He grins as I approach, nodding toward my sweater. “Okay, I love what you’re wearing.”
I arch a brow, glancing pointedly at his designer jeans and pressed shirt.
He smirks. “No, really. This is great for me. For once, I won’t have any competition. I’ll be the only stud up there. Sitting beside my grandma.”
I flip him off, and he just laughs.
“Let me guess, it’s from the Brit accountant.” His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with humor. “You know, I saw porn once where?—”
“Can you not?” I cut him off, already regretting every life choice that led to this moment.
Will knows too much. Not because he figured it out on his own, but because I got drunk,reallydrunk, a few nights ago. We were celebrating the end of editing onExplosionProtocol, and after enough beers, my shame and inner conflict started pouring out just as easily as the alcohol.
The thing is, Will handles his liquor a hell of a lot better than I do. He was barely tipsy while I was spilling my guts like some tragic, lovesick idiot.
I should have stopped there. Should have drawn the line. But instead, I told him about Amy.
About how we met and how I spend more time talking to her than doing anything else. About how, yeah, I know it’s kind of catfishing—not just because of the name or the deepfake, but because when she asked for my address to send me a surprise, I didn’t give her my real one.
Instead, I gave her my cousin’s address in Burbank.
I knew what I was doing was wrong. And yet, I did it anyway.
I run my fingers over the tiny skeleton embroidered on the sleeve, a stupid little detail she added just for me. Something so thoughtful, so personal, and all I gave her in return was a lie.
Not out of cruelty. Not even out of carelessness, but because the truth would’ve meant losing this. Losing her.
I exhale sharply, pushing the guilt down. If she ever finds out. No,whenshe finds out, I just hope she’ll understand why I couldn’t let her go.
Will slaps a hand against my shoulder, his usual smirk in place. “You’re addicted, my man.”
And for the first time, I don’t deflect. I don’t make a joke or roll my eyes.
I just exhale. Tired. Done lying—not just to him or to her, but to myself.
“Yes. I am.”
Hedoesn’t laugh like I expect him to. Doesn’t crack some offhand comment about me being whipped. Instead, he just nods quietly, like he gets it. Like he knows exactly what it’s like to need something—or someone—so badly it consumes you.
His silence lingers, but before I can say anything else, a man with an earpiece walks in, clipboard in hand, already ushering us toward the stage entrance. The usual pre-show routine begins—last-minute touch-ups, arrangements, and running through the order of entrance.
Lead stars last, which means I’ll be going in after Will and Camilla.
One by one, the names are called. The short line of seven moves forward.
Will lets out a loud, dramatic sigh before stepping through the curtains, and the moment he appears, the room erupts.
Screams. Applause. The deafening roar of a thousand fans losing their minds at the sight of their favorite bad boy in Hollywood.
Will’s thirty-five, but he’s still in his prime as far as the industry and his devoted following are concerned.
Then, there’s a pause. A brief lull.
My palms start to sweat.
I’ve done this a hundred times before. I know how this goes, but the nerves never fully disappear. The self-consciousness is always there, buried under the layers of PR training and Hollywood polish.
“And last butcertainlynot least, our leading man…Jake Hollander!”
