Chapter 15
JAKE
Ihaven’t slept.
The sun rises over London, casting golden light through the hotel suite windows like it’s trying to pretend the world isn’t on fire.
Too late.
The coffee I poured hours ago sits cold and untouched beside me. My phone is dying, probably for the best. Last I checked, every headline was screaming my name like I personally lit the match and tossed it into the powder keg.
Hollywood Heartthrob Dumped at His Own Premiere.
Fat Girl Leaves Jake Hollander Broken.
That one hurt the most.
Not because of me.
Because of her.
Amy. God, Amy.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I’d reached into her chest and ripped out the one thing she’d let herself hope for.
And I did.
I rest my elbows on the kitchen island and drop my head into my hands.
What the hell have I done?
I meant to tell her. A thousand times. But every time, she smiled at me like I was enough—just Eli, the nerd with bad WiFi and a sarcasm addiction. I couldn’t bring myself to shatter it. To risk losing her.
I thought I had time.
Now I have nothing.
The suite is too quiet. Last night, it buzzed with press, agents, fake smiles, and hollow praise. Now it feels like a tomb.
My phone rings.
It’s Jennifer, my publicist.
I hesitate, then answer. “Yeah?”
“Jake, oh my god. We’re trying everything, but it’s everywhere! TMZ, Reddit, bloody TikTok fan edits set to sad Taylor Swift songs.”
“Of course they did,” I mutter.
“We’re drafting statements. We can spin this if—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t spin it. Don’t make it a love triangle or a PR stunt or some tragic misunderstanding.”
Pause.
“Okay… Then what do you want me to do?”
“Make me the villain.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If they want blood—give them mine. Not hers. Not Amy’s. If anyone breathes her name, blacklist them from every interview I ever do. Shut it down.”
Jennifer exhales. “Jake…”
“No photos. No statements. No headlines with her name. Bury her in so much anonymity they forget what she looks like.”
“That won’t stop the trolls.”
“Then flood the feeds with something else. Leak a fake hookup. Start a new scandal. I don’t care. Just take the target off her back.”
Silence. Then, quietly, “Understood.”
“She didn’t ask for this,” I whisper. “She trusted me.”
“And she blocked you on everything,” Jennifer says gently. “Maybe… call her?”
I laugh, bitter and sharp. “You think I haven’t tried? She blocked me on phone, text, and email. Even Discord. It’s like I never existed.”
She says nothing for a beat. “Okay. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thanks.”
I hang up.
And then I break.
My knees give out, and I slide to the cold floor, back against the counter, my chest caving in. A guttural sound tears out of me before I can stop it.
This isn’t heartbreak.
It’s obliteration.
This isn’t about a premiere or a PR disaster.
This is about a girl who made me laugh harder than anyone ever has. Who made me feel real in a way no billion-dollar franchise ever could.
And I lost her.
Because I was a coward.
I slam my laptop shut and send it skidding across the floor.
A rustle sounds behind me.
“Damn,” Will says casually, emerging from the hallway wearing my sunglasses, my hoodie, and my boxer briefs like he owns the place. “Didn’t even say goodbye to the laptop before you yeeted it. Cold, Hollander.”
“Go away.”
“No can do.” He pads barefoot into the kitchen and opens the fridge. “We wallow in pairs now. It’s a team sport.”
I drop my head back into my hands. “She hates me.”
“Yup.”
“I lost her.”
“Probably.”
“I sent her a gift basket.”
Will pauses mid-swig of orange juice straight from the pitcher. “Oh. Well. Never mind, then. Gift baskets fix everything. Did you include the artisanal popcorn or just the sad apology macarons?”
I glare.
He raises his hands. “Hey, no judgment. That’s classic Damage Control 101. Like, ‘I know I shattered your heart and lied to your face, but please enjoy this rosemary shortbread.’ Genius.”
I groan and bang my head on the counter. “I deserve to be alone forever.”
“Sure. But not yet. First, we do something ridiculous and stupidly romantic. Like go to her flat, throw pebbles at the window, quote poetry, fake our own deaths… maybe kidnap her.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“Just saying. Stockholm syndrome worked for Beauty and the Beast.”
“You’re deranged.”
“Only on weekends.” He drops onto a stool beside me, suddenly serious. “Jake… I saw the pictures. I read the comments. This world doesn’t deserve her.”
My chest caves in again. “No. But I do even less.”
Will nods. “You do. But only if you stop hiding behind PR and actually prove it.”
I whisper, “I’d do anything. Burn it all down if I had to.”
He studies me. “Even if it means losing everything else?”
I meet his eyes. “There’s nothing else worth keeping if I lose her.”
Will’s expression shifts, his usual smirk replaced with something quieter.
“You mean that?”
I nod. “With everything I’ve got.”
He exhales and moves toward the balcony, staring out at the city—cold and uncaring.
I sit with it and let it settle into my bones.
This isn’t about headlines anymore or saving face.
This is about Amy.
And the truth I finally understand: The films, the fame, the noise—none of it means shit without her.
Will turns back to me slowly, his voice lower now. “Good.”
“Good, what?”
“Good. It means you’re ready.”
“For what?”
He’s already halfway to the door. “To let me start the fire.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
He glances over his shoulder with a cocky smirk. “It means I’ll be right back.”
“Will—”
“Relax. No arson. Not the illegal kind anyway.”
And just like that, he disappears.
I stare at the closed door for a long beat.
Then I realize… he meant it.
Will is going to do something. Probably something unhinged. Possibly something brilliant.
But the thing is? I trust him.
Even even at his most chaotic, Will Winters has never steered me wrong when it mattered.
He once told me everyone only gets one unicorn. One impossibly rare, ridiculously perfect-for-you person.
And I let mine walk away.
No more.
Time to burn the script and rewrite the ending.
Whatever fire he’s starting? I’ll be waiting with a goddamn match.
The door bursts open again.
Will pokes his head in, sheepish. “I forgot I’m not wearing pants.”
I stare.
He glances down at his legs. “Kind of ruined my dramatic exit, huh?”
I sigh. “You think?”
He shrugs. “Still nailed the monologue.”
And then he’s gone again, muttering about trousers and matches.
God help us all.
But maybe God’s on my side.