Julian produces a small compact mirror with characteristic foresight, helping her check that her lipstick survived our attentions. Dean smooths any wrinkles from her dress while I adjust my bow tie and try to ignore the way my cock is straining against my pants.
Twenty minutes later, when we're walking toward the elevator that will take us down to the waiting car and cameras and all the circus of her old world, she moves with confidence. Her scent wraps around us like a claim, green apples and white musk and satisfaction, announcing to anyone with a functioning nose exactly who she belongs to.
"Ready?" she asks as the elevator doors open.
"Ready," we confirm in unison.
Because now we all know exactly where we stand. She's ours, we're hers, and after tonight we never have to choose between worlds again.
We'll just have ours. Perfect and imperfect and entirely our own.
Together.
Chapter 32
Lila
The 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. Julianmoves 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. WhereDustin'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.