Page 104 of Knot on the Market

"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."

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