“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 inAqua 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’tAqua Commando. It’sThe 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 theExplosion Protocolpromo tour ramped up andThe Chronicles of Persefiapre-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.
