Page 79 of Unleashed

I swallowed hard and forced my attention back to the present. To the fond exasperation in Adele and Rae’s voices that wrapped around me like a warm blanket. So different from Malone’s sharp edges and even sharper ambitions. Here, relationships weren’t measured in followers or influence metrics. They just... were.

Steam rose from my cup in lazy spirals. The scent triggered an ambush of memory—Jack in my tiny Austin kitchen, drowning his coffee in Italian Sweet Cream creamer even as he denied contaminating his body with “processed shit”. The way he’d crowded me against the counter, his laugh rumbling against my neck when he’d silence my teasing in the best possible way...

I inhaled a small breath. Released. And smiled.

My phone buzzed, an incoming email from a potential client. Work. Thank God. Safe territory. I could do work.

“Earth to Lily!” Adele’s voice interrupted my return email a moment later. “You planning to actually drink that chai, or just commune with it spiritually?”

I lifted the cup in mock salute, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Some of us appreciate the artistry of proper beverage presentation.”

“Some of us are ridiculous.” But she grinned as she gathered her travel mug and pastry. “Ready to head out? Creed’s expecting us at ten.”

The mention of our next appointment shifted my focus. Time to forge ahead. To build something real here, brick by careful brick.

Even if—just for a second—when the morning light turned the world soft with optimism, I let myself wonder. If Jack were here, would he notice the way things justwerehere? No pretense, no manufactured moments, nothing needing a filter to feel real.

It seemed tailor-made for him.

But thinking that way lay madness. And I had a business to run.

“Just let me grab my laptop.” I stood, sliding back into strategy mode. Into the comfort of logistics and planning. “Did you remember to charge the backup batteries for the...”

As I rattled off the rest of my checklist my thoughts faded into the familiar rhythm of pre-production planning. Safe. Controlled.

Idrummedmyfingersagainst the steering wheel of our used production van, mapping out shooting angles in my head as we wound through the Three Corners region’s back roads. The vehicle had definitely seen better days—the air conditioning wheezed more than it cooled, and the suspension groaned over every pothole—but it was ours. No strings attached. No compromises required. My new motto.

“Turn left at the big oak,” Adele said without looking up from her tablet. “Creed’s place should be just past—holy mother of cars!”

The property unfolded before us; a gearhead’s paradise carved into the rolling foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Vintage muscle cars lined the lawn with military precision, chrome sparkling under the morning sunshine. Beyond them, the mist still clung to the tree line, softening the edges of the world, blurring the line between dream and reality. My fingers twitched for a camera.

Past the car lineup, a steel building rose clean and sharp against the peaceful backdrop. The contrast was striking—restoration and innovation standing shoulder to shoulder with something timeless.

I was already framing shots in my head. Morning light sliding over chrome, reflections shifting like liquid metal. Wide tracking shots to capture the way these racing classics stood against a horizon brushed in watercolor blues and greens. This was cinematic gold, the kind of setup that didn’t justlookgood—itfeltlike its own story waiting to be told. Like someone had dropped an automotive museum straight into a postcard, where precision and passion met the raw, untamed beauty of the land.

“This would be perfect for Marcus’s shoot.” Adele’s voice dropped low. “Remember that call yesterday? His team’s looking for locations for his new music video...”

“Let’s nail this job first.” I pulled the van to a stop, already mentally cataloging equipment needs. “If we impress Creed with the racing team promos, maybe he’ll consider letting us use the space for other projects.”

“About the budget...” She shuffled through papers, her nose wrinkling. “I ran the numbers again last night. If we stick to basic equipment for now—”

“We’re not compromising on quality.” The words came sharp, automatic. I inhaled a small breath. Released. Tried again. “Sorry. I just... we do this right or not at all.”

Movement caught my eye. A tall figure emerged from the shadows of the building—bald head gleaming in the sun, wide shoulders stretching the limits of a dirty t-shirt. Creed. We’d caught him in the middle of working by the looks of it.

“You found the place.” His voice gave nothing away, but I got the feeling he’d have been just as happy if we hadn’t.

I stepped out, professional mask sliding into place. “We did. We’re friends of Kyle Hossman, as I mentioned on the phone. He said you were looking for video work. We brought some samples…” I gestured to the tablet Adele waved. “Your place is gorgeous. I’m sure we could create something really special here.”

His eyes narrowed, assessing. One tattooed hand gestured toward the building. “Come see what you’re working with.”

The interior space stretched forever, classic cars in various stages of restoration lined up like soldiers. The space screamed passion and meticulous attention to detail. This wasn’t just a hobby—this was a car empire built on precision and perfection.

“I want footage of the restoration process,” he said, moving between pristine vehicles. “Racing team wants their own content. These would be separate projects.”

My producer brain kicked into gear, already breaking down shot lists and equipment requirements. This kind of work demanded excellence. One mistake and we’d never get another chance. But two gigs at one site? That would cut costs, making me hungrier than ever for the work.

“Did I see a track? You would want film there, right? We’ll need multiple setup days,” I said, keeping my voice professional. “Different lighting requirements for the garage versus track footage.”

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