Pact (Halo Hearts #2)

1. Jules

Jules

The Tower doesn’t make you perfect. It just makes you look like you are.

Stay here long enough, and you start to forget the difference.

It’s not the lights. Not the cameras. Not the constant staff. It’s the feeling. Like everything here has been adjusted half a degree too far into the right direction.

The building is Eon Entertainment’s pride and joy. Thirty-something floors of glass, steel, and very expensive control issues. Officially, it’s our home base.

Unofficially, I call it the dollhouse.

Because dollhouses have everything. And what’s a dollhouse without a full-floor dressing room?

Which is exactly where we are.

It’s packed. Stylists, assistants, photographers, creative directors, people with headsets and tablets and clipboards, all orbiting us. Wardrobe racks stretch across the room in neat, color-coded lines. Most of the garment bags are labeled for our upcoming world tour: Midnight Halo — ECLIPSE RUN.

There’s a photo shoot today with a promo clip immediately after.

Everything scheduled. Everything planned.

Everything controlled.

I’m standing on a small raised platform while someone adjusts the hem of a jacket I’m ninety percent sure I’m not allowed to breathe in.

“Turn,” the stylist says.

I turn.

“Other way.”

I turn again as someone else steps in to fix my collar.

Music hums through hidden speakers. It’s one of our tracks, but stripped down, instrumental, like even the vocals have to earn their place in this room. Screens line the far wall, cycling through press clips, tour promos, highlight reels.

“Hold,” the stylist says.

“Define hold,” I say.

“Don’t move.”

“I feel like we’ve established that I’m bad at that.”

“Ms. Navarro.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, lifting my hands slightly in surrender. “Holding. I’m holding.”

And I do… for about three seconds.

Across the room, Mina is curled into her chair, phone in hand, halfway through hair and makeup.

Kaia is a few feet away from her, sitting in one of the chairs like she actually belongs in it, scrolling through something on her own phone, expression calm, grounded, like the room isn’t trying to pull us into its rhythm.

Remy’s where she always is, leaning against the wall, watching everything, and waiting for the stylists to grab her next.

“Not another one…” Mina mutters.

That dread-filled tone in Mina’s voice? That’s my cue.

“What?” I say, immediately stepping off the platform.

“Ms. Navarro—wait—“ the stylist snaps, grabbing at the air like she can physically pull me back.

Too late. I’m already crossing the room.

“What did I say about moving?” she calls after me.

“That I shouldn’t,” I say. “But like, morally, this feels important.”

Kaia glances up as I pass, already clocking the shift. “What is it?” she asks Mina.

“Another video,” Mina says, not looking away from her phone.

Her screen is a mess of comments, stitched videos, dramatic zoom-ins, red circles, the whole conspiracy starter pack. A fan account? No, worse. A compilation account.

Kaia leans in from the side of Mina’s chair, one arm braced on the back, already halfway involved whether she wants to be or not, her expression sharper now, more focused.

‘Midnight Halo EXPOSED???’ flashes across the top in bold text.

“Oh good,” I say. “We’re being exposed. I was worried we were getting boring.”

“Just watch,” Mina says, not looking away.

The video starts with a clip of me during our post–Harbor Lights interview. I remember it vaguely. Bright lights, too many questions, someone asking if anything “unexpected” happened during the show.

I’d laughed and said, “Define unexpected. We ate… but we weren’t the only ones.“ Then I’d winked.

Now, I wince.

“…Okay,” I say slowly. “That was funny at the time.”

Kaia shoots me a disapproving look, and looks like she may launch into her millionth scolding for it before Mina says, “Watch.”

The clip cuts into something grainy, shaky, and wrong. It takes me half a second to recognize it.

The Harbor Lights Festival show. Not the clean version. Not the polished, edited, narrative-approved cut. Fan footage. You can tell by the angle. Too low. Too close. Too real.

The crowd is chanting “one more song” and the camera focuses on them, then on me. And my focus? It’s upward, on the sky, which looks empty in the clip but I remember The Chorus all too clearly.

The person filming swears. “What is happening, what the fuck—“

The video cuts again.

Now it’s side-by-side. My interview and the footage. Zoomed in. Slowed down. Enhanced in that fake internet way that somehow still makes it worse and then paused on my caption of: Define unexpected. We ate… but we weren’t the only ones.

Text overlays flash across the screen:

WHAT WAS SHE LOOKING AT ON STAGE???

THAT WAS NOT ROGUE PYROTECHNICS

JULES LOOKS LIKE SHE KNOWS SOMETHING

“Okay,” I say. “First of all, I always look like I know things. That’s just my face.”

“Jules.”

“I’m serious. It’s a very informed expression.”

Mina doesn’t laugh. Kaia exhales slowly through her nose, still watching the screen like she’s trying to piece something together that she doesn’t like the shape of.

The comments scroll. Fast. Too fast.

“this isn’t edited”

“they’re hiding something”

“the company is covering it up”

“watch her reaction she FLINCHES”

I blink.

“…I did not flinch,“ I say, affronted.

Remy’s voice cuts in from behind us. “You did.”

I twist to look at her. She’s still leaning against the wall, arms crossed, but she’s also still watching. Always watching.

“It’s a micro-reaction,” she adds. “Half a second early.”

“Or,” I say, turning back to the phone, “I’m just incredibly intuitive. Ever think about that?”

“No,” Kaia and Mina say at the same time.

Rude.

The video stutters. The audio spikes. Then it glitches hard, the image tearing sideways, colors smearing like someone dragged the file apart.

“And there it is.” Mina sighs.

The screen goes black. Reloads. The post is gone. Not taken down with a warning. Not flagged. Just gone.

We all stare at the empty space where it was.

“…Okay,” I say. “That’s new.”

“It’s been happening all week,” Mina says. “But they get traction faster now. More people see them before they’re taken down.”

“It’s been over a month since Harbor’s Edge,” Remy adds. “How do they keep coming back?”

Kaia’s jaw tenses. “It’s different accounts. Same footage, same moment… they’re not letting it die.”

“No kidding,” I say. “So what, we’ve got a conspiracy fandom now? Should I start a podcast?”

“No,” Remy says.

“Jules, this is serious,” Kaia says.

“Relax,” I say, because that’s what I do. “If it was a real issue, the Council wouldn’t let it get this far.”

“That’s not how that works,” Mina mutters.

Eon Entertainment handles the pop-star version of reality: headlines, schedules, careers, and whatever polished lie keeps the public calm. The Council handles demons, wards, memory cleanup, and everything Eon would rather not include in a press release.

“It absolutely is,” I say. “That’s literally their job. Contain the weird, protect the public, keep me from having to—“

“Kaia is right. This is serious.” Blaire’s voice cuts through the room.

Everything stops.

Stylists step back. Someone kills the music. Even the air feels like it tightens, like it knows better than to keep moving.

I don’t turn right away. I already know what her face looks by her tone alone. Calm. Controlled. Bad news.

“Eon has been removing these as they appear,” she adds. “But your interview is adding fuel to the fire.”

I turn then.

“Hey,” I say, pointing vaguely at the phone in Mina’s hand. “I didn’t even want to do that interview. Devin made me. Blame him.”

Mina shifts, asking Blaire, “So more people are seeing the footage?”

“Yes,” Blaire says. “And they’re being told what it is.”

I think about the comments. The way people weren’t buying the whole rogue pyrotechnics story. The way they were close.

“Right,” I say. “Because if there’s one thing the internet loves, it’s being told what it saw.”

Blaire’s gaze flicks to me, brief and sharp. “Which is why PR is assigning someone to us for the tour.”

“Oh, no,” I say immediately. “Don’t tell me Devin has a brother.”

Devin Park is Eon’s senior talent-relations representative, which means he specializes in brand strategy, engagement metrics, and making every conversation feel like a meeting that should have been an email. One of him is already excessive.

Mina huffs out a small laugh despite herself. Remy exhales through her nose, already looking annoyed on behalf of her future self.

“It’s not Devin’s brother,” Blaire says.

“Oh god. Is it Devin? I swear to god, if it’s Devin—“

“It’s not Devin.”

“So someone like Devin, but with a personality?”

“It’s someone experienced,” Blaire corrects.

“Ah,” I say. “So no personality.”

Blaire ignores that too. Instead, she says, “They’ll be joining us before tour.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Love a babysitter.”

“Think of it as support,” she says.

Mina shifts again, fingers twisting together. “They’re not going to change anything, right? About how we… what we do?”

Blaire’s expression doesn’t change.

“No,” she says. “Not unless they have to.”

There it is. Control tightening already. Just a little, but more than enough to be annoying.

“Cool,” I say. “Nothing like a little corporate oversight to really enhance the vibe.”

“Jules,” Blaire says.

I grin. “What? I’m being supportive.”

She doesn’t respond to that.

“Reset,” she says instead. “Photos in fifteen. Then we move to promo. The stage is ready.”

And just like that, everything starts moving again, like it never stopped.

***

The studio smells like polish and effort.

It’s not a different building, just a different floor. That’s how Eon works. You don’t leave the Tower. You just move deeper into it.

This level is all black floors and mirrored walls, rigging overhead, lighting grids already calibrated to make us look like something just slightly better than human. Cameras sit on tracks, lenses angled, waiting. Crew members move in controlled bursts with headsets, tablets, and quiet urgency.

This is where the illusion gets built.