Chapter 25

Eliza Montgomery had lived her entire life in the protective embrace of her extraordinary beauty. From childhood, her striking features had drawn attention, opened doors that remained closed to others. As her career in Hollywood flourished, her beauty became both blessing and burden—a passport to opportunity but also a prison of expectations and superficial judgments.

By the time she met Jacob, Eliza had developed a complex relationship with her appearance. She was simultaneously weary of being valued primarily for her looks and yet accustomed to the power they granted her. She had learned to use her beauty strategically, deploying charm and radiance to smooth difficult situations or secure advantages for projects she believed in.

Jacob Whitney represented something entirely new in her experience—a man completely immune to the practiced charm that had become her default mode of interaction. Their initial conversations during the dinosaur project had intrigued her precisely because he responded to her thoughts rather than her appearance, engaging with her ideas instead of her carefully cultivated image.

Their relationship developed gradually, beginning with professional collaboration and evolving through genuine friendship before becoming something more intimate. For Eliza, whose previous relationships had typically progressed with predictable speed fueled by mutual attraction and strategic advantage, Jacob’s measured pace was both frustrating and refreshing.

“You’re not what I expected,” she admitted during an evening at his farmhouse, months into their friendship.

“What did you expect?” Jacob asked, his attention focused on tuning his guitar rather than maintaining eye contact—one of his habits that initially disoriented her but gradually felt authentic rather than dismissive.

“Someone ... less certain of himself,” she replied honestly. “Most men I meet are intimidated by me or trying to impress me. You don’t seem interested in doing either.”

Jacob considered this. “I’m interested in knowing you,” he said simply. “The real you. Not the version you show to cameras.”

This directness both attracted and unsettled Eliza. She had spent decades constructing and maintaining her public persona, with increasingly blurred lines between performance and authentic self. Jacob’s ability to see beyond this carefully crafted exterior was both exhilarating and terrifying.

When their relationship finally crossed the boundary from friendship to intimacy, Eliza discovered another dimension of Jacob that defied her expectations. Physical intimacy with Jacob was transformative—not because of technique or experience, but because of his complete presence and attention. Unlike previous lovers who seemed to worship her beauty or conquer it, Jacob approached intimacy as a genuine connection between equals, his focus entirely on the person as well as the body.

“You see me,” she whispered in amazement during their first night together. “You are loving the actual me.”

Jacob had nodded, understanding the profound nature of this simple observation.

Their relationship quickly became the most intense Eliza had ever experienced, characterized by a level of emotional and physical intimacy that was addictively fulfilling yet constantly challenging. Jacob’s centered nature and clear boundaries confronted Eliza’s habitual patterns in ways that repeatedly tested both of them.

The first major conflict erupted after a charity gala in Los Angeles. Eliza, accustomed to navigating such events with practiced charm, had unconsciously slipped into performance mode—laughing too brightly at a producer’s jokes, touching a director’s arm to emphasize a point, deploying the subtle manipulations that had become second nature in her professional world.

Jacob had watched this display silently, his expression unreadable to most but increasingly familiar to Eliza. When they returned to her Laurel Canyon home, his quietness had a different quality than his usual comfortable silence.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, kicking off her heels in the entryway.

“Nothing.”

“Clearly something,” she pressed, recognizing the subtle tension in his shoulders.

Jacob pondered his response before speaking. “I don’t like being manipulated. Or watching you manipulate others.”

Eliza bristled. “That’s called networking. It’s how this industry works.”

“I understand the industry,” Jacob replied evenly. “I also understand the difference between professional courtesy and calculated manipulation.”

“So now you’re policing my behavior?” Her voice rose slightly, defensive anger masking the uncomfortable recognition that he had seen through behaviors she preferred not to acknowledge.

“Not policing. Just observing.” Jacob moved toward the door. “I should go.”

“You’re leaving? Because I was friendly at a gala?”

“Because I need space to think,” he corrected gently. “And because I don’t think you’re ready to have an honest conversation about this right now.”

No one walked away from Eliza Montgomery—not directors in creative disagreements, not studio executives during contract negotiations, and certainly not romantic partners in the middle of an argument. Her beauty and charisma had always given her the final word, the closing advantage, the power to determine when interactions ended.

Yet Jacob simply left, his boundaries clear and firm, his emotional self-sufficiency a shock to Eliza’s system. He didn’t storm out dramatically or make grandiose statements—he simply recognized the unproductive direction of their conversation and removed himself from it.

This pattern repeated through their early relationship. Eliza would unconsciously attempt to deploy the manipulative tools that had served her for decades; Jacob would calmly identify the behavior and establish distance when necessary. Each time he walked away—not permanently but definitively—her initial reaction was outrage, followed by deep introspection that ultimately led to greater self-awareness.

“Why do you keep coming back?” she asked him once, genuinely puzzled after a particularly difficult period in their relationship.

“Because when you’re not trying to control everything, you’re the most authentic person I know,” Jacob answered. “I’m trying to figure this out too, you know. I’m not exactly a poster boy of somebody socialized. And walking away when something’s wrong doesn’t mean giving up on something that’s right. It just gives me time to figure things out.”

This perspective was revolutionary to Eliza, whose previous relationships had typically been characterized by power struggles resolved through compromise, concession, or conclusion, rather than through genuine growth and understanding.

The most surprising elements of their complicated relationship were Eliza’s twin daughters, Sophie and Emma. At twelve years old, when Jacob entered their lives, they were at an age typically marked by pre-teen cynicism and emotional volatility. Yet they formed an immediate and profound connection with Jacob that defied explanation.

“Mom, is Mr. Jacob coming over tonight?” became their constant refrain, their excitement visible when his truck appeared in the driveway of their Nashville home.

Unlike their reaction to previous men in Eliza’s life—polite tolerance at best, subtle sabotage at worst—the twins welcomed Jacob with unreserved enthusiasm. They sought his opinion on their school projects, asked him to teach them guitar basics, begged for dinosaur facts well beyond those required for the animated special.

“Why do you like him so much?” Eliza asked them once, genuinely curious about the bond that had formed so quickly.

“He doesn’t talk to us like we’re stupid,” Sophie replied immediately.

“And he really listens,” Emma added. “Not pretend listening like most grown-ups.”

“And,” Sophie continued with the brutal honesty of pre-adolescence, “he’s not trying to impress you all the time like your other boyfriends. It’s annoying when they do that.”

This observation hit closer to home than Eliza cared to admit. Her previous relationships had indeed often centered around men who seemed more invested in the idea of dating Eliza Montgomery, famous actress, than in knowing Eliza herself. The girls had evidently noticed this pattern even before she fully acknowledged it.

The twins’ unconditional acceptance of Jacob—scars and all—provided a poignant contrast to the complicated dance of attraction, power, and vulnerability that characterized his relationship with their mother. They simply liked him for who he was, appreciating his honesty, his knowledge, and his quiet strength.

Jacob, in turn, treated the girls with the same straightforward respect he offered adults—never talking down to them, answering their questions thoughtfully, taking their concerns seriously. He didn’t know any different. He incorporated them naturally into activities when he visited, neither forcing interaction nor excluding them from adult conversations they could follow.

“You’re good with them,” Eliza observed one evening after the girls had finally gone to bed following an extended guitar lesson with Jacob.

“They’re good people,” he replied simply. “Smart. Genuine.”

“They adore you.”

Jacob nodded, acknowledging this reality without false modesty. “I think they’re at an age where authenticity matters. They can spot phoniness better than most adults.”