Chapter 18
JAKE
The PR company worked wonders. I should’ve known, honestly. I share them with Will, and if those poor bastards can clean up his messes and still keep him employed, they’re nothing short of magicians.
The story with Amy? Almost vanished overnight.
Rebranded as a hoax. A clickbait stunt for gossip blogs desperate for traffic.
And running parallel, an “insider” leak about Jake Hollander, Hollywood’s golden boy, being hopelessly, madly in love.
I needed that narrative to exist. For one, because it’s the truth. And two… because it’s the only damn lifeline I’ve got left.
Some part of me, pathetic maybe, still hopes she’ll see it. That she’ll read those words and know they’re real. That she’ll come here. That she’ll take one step toward me, toward us.
Because God knows, I miss her. Every second.
She hasn’t shut me out completely. Not anymore.
She unblocked me. We talk. We video call—this time, as me. No more hiding, no more aliases. Just Jake.
But there’s still a distance. An edge in her I can’t miss, no matter how hard I pretend. She’s wary and guarded, and I can’t blame her for it.
I’m the reason she’s building walls now.
The stupid, romantic part of me thought she’d jump on a plane within days. That she’d show up here, all fire and fury, and demand I prove myself.
But it’s been over a month, and she’s still in London. Still in her safe little cocoon.
Will, of course, has thoughts.
"You fucked up," he said, "so why not go full tilt? Fly there. Grab her. Bring her back. Hell, romance the shit out of her, movie-style."
And yeah, it’s tempting.
Except, unlike Will, I know real life isn’t a rom-com. Kidnapping a girl off the streets of London doesn't end with a make-out scene. It ends with a restraining order.
That’s not a grand gesture. That’s a fucking crime.
And I promised her space.
The problem is I’m running out of it. Running out of time.
My love life has always been a trail of messy hookups. Fewer than people think, but messy all the same.
But her? Fuck, she’s a land mine.
And I’m about three steps away from blowing myself up.
I sigh, forcing my gaze away from the A Winter in London poster framed behind my agent’s desk. Some cheesy romance Will shot years ago that suddenly feels a little too on the nose.
My fingers drum restlessly on the polished wood, impatience gnawing at me as I wait for Landon to finally get back from his meeting.
Amy’s in my head again. Still. Always. To a frankly concerning degree. I wonder what a psychiatrist would call that.
Obsession, comes Will’s voice in my head—cocky and amused.
Yeah. Sounds about right.
The door swings open with a soft click, and Landon strides in, exuding that easy, self-satisfied charm that only a man at the top of Hollywood’s food chain can pull off.
“Hey, thanks for waiting,” he says, dropping into the leather chair behind his massive desk. “Most of that meeting was about you, actually.”
I arch a brow, leaning back. “Should I be worried?”
Landon grins, the kind of grin that’s made him the guy every desperate actor in this town would sell their soul to sign with. Mid-fifties, silver at his temples, perfectly tailored suit, and eyes that gleam like he’s always three steps ahead of the game.
If Hollywood had a devil, it’d probably look a lot like him. Funny how I ended up with Landon, one of Hollywood’s most cutthroat agents, because of Will.
My own chaotic fairy godmother, though I’d die before ever calling him that out loud. He’d fucking love it.
Landon steeples his fingers and smirks. “You’re gonna love me even more than you already do in about five minutes.”
I snort. “Big promise, Landon.”
He leans forward, eyes glittering.
“Alright. Hit me.”
Landon grins. “Let’s start with Persefia.” He swivels toward his computer. “The studio hated the latest script—dug their heels in hard—but they finally caved.”
Hated?
Funny. I didn’t even know we were in a standoff with the studio, that’s how checked out I’ve been. Too busy losing the plot over my personal mess to care about the thing that actually pays my bills.
Landon chuckles like he can hear the thought. “They wanted you locked in for principal photography starting in March. Pre-pro wraps next week. They knew they’d lose but had to make a show of it.”
“Where are we shooting?” I ask, sitting up a little.
He sighs, waving a hand. “Some Eastern European country. Cheap, pretty… ethereal. You know the drill.”
I hum, but my mind snags on the word Europe. Close. Closer to Amy. That’s the only part that sticks.
“Now, money.” Landon grins like this is where he really shines. “Backend—five percent gross. They fought me, but I got it. Told ’em you’re happy with the script.”
“Did Melinda sign off on it?” The question leaves me before I can stop it.
Landon glances at me, surprised. “You actually care?”
I shrug. It’s hypocritical. I never really cared before, but I care because Amy cares.
He clears his throat, grinning. “Anyway, they sent over the provisional schedule for films two and three. Which is great because you’re about to get very busy and very popular real fast.”
I lean back in my chair, smirking. “I thought I was already popular.”
Landon snorts. “Oh, you are. You’re a Hollywood heartthrob. One of many, sweetheart. Sorry to break it to you, but you’re just another pretty face on a forty-million-dollar paycheck.”
I roll my eyes but can’t help leaning forward, his energy infectious.
He grins wider. “Joseph called, and he wants you.”
That makes me blink. Joseph Gordon—the most powerful producer in Hollywood, the guy hunting for the next billion-dollar franchise.
“Me?”
Landon’s grin turns downright feral. “Yep. You. Welcome to the real big leagues, Jakey. We’re talking nine-figure paychecks from here on out.”
I blink again, my voice cracking. “Me?” I repeat dumbfoundedly.
“Yep. You’ve got a meeting with him and his team Friday night. I’ve cleared the decks—put all your other projects on hold. Well… except the prince of Persefia.”
I nod slowly, the weight of it settling… until something hits me. I freeze mid-movement as I start to stand. “Wait. All my projects?”
Landon cocks his head. “Jake, come on. You’re twenty-six, in your prime. If this happens, you’ll be carrying two major franchises. You won’t have time to sneeze, let alone have any project on the side. We’re talking four, five years minimum—locked down.”
My stomach twists. “What about Everything That Follows?”
Landon snorts, a low, grating sound that makes my jaw clench.
“That little indie film? Please don’t tell me you were serious about that.
It’s barely paying a hundred grand.” He smirks, tossing up air quotes.
“I know you wanted to ‘show your range’ or whatever… but what’s the point now?
You’re set. No need to waste your time proving anything to anyone. ”
And just like that… something curdles in my chest.
Technically, he’s right. I don’t need that film. I don’t need to play the man broken by life, finding a daughter he never knew existed, let alone one with a disability, and learning how to love her the way she deserves.
But god, I wanted that movie.
It’s the kind of film Amy would watch with tears in her eyes. The kind of story that would make her proud, that would make me proud.
“Don’t turn it down,” I hear myself say, quieter than I meant to.
Landon blinks. “What? But Gordon—”
“I know. Just… don’t. Not yet.”
Landon sighs heavily, already annoyed. “Fine. But I’m telling you right now, I’m turning it down tomorrow. With the perks Gordon’s offering, walking away from that deal would be absurd.”
I finally stand, forcing a smile. “Well… thanks for the hard work. As always.”
He laughs, already reaching for his phone. “And thank you for making me an even richer man.”
I glance back once, lingering in the doorway. “You know, Landon… money’s not everything.”
The man actually bursts out laughing. “Yeah, good one. I’ll call you after the meeting.”
And just like that, the moment’s gone. He’s already on to his next client, his next million-dollar deal.
And I’m left standing there, craving something real like a lifeline. Something I know damn well is five thousand miles away. The most real thing I’ve had since I moved to LA.
By the time I make it down to the parking garage, I’m already pulling out my phone. She’s the first person I want to tell—always. Good, bad… doesn’t matter. She’s my first thought, my first call.
But now? I stare at the screen, thumb hovering over her name, and realize… I don’t know if I can tell her. And that’s when it hits me harder than anything else how deep the distance runs.
Not just the miles between us, but the fracture in what we had. That gap hurts.
Joseph Gordon wants me. Every actor’s dream. A career-making, nine-figure deal. And it doesn’t feel like a triumph. It feels like defeat.
Because the only thing I want is probably sitting in her tiny London flat, eating some sad Tesco ready meal, still pretending like I’m not in her blood the way she’s in mine.
Still pretending she doesn’t need me the way I need her.
And maybe… maybe it’s not pretending. Maybe she really doesn’t.
And that thought? That thought unravels me.
I don’t even know why I’m doing what I do next.
I promised I’d make this easy. Promised I’d give her space, let her come to me. Take the high road.
But I can’t. Not anymore.
I type without thinking, my heart hammering, and my breath shallow.
Me: I love you, Fangirl. The distance is killing me. I know forgiveness takes time, but this feels endless. I just… I need to know there’s still something there. Something worth hoping for. I’m breaking, love.
I hit send.
And drop my head back against the headrest, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers.
It’s probably a mistake, a selfish, desperate mistake.
But I’m too exhausted to care.
The vibration startles me.
I fumble with the phone, staring at the screen.
Just a few words, nothing more, but enough to steal the air from my lungs.
Amy: I’m on my way.
My hands are shaking.
I reread the message three times, afraid it might disappear.
Maybe I haven’t lost her after all. And for the first time in weeks, I believe we might survive this.