosion Protocol. You’d think that by the third film in the franchise, the excitement would have died down, but if anything, it’s only ramped up—especially since Will’s character gets killed off in this one, setting my character on a brutal revenge mission.

Every once in a while, though, someone brings up Prince Anlon. And whenever they do, I answer with Amy in mind.

“Melinda James is here today,” one of the web journalists mentions during my last interview of the day, a quick ten-minute slot. “We spoke with her earlier today, and she said that your audition for Anlon brought her to tears. Are you meeting with her?”

I turn slightly, glancing at Jennifer. She looks away, feigning interest in her phone.

I narrow my eyes but don’t push it.

I turn back to the journalist, flashing a polite smile. “Yeah, that’s the plan.”

It is now, at least.

“As for the role,” I continue, “I’m thankful for Melinda’s words, but honestly? It’s thanks to the character she created that I’m able to make her cry.”

The producer steps in, signaling the end of the interview.

“Thank you,” I say to the young woman, unclipping my mic before stepping away.

The moment I reach Jennifer, I don’t waste time. “Was I asked to meet with Melinda James?”

She hesitates, glancing down at her tablet like it might shield her from my irritation. “Well, it’s—” She clears her throat. “You’re here for a promo tour, Jake. I can’t just—”

“Oh, so you’re deciding what I do now?” My voice is sharp, and I know I’m being unfair.

Normally, I go with the flow and let them shuffle me from one interview to the next without complaint.

But today, I’m done with playing their game.

I’m tired of them shaping the narrative—that I’m just a spineless action hero who grins for the camera and cashes the checks.

“No, it’s not…”

I sigh, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I’d like to at least be given the option. Tell Landon he can expect a call from me tonight. And right now?” I meet her gaze, my voice dropping into something colder. “Find me Melinda James.”

They locate her at her signing booth, but I’m told she’ll meet me in the green room after she wraps up.

I wait, pacing, checking my phone, then pacing some more. When the door finally opens, Melinda steps in, exuding the kind of confidence that comes from living in a world of her own creation—one built on words, imagination, and the unwavering loyalty of her readers.

She looks me over, then grins. “I’m always taken aback by how much taller you are in person.”

I chuckle, shaking her offered hand. “I’m six-two, but I guess by Hollywood standards, that makes me a good six-four. And you’re much scarier in person.”

She lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Good,” she says, taking a seat across from me. “That means I’m doing my job.”

I sit as well, leaning forward slightly. “I wanted to thank you for what you said in the interviews. About me being the right Anlon.”

She tilts her head, studying me in a way that makes me feel like she’s seeing more than I’m saying. “I meant it.”

That same tightness coils in my chest—the weight of knowing I have to be the right Anlon, not just on-screen, but for her. For Amy.

“I don’t take it lightly,” I admit. “I know how much these characters mean to people.”

Her lips curve, something knowing flickering in her expression. “To one person in particular?”

My stomach tightens. “What?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No offense, but Anlon is a man written for women by a woman, and your understanding of him?” She gives me a small smile. “You could be the smartest man in the world, but the way you get him? That’s a woman talking.”

I exhale sharply, slumping slightly in my seat. “She’s a huge fan of yours. Has been from day one.”

Melinda’s expression softens. “And who is she?”

And then I say it.

Because it feels true. Because I mean it. And because, Lord help me, I want to say it.

“My girlfriend, Amelia.”

A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “You’re lucky to have her.”

And just like that, I decide I’m a little in love with Melinda James.

She gets it, and I’m the lucky one.

I know how it’ll look to the press, to the world, to everyone who doesn’t really know me, like I settled, like she won the lottery.

But they’ll be wrong. So damn wrong.

Melinda wraps her hands around her travel cup, tilting her head slightly. “I heard you’ll be in London soon.”

Not soon enough. That’s when I’m planning to meet Amy and take our relationship to the next level—well, if she allows me near her.

“Yeah.” I nod, keeping my tone neutral. “Second week of December for the Explosion Protocol premiere.”

She takes a sip of her drink, considering me.

“That’s too bad. I have a signing at Waterstones that same week.

It would’ve been a great opportunity for you to hear directly from the fans and really immerse yourself in how people see Anlon.

” She pauses, then adds, almost offhandedly, “My publicists reached out to yours, but apparently, you’re fully booked the entire three days you’re there. ”

I school my expression, but inside? I’m raging. Frustration coils hot in my gut, bleeding into pure, unfiltered anger.

Of course they did. Of course my team—so focused on controlling every aspect of my image and my schedule—thought it unnecessary for me to attend.

I take a slow breath, pushing the fury down.

I thank every power in existence that I’m an actor because right now, the only thing keeping me from flipping this goddamn table is years of training.

But underneath the anger, something else is simmering—something darker, sharper. Fear.

If she sees me in that room, under those lights, standing beside Melinda James—will she know?

Will she recognize the man she’s been talking to for months?

And if she does… will she ever forgive me?

I lean back in my chair, keeping my tone casual. “Actually, I think we can make it work.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

I nod, the idea solidifying in my mind, the pieces snapping into place. This is better. This is the way it should happen. Not at the Explosion Protocol premiere, where the chaos and press will be impossible to avoid. Not in the middle of flashing cameras and scripted interviews.

No. Persefia is Amy’s home turf. On her terms. In a place where she feels safe, surrounded by the world she loves.

It’s the only way this should happen.

And Will? Yeah. He suspected my original plan would blow up in my face.

But this? This just might work.