Chapter 30
JAKE
EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER
Ifumble with my bow tie, fingers trembling slightly. I pause, staring at my reflection in the mirror, at the glint of my wedding band catching the light. It still hits me sometimes unexpectedly.
I’m married. To her.
I take a slow breath and let the thought settle in my chest like gravity. Amy. My wife. My anchor, my chaos, my person. Just thinking about her steadies me the way nothing else ever has.
We’re about to celebrate our one-year wedding anniversary. A whole year creating a home, a life, and a family full of love, kisses, and cat toys everywhere. Of Pea learning to tolerate me. Of love that feels more real with every sunrise.
She doesn’t know yet, but I’m taking her away. Deep into the Canadian wilderness, just the two of us, a cabin, no cameras, no headlines. Snow instead of sun. Silence instead of noise. She’ll love it. I’ll love her in it.
I grin at the thought, my heart thudding like I’m about to kiss her for the first time.
God, I’ll never get enough of her.
I pat my jacket pocket, checking for the note again—my speech. A few lines of truth scrawled in my awful handwriting. Just in case.
I’m nominated tonight. Best Actor for Everything That Follows.
And yeah, Bob Nero was right. Going with your heart? Choosing the hard thing for the right reason? Turns out, that’s how you win the only thing that matters.
And then every thought, every award, every worry, every line of that speech in my pocket vanishes.
Because she walks into the room.
My wife draped in deep blue. My beautiful, brilliant, impossible wife.
She’s not in sky-high heels or some borrowed gown from a stylist who doesn’t understand her.
No. I’ve learned. There’s no need for overpreparation or pretending.
Tonight, she wears what makes her feel good.
A flowing dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, flat shoes that keep her grounded, and that quiet, powerful confidence that makes her glow.
And she’s so tiny beside me; it still undoes me a little.
I cross the room to her without even thinking, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“You look like my every award-season fantasy,” I whisper.
She rolls her eyes, but her smile betrays her. “That’s because I’m the prize, Hollander.”
“You always were.”
It’s not always easy for her. I know that.
The spotlight can be cruel, especially when you don’t look like what the world expects you to.
Even with the press beginning to lose interest because, apparently, happy couples don’t sell magazines, there are still whispers.
Still cameras. Still days when I see the flicker of hesitation in her eyes before we step into public.
But she still stands beside me, unwavering.
And I’ll never stop standing by her.
I was right there, a proud, lovesick idiot, when she did her first book tour. I watched her speak to rooms full of readers who saw themselves in her words, in her truth. I watched her shine.
I’ve done some incredible things in my career. But none of them compare to watching the woman I love become everything she was always meant to be.
And she’s writing again, drafting her second book between cat cuddles and tea that somehow always ends up cold. Watching her create from a place of joy instead of pain? That’s the real award.
She straightens my bow tie, smoothing her hand over my chest with a touch that still affects me.
“Have I told you how proud I am of you?”
Every day, I think, but instead, I press a kiss to her forehead.
“Wait until after the ceremony. I might not win.”
She snorts. “Like I care about that stupid statuette. It doesn’t add to your value as a man or a husband.”
I run the back of my fingers down her cheek. I don’t answer because what is there to say when someone already sees all of you and loves you anyway?
She leans back slightly and smiles. “I went to Will’s room earlier. Helped him get ready. I told you we did well to buy that extra tuxedo.”
God, this woman.
It’s not just that she loves me. It’s the way she shows up for the people I love, too, without fanfare or expectation. Just because it’s who she is.
My family adores her. She brings them homemade biscuits and makes them laugh until they cry, and remembers every little thing that matters. But with Will… it’s different.
He’s not easy to love. Our Will is chaos and charm and deep, unresolved pain that he covers with wit and deflection. But she sees through all of it and watches him like a hawk. Checks in when he spirals. Invites him to our home for days or weeks when he crashes so hard he forgets how to breathe.
She loves him. Cares for him. Not because he’s my best friend, but because he’s part of her tribe too.
And that kind of love? The quiet, constant kind that wraps around the people who matter to me turns a good partner into something else entirely.
My soulmate. My home.
When we get down to the lobby, Will is already waiting, sharp in his tux and smirking like he owns the place.
“You look beautiful,” he says with exaggerated sincerity.
“Thank you,” Amy replies softly, ducking her head a little.
He pauses, then tilts his head with mock offense. “Oh, sorry, sweetheart. I meant him.”
She rolls her eyes, but her smile curves knowingly. “I can’t even be mad. My husband is beautiful.”
The word hits me in the chest like it always does. Husband. That shiver of possessiveness, of pride, rushes through me, and I squeeze her hand, grounding myself in the feel of her fingers wrapped in mine.
Together, the three of us step outside into the waiting flashbulbs and fanfare, but I only see her.
Will slides into the seat opposite us with his usual dramatic flair, straightening his bow tie like he’s about to walk the runway.
“I hope you're ready for the avalanche of cameras,” he mutters. “I put on moisturizer and my best fake smile, so I expect at least three flattering photos.”
Amy grins. “You’ll outshine us all.”
“Obviously.” He tosses her a wink, then glances at me. “But if you so much as sweat during this speech, I’m pulling focus. Tears, Jake. Real ones. I want people ugly crying at home.”
Amy kicks him gently. “Ignore him. Just speak from the heart.”
I glance between the two of them, one chaotic, one grounding, both of them my anchors, and let the nerves ebb just a little.
The car pulls up to the venue, and it’s all light and noise and movement. But I step out with Amy’s hand in mine, and everything else quiets.
She shines under the lights. She stands beside me, not behind me. She smiles for the cameras, not for validation but because she knows who she is now. If they saw what I see when I look at her… they’d understand that she’s my star here. I’m just the guy lucky enough to orbit her.
And I know the world sees it too. Not just Jake Hollander and the girl who broke the internet. But a team. A unit.
A love that survived everything.
She turns to me as the cameras flash, her voice barely audible over the frenzy. “You okay?”
I brush a thumb over her knuckles. “I will be. As long as you’re right here.”
She smiles. “Always.”
As we step into the Dolby Theater, she leans in, her voice low.
“Don’t forget your speech. And if you panic, just think ‘penis.’”
I grin. “That works for you, Fangirl. But me?” I let my eyes dip to her neckline. “I’ve got my own visual cue.”
And later, when my name is called, when I stand on that stage clutching the award I never thought I’d win, not because of my performance, but because I’ve spent so long pretending, I look straight at her.
I get through the usual thanks. The polite applause. The studio names. But then it’s time to speak the truth. I swallow hard and begin the real speech.
“I used to think success was about what you achieved. The roles. The fame. The headlines. The box office numbers. And maybe, once, it was. But then I met a woman who looked at me, not as Jake Hollander, the actor, the facade, but as someone real. Someone scared and uncertain. And she loved me anyway. Amy, you taught me that real love isn’t perfect.
It’s not shiny or airbrushed or PR-approved.
It’s messy and vulnerable and terrifying in the best way.
You showed me that the bravest thing a person can do is stay.
Stay when things get hard. Stay when the world tries to tell you that you don’t belong.
You belong. With me. Beside me. Always. So thank you for choosing me.
For seeing me. And for helping me see myself.
This…” I lift the statue. “This is for us. For all the late nights, the breakdowns, the ridiculous cat names, the books, the breakfasts, the belief.” My voice breaks just a little.
“To anyone who’s ever felt too much, too quiet, too sick, too anything—know this: You are not too anything.
You are enough. You are worthy. And one day, someone will see you the way she sees me, and I see her. ”
I nod toward her again, my whole world in one woman. “Thank you.”
I make it back to my seat, my hands still shaking, and my heart still somewhere up on that stage.
Amy looks at me, eyes shining with that familiar mix of pride and mischief.
She leans in, kisses my cheek, then whispers in my ear, calm and matter-of-fact, like she’s telling me we’re out of milk.
“By the way… I’m pregnant.”
I blink. Then turn and stare.
She smiles. Just smiles.
And in that moment, trophy or not, I know I’ve already won everything.