A young woman steps up, visibly nervous as she clutches the mic. “I, uh… hi. I have a question for Will.”
Will grins, leaning forward with that effortless charisma of his. “We’re starting with the best; I like that. Smart girl. Go ahead, sweetheart.”
I throw him a look, but he’s enjoying himself way too much.
She stammers a little, shifting on her feet. “I, um… I heard you were making a special appearance in the new Oliver Marshall film. Is that true?”
Will lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing his chin like he’s weighing the gravity of her question. “Ah, now that is a great question.” He pauses, milking the suspense, then smirks. “All I can say is… I’ll be in London in three weeks. Is it forThe Last Soldierpremiere? Or something more? Time will tell.”
Will soaks up the attention, grinning as the girl swoons, and I shake my head, biting back a smile. He lives for this.
But, for the first time, a small part of me is jealous. Not of the fan worship; God knows I get plenty of that. No, I’m jealous that in three weeks, he’ll be in London, walking the same streets as my Amy. Close enough to breathe the same air while I’m stuck here, drowning inTheChronicles of Persefiapre-production.
Another fan steps forward, shifting nervously. She adjusts her glasses and grips the microphone a little too tight. “Hi, um… I have a question for Jake.”
I nod, leaning in slightly. “Absolutely. But fair warning—I’m not allowed to say much.”
She smiles, a little more confident now. “That’s okay! I just… wanted to ask how you feel about being cast. And what you think of the rest of the casting choices.”
Ah, the million-dollar question. I exhale lightly, keeping my smile easy. “Well, I can say that I’m beyond honored to step into Prince Anlon’s boots. He’s an incredible character, and I can’t wait to bring him to life.” I pause for effect before adding, “And before you ask, my favorite book in the series isThe Veil of Shadows.”
The girl gasps, practically vibrating with excitement.
Good. That was the right answer.
Book six. Amy’s favorite.The one we spent hours dissecting, breaking down Anlon’s choices, his motivations—how his relationship with Celandine deepened, and how he finally started seeing himself for who he was, not who he’d been told to be.
I shift slightly. “I’m really excited to start pre-production and get to know my scene partners. And as for the casting? I’m happy with the choices made.”
That part is true.
What I don’t say is how much of a fight it was to get here. How they nearly cast a famous underwear model-turned-actress as Celandine, as if she were just another token love interest rather than the soul of Anlon’s journey. How I almost walked away when I saw the shortlist.
Celandine is unassuming. She isn’t conventionally striking. She’s soft. Her beauty is the kind that creeps up on you, quiet and enduring. She’sreal.
And I’d be damned if they turned her into just another Hollywood fantasy.
A weight settles in my chest, one that’s equal parts pride and responsibility. Amy doesn’t know any of this yet. She has no idea how hard I fought for Celandine’s casting—how, in a way, I fought for her. For the girl who loves these books the way I wish I could love my own career.
The fan at the mic shifts on her feet, adjusting her glasses again. “That’s… really cool to hear,” she says, beaming. “I know a lot of us were nervous about the casting, but knowing you actually care—that means a lot.”
I nod, something in my chest tightening. “I get it,” I say honestly. “Characters like Anlon? Like Celandine? Theymean something. And it’s my job to do right by them.”
There’s a murmur of agreement from the audience, a few nods, and a couple of appreciative cheers.
And then, just as I think we’re shifting back to safer waters, someone else steps up to the mic.
“Jake,” a woman calls, her voice carrying just enough amusement to set me on edge. “Where did you get your sweater? I love it!”
I see Jennifer stiffen in the shadows and want to flip her off, but I’m not Will, so I just laugh.
I glance down at my sweater, fingers brushing absently over the soft yarn. The stitches are slightly uneven in places, the ghost on the sleeve tilting just a little too far to one side, and the pumpkins across the chest aren’t perfectly symmetrical but that’s what makes it mine. What makes it hers.
And now, here I am, standing in front of thousands of people, wearing something that, in every way, is a piece of her. A piece of Amy.
“It was a gift from a dear friend,” I say, running my fingers over the sleeve without thinking. “Hand-knitted. One of a kind—just like her.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve slipped.
