The coffee I poured hours ago sits cold and untouched beside me. My phone is dying, probably for the best. Last I checked, every headline was screaming my name like I personally lit the match and tossed it into the powder keg.
Hollywood Heartthrob Dumped at His Own Premiere.
Fat Girl Leaves Jake Hollander Broken.
That one hurt the most.
Not because of me.
Because of her.
Amy. God, Amy.
She looked at me like I was a stranger. Like I’d reached into her chest and ripped out the one thing she’d let herself hope for.
And I did.
I rest my elbows on the kitchen island and drop my head into my hands.
What the hell have I done?
I meant to tell her. A thousand times. But every time, she smiled at me like I was enough—just Eli, the nerd with bad WiFi and a sarcasm addiction. I couldn’t bring myself to shatter it. To risk losing her.
I thought I had time.
Now I have nothing.
The suite is too quiet. Last night, it buzzed with press, agents, fake smiles, and hollow praise. Now it feels like a tomb.
My phone rings.
It’s Jennifer, my publicist.
I hesitate, then answer. “Yeah?”
“Jake, oh my god. We’re trying everything, but it’s everywhere! TMZ, Reddit, bloody TikTok fan edits set to sad Taylor Swift songs.”
“Of course they did,” I mutter.
“We’re drafting statements. We can spin this if?—”
“Don’t,” I cut in. “Don’t spin it. Don’t make it a love triangle or a PR stunt or some tragic misunderstanding.”
Pause.
“Okay… Then what do you want me to do?”
“Make me the villain.”
“What?”
“You heard me. If they want blood—give them mine. Not hers. Not Amy’s. If anyone breathes her name, blacklist them from every interview I ever do. Shut it down.”
Jennifer exhales. “Jake…”
“No photos. No statements. No headlines with her name. Bury her in so much anonymity they forget what she looks like.”
“That won’t stop the trolls.”
