Page 51

Lila

T he red carpet is exactly as overwhelming as I remembered, and absolutely nothing like what I want anymore.

Camera flashes create a strobe-light effect that makes everything feel surreal and slightly nauseating.

Reporters shout questions that blur together into white noise punctuated by my name being called from a dozen directions.

The barriers hold back crowds of fans and industry watchers, all analyzing every detail of my appearance, my companions, my facial expressions for signs of drama or romance or career comeback.

The heat is oppressive under the lights, and the familiar anxiety of being watched, judged, dissected starts creeping up my spine.

Two years ago, this energy would have thrilled me—the attention, the validation, the reminder that my work mattered enough for strangers to care about my personal life.

Tonight, it feels like noise I have to endure to get to the other side.

But I'm not enduring it alone.

Callum's hand is steady in mine, his calloused palm grounding me to something real beneath all the artifice.

Julian moves with careful precision on my other side, clearly following the positioning strategy he researched, but his thumb traces gentle circles over my knuckles that have nothing to do with protocol and everything to do with comfort.

Dean's presence at my back radiates protective warmth, close enough that I can smell his scent cutting through the overwhelming sensory assault.

For the first time in my Hollywood career, I'm walking a red carpet as myself instead of a carefully constructed image. The emerald dress Rebecca selected fits perfectly, but what makes me feel powerful isn't the designer gown. It's the three men who chose to step into this glittering chaos for me.

"Lila! Over here!" A photographer waves me toward his position, camera already clicking. "Can we get one with just you? Classic Hollywood glamour?"

The request is standard protocol. Establish the star, then add the accessories. Two years ago, I would have stepped forward automatically, left my pack behind for the individual shots that sell magazines and build personal brand recognition.

Tonight, I don't even consider it.

"Actually," I say, my voice carrying clearly despite the chaos, "we're staying together tonight. All of us."

The photographer looks momentarily confused, this isn't how red carpets usually work but recovers quickly and starts snapping photos of all four of us together.

Other photographers follow suit, and suddenly we're the center of a coordinated photo session that feels different from anything I've experienced before.

Because this time, I'm not performing. I'm just being myself, surrounded by the people I love, comfortable in my own skin in a way I never was during my previous Hollywood incarnation.

We move down the carpet with easy coordination, stopping for photos and brief interviews, but never separating.

Where Dustin's pack used to position themselves for maximum individual visibility, my pack stays connected.

When one of us moves, we all move. When someone asks a question, we answer as a unit.

It feels revolutionary after years of carefully managed individual appearances designed to build separate careers.

"Lila James!" A reporter from materializes with predatory enthusiasm. "You look absolutely stunning tonight. Can you tell us about these handsome gentlemen? Are we finally getting to meet your new pack?"

The question I've been preparing for all week. Rebecca coached me through the approved response. Gracious deflection, maintain mystery, don't give them more information than necessary. Keep the personal separate from the professional.

But standing here, surrounded by the men who've become my whole world, the careful media training feels like armor I don't want to wear anymore.

"This is my pack," I say simply, not bothering with Rebecca's suggested deflection. "Dean, Callum, and Julian. They're the best thing that's ever happened to me."

The words come out stronger than I intended, carrying the weight of absolute certainty. I'm not hedging or qualifying or leaving room for interpretation. I'm claiming them as publicly and definitively as possible.

The reporter's eyes light up with hunger. "And how long have you been together? Is this serious? Are we talking permanent pack bonds?"

Before I can answer, Dean's hand settles warm and possessive on my lower back. "Very serious," he says, his tone friendly but absolutely final.

"And what do you think of Hollywood?" the reporter continues. "Are you planning to relocate? We'd love to see more of you all on the LA scene."

"We will be wherever Lila is," Julian answers with precise politeness, his voice carrying quiet authority. "She’s home."

Home. The word cuts through all the noise and spectacle to remind me what we're really doing here. Not reclaiming my place in this world, but saying goodbye to it. Publicly, definitively, with the men I want to build a completely different kind of life with.

"Any career plans? Project announcements?" the reporter persists.

I pause. Two months ago, I would have given a careful non-answer designed to keep options open. Tonight, with my real life standing beside me, the answer feels obvious.

"I'm looking forward to focusing on my personal life," I say clearly. "Building something lasting with the people who matter most."

As we escape into the relative calm of the theater lobby, I catch sight of something that makes me pause.

Three rows ahead in the premium seating, Dustin adjusts his perfectly tailored jacket.

Jace and Theo flank him with synchronized movement, and beside them, clinging to Dustin's arm with obvious excitement, is Skye.

Twenty-two and luminous with pure joy, wearing a dress that probably costs more than most people's cars.

Which reminds me, I need to return my rental and buy myself a car when I get back to Honeyridge Falls.

For just a moment, our eyes meet across the crowded theater. Dustin's gaze finds mine with a flicker of surprise, then his expression shifts to that familiar blend of condescension and mild amusement.

He looks exactly like what I expected. They all do. But looking at them now, I can see what I couldn't see when I was part of it. The careful distance they maintain even within their own pack bonds. Even their affection looks calculated, designed for cameras.

It's not wrong, exactly. It's just not what I ever wanted.

I don't nod back or acknowledge him. He simply exists in my peripheral vision while I focus on what actually matters. The solid warmth of Callum's hand in mine, Julian's quiet presence, Dean's protective energy.

"You okay?" Dean asks quietly, following my gaze.

"Perfect," I say, meaning it completely.

Inside the theater, the controlled chaos shifts to something more elegant but equally overwhelming. The ceremony itself passes in a blur of speeches and performances. Our film wins Best Cinematography and Best Original Screenplay, and loses Best Picture to a biographical drama.

During the cinematography win, when he thanks the entire production team, the cameras find me in the audience. I smile and applaud with genuine enthusiasm, proud of the work we did together.

I should feel disappointed about losing Best Picture. Two years ago, I would have. Tonight, I find myself thinking about the garden I want to plant behind our house, about learning to can vegetables and whether Dean would help me build raised beds for herbs.

"No regrets?" Julian asks during a commercial break, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"None," I say, meaning it completely. "Well, maybe one small one."

"What's that?"

"I wish we could skip the after-parties and go back to the hotel. I'm ready to go home."

His smile is soft and understanding. "A few more hours. Then we're done with all this."

The after-party is exactly what I expected, beautiful people in expensive clothes networking with focused intensity while servers circulate with champagne and carefully curated canapés. The venue is gorgeous, all art deco elegance and strategic lighting, but it's also the last place I want to be.

"One hour," I murmur to Dean as we make our entrance. "We show our faces, I say goodbye to the people who matter, and then we're done."

"Whatever you need," he confirms, his hand finding mine automatically.

The next hour passes in a parade of air kisses and conversations that feel like performance art.

Directors I used to work with approach with professional enthusiasm, calculating whether I might be available for future projects.

Producers offer variations of the same sentiment, it's wonderful to see me looking so radiant, they hope I'll consider returning to work soon because the industry needs people like me.

People like me. Meaning people who understand that personal happiness should always be secondary to professional advancement.

"Lila James!"

Scott Brady, the documentary director, approaches with focused energy. I've always respected his commitment to important stories, which makes this conversation harder.

"Scott," I say with genuine warmth. "Congratulations on the nomination. The immigration piece was incredible."

"Thank you. But more importantly," he continues, "have you thought about my email? The women's healthcare project would be perfect for you."

The premise sounds important, and looking at his genuine passion, I feel a flicker of the old pull. The satisfaction of using my position to tell stories that might change minds, shift policies, make the world slightly better.

It's tempting in ways I didn't expect.

"The premise sounds important," I say carefully, "but I'm not sure I'm the right person for it anymore."

"Are you kidding? You're exactly the right person. Your name attached would guarantee funding, distribution, awards consideration. We could actually get this story in front of the people who need to hear it."

He's not wrong. My involvement would matter, would lend weight and visibility to important work. The producer in me can see exactly how valuable my participation could be.

But the woman who's spent the past two months learning what genuine happiness feels like knows the cost would be too high.

"I'm flattered," I say, meaning it. "And I hope you find the right producer. It deserves to be made."

"But?" Scott prompts, clearly sensing the rejection.

"But I'm done with this," I say simply, gesturing toward the party around us. "I'm building a different kind of life now."

"Lila." His voice takes on the tone of someone who thinks I'm making a mistake. "You have a gift for this work. A platform that could actually make a difference. Are you really going to waste that on domestic retirement?"

Domestic retirement. The phrase is meant to sting, to make me feel small for choosing personal happiness over professional importance. Three months ago, it would have worked.

Tonight, it just makes me laugh.

"I'm not wasting anything," I say clearly. "I'm choosing what makes me happy over what looks impressive on a resume. And I'm choosing the people who love me over the people who need me for my name and money."

The distinction lands exactly as I intended it to. Around us, I can see industry people processing this declaration, calculating what it means for their assessment of my future value as a professional contact.

I don't care what they conclude.

As Scott moves away, probably to find producers who are still interested in building careers, I feel the weight of what I've just done. Not just rejected a specific project, but publicly announced my retirement from professional filmmaking.

The bridge is burned. There's no graceful way back from this declaration.

The thought should scare me. Instead, I feel free.

As we make our way through the crowd, saying quick goodbyes, I catch sight of one more familiar face.

Rebecca stands near the bar, engaged in animated conversation with publicists and agents. She looks exactly like what she is. A consummate professional who's built her career on managing public perception.

Our eyes meet across the room, and I see her expression shift from networking mode to something more personal. She excuses herself and moves toward us with determined stride.

"Leaving already?" she asks, her tone carefully neutral. "I heard about your conversation with Scott Brady. You've certainly made your position clear."

There's no judgment in her voice, but there's also no warmth. This is Rebecca in full professional mode.

"I have," I agree.

"You know this makes things difficult," she says quietly. "For future opportunities, for maintaining industry relationships. Once you publicly step away like this, it's very hard to step back in."

"I know," I say, meaning it completely. "That's the point."

Rebecca studies me for a long moment, taking in details I probably don't even realize I'm projecting. Whatever she sees seems to convince her that arguing would be pointless.

"All right then," she says finally, extending her hand. "It's been a pleasure working with you, Lila. I hope you find what you're looking for."

"I already have," I say, accepting her handshake. "Thank you for everything, Rebecca. Really."

The goodbye carries weight beyond professional courtesy. Rebecca helped build my career, protected my image through scandal, guided me through the worst period of my public life.

Saying goodbye to her feels like closing a book I'll never read again.