Page 95 of Unleashed

“Because you stood your ground.” Adele’s voice softened, not with sympathy, but pride. “The Lily who left LA in a meltdown haze? She would've handed Malone whatever he wanted, just to stay employed. But you? You turned him down cold.”

“We didn’t move here to chase Emmys. Or ratings,” I said, the words scratching their way out. “We wanted to do work we could live with. I couldn’t have gotten here without you.”

Not just Adele. Jack, too—even if he didn’t know it.

Watching him the last year, I’d seen the shape of a man who didn’t sell pieces of himself to stay on the roster. Who played through pain not for the glory, but because he owed it to his teammates, to the game, to his own code. He knew what line he wouldn’t cross.

I used to have that. Before the panels, the deadlines, the meetings where I smiled and nodded while producers sliced the truth into a digestible runtime. Somewhere in the noise of LA, I’d started mistaking performance for purpose.

Jack had reminded me—without ever saying a word—what it looked like to stand for something, even if it cost you.

Maybe I’d already lost him. Maybe that part was over.

But I wasn’t going to lose that part of myself again.

“Obviously.” Her toothy grin was all bite. “But let’s not pretend you’re pacing over our dazzling professional integrity.”

I pulled in a breath and held it, trying to slow the gallop in my chest. “He watched the tribute episode. Even after swearing he wouldn’t.”

“And?”

“And he didn’t just watch it. He understood it.” The truth burned my throat like cheap whiskey. “He understood what I was trying to say—about him, about me, about what this kind of work can be. What itshouldbe.”

Lightning lit up the room, stark and blue-white. For a second, every detail came into focus: the old wooden counter we’d converted into a shared workbench, Adele’s ever-growing jungle of sticky notes, the stack of camera bags wedged between filing cabinets. The tin ceiling caught the light, gleaming faintly above the worn pine floors we still meant to refinish.

We hadn’t built a production empire. We’d built something small enough to hold in our hands—a place where the story didn’t have to scream to be heard. Where we could film the way Viggy played—knee taped up, pain stitched behind his smile—because showing up mattered more than making it shiny. Because doing the job right meant knowing your limits and sticking to your principles, even when no one’s handing out trophies for it.

That’s what Jack saw. Not just the footage. Not just the edit. He saw the decision underneath it—the one where I walked away from flash and spin, from Malone’s easy offer, and chose the slower, steadier path instead. The one that wouldn't bring trophies, but would let me sleep at night.

At least, I hoped that’s what he saw. Selfishly, Ineededthat to be true.

“I should get home before this storm floods Main Street,” Adele said, stuffing her charger into her tote. She paused at my desk, eyes softening. “For what it’s worth? The way he looked at you in that conference room? That wasn’t just about the work.”

A slow, aching heat curled up my throat, almost painful in how badly I wanted to believe her. “Del…”

“Just saying.” She squeezed my shoulder, quick and reassuring. “Maybe it’s time to trust that second chances aren’t a one-way street.”

The front door chimed as she disappeared downstairs, heels tapping out a rhythm I already knew by heart. Then nothing but the sound of rain starting to tap the roof and Bright’s slow purr from the shelf above.

I tilted my chair back and reached up to scratch under his chin. “What do you think, sweet boy?” My voice wobbled in the quiet. “Think your mom’s brave enough to try again?”

His unimpressed blink had opinions.

Outside, the storm gathered its strength, wind howling down the alley like it had a message to deliver. Inside, my pulse kicked harder, faster—anticipation or fear, I couldn’t tell. Maybe both.

I’d made peace with losing Jack. Told myself I deserved to. But then he stood up in that conference room, voice low and certain, and I saw the truth in his eyes.

He didn’t see the woman who sold out her edit for an executive's approval. He didn’t see the burnout who fled LA with a useless résumé full of bylines and no idea who she was anymore.

He saw the one who stayed up until two a.m. cutting a tribute that wouldn’t win awards, but might make one person feel understood.

He saw the version of me I was still trying to become—quietly, imperfectly—when no one was watching.

And maybe that was what scared me most.

Because if he sawher, then maybe a second chance wasn’t a fantasy I’d built to soothe the guilt.

Maybe it had just moved to town and—

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