Page 39 of Fangirl
The casting director fumbles with the script. “I… Well…”
They weren’t expecting this. I don’t say no, not to scenes, not to directors, not to producers who sign my checks.
Across the table, Melinda James’s head tilts, curiosity flickering across her face.
I press on.
“I have an idea,” I say, setting the script down. “You’re planning for each book to be adapted into a single film, right?”
The director glances at the producers. They exchange looks before one of them nods.
“Perfect.” I lean forward. “Then the key moment, the real moment that defines Anlon, is toward the end of the book. It’s when his entire understanding of the world shatters. When everything he thought was true, his father’s legacy, his kingdom’s righteousness, his own role in history, turns out to be a lie. He’s not the hero he believedhimself to be. His people don’t admire him. Theyfearhim. His kingdom isn’t the beacon of hope. It’s the source of suffering. His father isn’t a noble king but a tyrant. And the princess he’s promised to? She doesn’t love him. She doesn’t even want to marry him. She’s being forced into this alliance, just like he is. And the person who opens his eyes to all of this? Not a warrior. Not a knight. Not a royal advisor. A servant, Celandine. Someone seen as weak in his world yet embodies the kind of bravery he’s never known.”
The room is silent.
They all turn to Melinda.
Of course they don’t know.
Why would they?
The cinematic appeal matters more to them. The box office potential.
But she knows.
And from the glint in her eyes,, I think she finally sees me.
She nods, and something inside me loosens. Relief, yes, but also something else. Pride.
For the first time in a long time, I feel like I’ve earned my place in this room.
Like I’m not just here because I look the part, or my name will sell tickets, or my abs will make headlines.
I imagine Amy sitting beside her, arms crossed, that sharp, assessing look on her face—the one she gets when she’s deep in thought, unraveling plot holes, dissecting motivations.
I picture the way her eyes would light up, the way she’d soften at the edges, realizing, maybe for the first time, thatI understand.
That I get it now.
That I want to get it.
I steady myself, forcing the noise, the expectations, the pressure to quiet.
And then I step into the moment.
IbecomeAnlon.
The silence settles, thick and suffocating. I let the silence hang. Let them wonder. Let them doubt.
And when I speak, my voice is quiet and wrecked.
“You lied to me.”
It’s not an accusation. Not yet. Just a truth. A sharp-edged thing that cuts the moment it leaves my lips.
I lift my gaze, staring straight ahead at nothing and everything. In my head, I see the king. His lined face. His impassive eyes. The way his mouth tightens just slightly, just enough to tell me he knows.
My breath shudders.
