This woman? The one in the photos? She’s hiding, draped in oversized, colorless clothes, buried in shades of black and brown like she’s trying to disappear into the background.
She disappears in a crowd. I stand in a spotlight. Maybe we’re both just pretending to be someone we’re not.
The only difference? Mine is known and loved by millions.
Hers is only noticed by someone like me, someone looking closely enough to see past it.
I finish my breakfast. Not because I want to, not because I enjoy it, but simply because I need the macros, the protein, the perfectly calculated balance of nutrients. All part of the strict regimen that will keep my body at the precise percentage of muscle and body fat required to maintain my Hollywood-approved standard of an action star.
People think this life is glamorous, that it’s all privatejets, red carpets, and designer suits, but in reality, it’s nothing more than a thin coat of gold-colored paint slapped onto tin—cheap, fragile, and quick to chip if you so much as breathe on it wrong.
My entire existence is built around appearance. My publicist, my manager, my agents—every single person in my professional life works tirelessly to ensure that the brand of Jake Hollander remains untouchable. Nothing about me is accidental. It’s a product, meticulously designed, sold, and resold to the highest bidder.
But I don’t complain.
How could I?
I live in a Malibu mansion with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the ocean. I have more money than I know what to do with, and I’m one of the most sought-after action stars in the industry. I know exactly how lucky I am and how many people would sell their souls to be in my place.
And yet, it feels empty.
I’ve met actors who are truly fulfilled, who wake up every morning excited for the roles they play, and who find meaning in their work. But they are rare, much rarer than people think, and for every one of them, there are a hundred more like Will, pretending so hard, so relentlessly, that the act is starting to make them sick.
And then there’s me.
Somewhere in between.
Happyenough, successfulenough, but still waiting for something more, something real, something that doesn’t feel like it’s been polished, filtered, and pre-approved for public consumption. And maybe… maybe that’s why I keep coming back to Amy, why I find myself craving every conversation, every message, every moment I get to slip into Eli’s skin and just exist as someone who isn’t measured by box office numbers or magazine covers.
I sigh, shaking my head at my own thoughts, before picking up my phone to send her a quick message, knowing she won’t see it for a few hours. It’s 3:30 p.m. in the UK. She’s probably still at her desk, maybe sneaking in a few lines for the fanfic we’ve been discussing.
She’s brilliant, my Amy. I’ve told her that much, and I can see there’s something more beneath her writing, something she wants but doesn’t quite dare to chase yet. She reminds me too much of myself in that way—clinging to what’s familiar even while secretly yearning for something bigger.
I want to break out of the mold Hollywood has placed me in, to prove I can be more than just a pretty face throwing punches on a green screen. But what if that’s all I really am? What if I’m fooling myself, convincing myself that I have something deeper to offer when the only thing people really want from me is another explosion, another shirtless fight scene, another billion-dollar franchise?
I toss my phone onto the table and push myself up from the chair, stretching as I glance out at the still water of the infinity pool just beyond the balcony. The sun is already high, casting long, golden streaks across the ocean, the kind of perfect California morning people dream about.
“I’m going for a swim,” I tell Lucy as I take the stairs down to the pool house.
It’s barely seven thirty, but the August heat is creepingin fast, and the pool is at the perfect temperature—cool, refreshing, just enough of a shock to wake me up.
I dive in without hesitation, slicing through the water in one clean motion, feeling the weight of my thoughts dissolve with every stroke. Swimming is the only time I feel truly weightless, like I can strip off the outside expectations and just be.
Forty-five laps later, my muscles burn in that satisfying way that tells me I’ve pushed my limits just enough. I haul myself out of the pool, water falling off my body as I grab a towel and head inside to shower.
By the time I step out of my bedroom, dressed and ready to head out, my phone vibrates on the nightstand.
I check the time.
It’s 5:00 p.m. in the UK.
Amy is just stepping out of work.
Amy: Oh, Halloween? Okay, that’s good to know! I sent you an email just before leaving the office with a few scenes. I think I managed to fix the uncle plot hole.
I want to open it, want to read through every word she wrote, but my audition is in an hour, and I know if I start reading now, I won’t be able to focus on anything else.
The studio is only six miles away, which should be more than enough time.
