Chapter 11
ELI
Itake a slow breath, rolling my shoulders back and forcing the tension out of them.
Will has made me feel a lot of things over the years—admiration, gratitude, exasperation, amusement, even deep concern.
But never this. Never anger. Never this simmering, visceral feeling of betrayal that’s been gnawing at me since Amy told me about his little impromptu visit to her office a week ago.
I haven’t answered his calls. Haven’t responded to his messages. This isn’t a conversation that can happen over the phone. And honestly? My fist is already itching to meet his jaw.
“Jake?”
I snap back to reality, turning toward the costume team. They’re gathered around a table covered in sketches, swatches of fabric, and intricate leather designs. They’re deep into crafting Anlon, refining every detail of the character’s look.
I shove my irritation down. Focus. This is what matters right now. This is the role I fought for.
But as I step forward, nodding at the head designer, the thought hovers… persistently.
I’m in a prime position here. I get to have a say in Anlon’s look, his presence, and the details that will shape him into the character fans deserve.
Between this and the script rewrites, where Melinda and I have practically formed an alliance to keep the film as accurate as possible, I barely have time for anything else.
It’ll calm down soon. Once the groundwork is set, once the creative team and I are on the same page, I’ll have more breathing room. More time to organize my trip to London.
Inviting Amy to the premiere had been a knee-jerk reaction—an impulse driven by frustration, by the territorial surge that hit me the second Will inserted himself into her life.
The meeting drags on far longer than I planned, mostly because half the costumes they’ve designed for Anlon seem more focused on showcasing my muscles than actual practicality.
I push back the latest sketch with a sigh. “It’s wartime. Since when would I be strutting into battle with my pecs out, giving the enemy a direct shot to my heart?”
The designer hesitates, then mutters, “Didn’t seem to bother you in Aqua Commando.”
The second the words slip out, the room goes silent.
I glance up. The poor guy looks like he already regrets his existence.
And I can’t even blame him.
He’s not wrong. I did spend half that film emerging from the water shirtless, looking like I was auditioning for a cologne ad instead of leading a covert military operation.
I drag a hand down my face. “Fair point. But this isn’t Aqua Commando. It’s The Chronicles of Persefia. And if I’m supposed to make people believe Anlon is a warrior, he’s going to need armor that makes sense.”
The director, who’s been quietly observing, finally speaks. “He’s right.” She taps the sketchpad with her pen. “Anlon isn’t some show pony for the battlefield. He’s a soldier—one who’s spent his life preparing for war. His armor needs to reflect that.”
The designer nods, scribbling a few notes, and I breathe a little easier.
Progress.
But the moment the meeting wraps up, I fish my phone out of my pocket, and my heart sinks. It’s already 4:00 p.m. here, which means it’s midnight in London.
My Amy is probably fast asleep.
And it sucks.
I feel like I’m failing at this…whatever this is between us. Since the Explosion Protocol promo tour ramped up and The Chronicles of Persefia pre-production started, my time has been eaten away piece by piece. And Amy? She’s getting the scraps.
Not because I want it that way, but because I don’t know how to explain it to her, not fully. Not accurately.
And that’s on me.
I could have told her the truth from the start. I could have come clean before things got this deep, and she became the best part of my day. But now? I’m stuck in this limbo where I want to tell her everything, and I also can’t. Because once I do, it changes everything.
I grip my phone a little tighter, staring at the last real message thread we shared. Her excitement about my visit to London. Her teasing about me being a “superstar.”
She knows me, Eli, the real me, better than anyone. But she doesn’t know Jake Hollander. And once she walks into my world, she won’t just be mine anymore. She’ll belong to them too.
My chest tightens, the weight of it pressing against my ribs.
I want to tell her. I want to fix this before it’s too late. But every time I think about sending that message, I freeze.
Because once I do, it changes everything.
I grip my phone a little tighter, then finally, finally type out a message.
Me: Sweet dreams, Fangirl. Miss you.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
It’s not enough. Not nearly. But it’s all I can give her right now.
And if that’s not enough? I might lose her before I even get the chance to keep her.
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I take the stairs down to the parking garage of the production office in downtown LA.
I do have a plan for us though.
It’s a terrible plan, half-baked at best. The kind of reckless, impulsive move that belongs in one of Will’s brilliant but disastrous ideas—the ones that usually end with us talking our way out of trouble or, more often than not, paying someone off.
But right now? It’s all I’ve got.
Amy mentioned Melinda’s signing in London. She will be there. She told me herself. She said she planned to grill Melinda about the casting decision and about me. The irony isn’t lost on me.
But when she talks to me, I’m not Jake Hollander. I’ve never been. I’m Eli.
And she has no idea that I’ll be there, standing just a few feet away, watching her before she even realizes.
The event is small, exclusive—only 125 tickets sold. A closed-door signing for the most dedicated fans. Officially, Melinda is the only announced guest, but she’s arranged for two surprises.
Maggie Myer.
And me.
Maggie, one of Britain’s newest rising stars. She skyrocketed to fame after playing the plump, unconventional, yet completely enchanting heroine in a wildly popular period drama. She’s brilliant, sharp-witted, and adored by critics and audiences alike. And now, she’s been cast as Celandine.
Melinda has been given the honor of announcing it exclusively at the signing.
The scenario is already playing in my head, something straight out of a Hallmark film.
I’ll spot her first… Amy. She’ll take a seat, probably near the front because, of course she will.
She’s Amy, the guardian of Persefia, the girl who has more passion for this series in her pinky than most people have in their entire bodies.
I smile at the thought as I navigate the hell that is LA traffic.
Maggie and I will be introduced. We’ll take our seats beside Melinda.
Fans will start lining up to get their signed copy of the latest installment, The Shattered Crown.
And when it’s finally Amy’s turn, she’ll step up, eyes full of fire, already mid-glare because she’s my girl.
My fierce, stubborn, beautiful girl who doesn’t let anyone get away with anything.
She’ll be mad. Furious, even. And I’ll wait.
I’ll watch as she squares her shoulders, preparing to unleash whatever rant she’s been crafting in her head since she laid eyes on me. But before she can get the first word out, I’ll look up, meet her gaze head-on, and say, "Hey, Fangirl."
And for one fleeting second, before the fire ignites in her eyes, I’ll wonder if she’ll ever forgive me at all.
Not in the polished, carefully measured voice the world knows as Jake Hollander.
Not in the deeper, calculated tone Will once coached me into adopting. No. I’ll say it as Eli.
And she’ll freeze.
For a second, maybe two. And then? She’ll be angry.
But I’ll speak to her, really speak to her, and she’ll understand. She’ll forgive me.
And then I’ll take her in my arms and kiss her. I’ll take her home and make love to her. Worship her the way I’ve wanted to from the moment I realized she was mine.
And the next night? I’ll take her to the Explosion Protocol premiere, her hand in mine, the whole world watching.
Because that’s the dream, isn’t it? That’s the fantasy.
To be one of those Hollywood actors who somehow, against all odds, has it all.
In public, I’ll be Jake Hollander.
But at home? I’ll be me. The real me. No games. No artifice. No veneer.
Just Eli… Hers. At least, that’s what I need to believe.
The levity from this improbable fantasy fades as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp, simmering frustration when I pull into my driveway and see that car.
Will’s Lamborghini.
It’s sitting there like he owns the damn place.
My jaw tightens as I kill the engine and step out, already bracing myself because Will showing up unannounced is never a good sign. And right now, after everything, I have less than zero patience for whatever bullshit he’s about to bring into my house.
I don’t even make it to the front door before he swings his car door open, and there he is—grinning like he hasn’t royally pissed me off, and I haven’t been dodging his calls all week.
"Hey, lover boy," he drawls, leaning lazily against his car. "You gonna keep glaring, or are you gonna let me in so we can talk about how you plan to ruin your life over some Brit with a cat?"
My fists clench at my sides. "Get inside before I give the neighbors a show."
He smirks. "See, that’s the thing about you, Jake. You threaten violence, but you never deliver."
I slam the door behind us so hard the windows shake.
Will just laughs. "Okay, maybe you do have a little fight in you." He drops onto my couch like he owns it, stretching out as though he’s settling in for a long chat.
I exhale, trying to unclench my fists. I should hit him. I should throw him out of my house and tell him to stay the hell away from her. But instead, I ask, my voice low and edged with something sharp, “Why did you do this to me?” I let some of the anger fade to be replaced by weariness and hurt.