3. Jules
Jules
The problem with “PR is coming” is that it implies a very specific kind of person.
I’m leaning back on the arm of the couch, watching Mina pretend not to pace while she absolutely paces, and I can already see what PR looks like: Blazer. Clipboard. Smile that doesn’t reach the eyes. Voice like she swallowed a handbook.
“I’m calling it now,” I say, tossing a protein bar up and catching it because I need something to do with my hands. “She’s going to say ‘brand integrity’ within the first thirty seconds. Maybe forty if she’s feeling creative.”
Mina stops mid-step.
“That’s… not that bad,” she says, like she’s trying to convince herself.
“It’s devastating,” I correct. “It means we’re getting monitored.”
“We are monitored,” Remy says from where she’s leaning against the far wall.
She hasn’t moved in five minutes. I’m starting to think she might actually be part of the architecture.
“Yeah, but this is, like, visible monitoring,“ I say. “There’s a difference. One is creepy. The other is annoying.”
“What if she’s nice?” Mina asks.
I look at her flatly. “Then I’ll be disappointed.”
She huffs out a laugh despite herself. “Jules—“
“I’m serious,” I say. “If she’s nice, it means she’s hiding something. If she’s not nice, at least we know where we stand.”
Remy’s mouth twitches. Barely.
“Either way,” I add, popping the protein bar open, “I’m planning to be unbearable.”
“Planning?“ Remy says. “That’s new. I thought you were naturally unbearable.”
I grin. “Intentionally unbearable is a different skill set.”
Then, the door opens without drama.
Blaire steps in first. “Girls,” she says, voice clipped enough to cut glass, “this is Ms. Hart.”
Camille follows her into the room, and for half a second, all my thoughts go completely, profoundly off-script.
Well.
That’s inconvenient.
She’s not what I expected, which is annoying. No stiff posture. No fake smile. No clipboard clutched like a weapon. Just stillness… Clean lines. Controlled movement.
Her platinum-blonde hair is pulled back into a low, neat bun.
She’s dressed in a pale cream blazer and light pants.
A slim gold watch circles one wrist, matched by a few restrained touches of gold that catch the light when she moves.
Nothing flashy. Nothing accidental. Her icy blue eyes are clear, assessing, and entirely unimpressed.
She looks expensive in a way that has nothing to do with labels and everything to do with certainty.
And, worse, she’s hot.
Not in the obvious way. Not in the kind of way that asks for attention. In the kind of way that assumes it already has it.
Her gaze moves over the room once, quick and efficient, landing on each of us for exactly the same amount of time.
“I’m Camille Hart, Eon’s Director of Narrative Strategy,” she says. “I’ll be overseeing communications during the tour.”
Director?
No way. She looks late twenties, maybe thirty, which is far too young to have a title with that many capital letters.
And apparently, that’s the entire introduction. No cheerful greeting. No attempt to soften the blow. Just her name, a vaguely threatening title, and the announcement that she’s about to become our problem.
“I’ve reviewed your current schedules,” she continues. Her voice is even. Not cold, exactly. Just stripped of anything unnecessary. “There will be adjustments.”
I tilt my head, watching her.
Oh. You’re not annoying. You’re worse.
Mina shifts closer to me without realizing it. Remy straightens just slightly. Kaia, who I hadn’t noticed had stepped fully into the room, just watches.
Camille steps further inside, already moving like she knows the space belongs to her now. “While I’m overseeing communications, public appearances, interviews, and unscripted interactions will all require prior approval.”
Unscripted interaction.
Cute.
I push off the couch before Kaia can stop me. I don’t rush. I let it look accidental, like curiosity carried me across the room instead of a very deliberate need to find out whether Camille Hart can be rattled.
I stop just inside polite distance.
She meets my gaze directly.
Most people give me something when I get this close. A shift in posture. A smile. A glance away.
Camille gives me nothing.
Interesting.
“Overseeing communications?” I say, easy, casual, and more than a little flirty. “Sounds intense. Do you come with a warning label, or is that just implied?”
I don’t have to turn around to know Blaire is watching this like she’s deciding how annoying I’m allowed to be before she intervenes.
Camille does nothing.
No smile. No pause. No recalibration.
She just looks at me, taking me in like I’m data she hasn’t decided how to sort yet.
Then she says, “Does that normally work on people?”
I pause, and not because I don’t know what to say. I just didn’t expect that.
There’s no embarrassment. That would require me to feel rejected, and this isn’t that.
This is different.
I let the silence sit, then grin. “Usually, yeah.”
Her expression doesn’t change. “Noted.”
That’s it. No follow-up. No engagement. No interest.
Oh.
Oh, okay.
She’s not rejecting me. She’s assessing me.
That is, honestly, incredibly rude, but also kind of fascinating.
I rock back on my heels, adjusting without making it obvious. “Good to know where I stand.”
“You don’t,” she replies.
That one lands a little sharper.
Before I can push again, Blaire steps back in. “What Camille is saying,” she says, cutting between us with corporate-grade precision, “is that this tour has a higher visibility profile than anything we’ve done before. Eon and the Council expect discipline.”
Camille’s gaze stays on me for one second longer than necessary, then she looks past me like I’m no longer the most important thing in the room.
“Rehearsal blocks will be adjusted by forty-five minutes,” she says, turning her attention to the group. “Media training will be added twice weekly. Live appearances will be limited until engagement stabilizes.”
She moves as she talks. Not pacing. Positioning. Every step intentional. Every shift controlled.
She doesn’t look at me again. Not once.
I lean back against the edge of the table, crossing my arms like I’m listening.
I’m not, not really.
I’m watching her instead. She doesn’t react to anything that isn’t relevant, and she talks like everything has already been decided…
“…fan-facing interactions will be monitored,” she continues. “Particularly in unscripted environments.”
“Define monitored,” I cut in.
Her gaze flicks to me. “Observed.”
“Comforting,” I reply.
“It’s necessary.”
I grin. “Debatable.”
“Not in this context.” There’s no heat in her words. Just finality.
“Do you ever not sound like a policy document?” I blurt out.
Mina makes another noise. Remy looks like she’s waiting to see how far I’ll take it. Kaia says nothing. Blaire shifts like she’s about to cut in, but Camille lifts a hand to stop her.
Camille doesn’t fully turn towards me this time. “You’ll find I’m very consistent,” she says.
“I’m starting to see that.”
Her gaze drops, just for a second, to my hand. To the way I’m gesturing. Then back to my face. Not lingering. Not interested. Just… noted.
God. You’re impossible to read.
That’s… annoying.
She shifts her focus back to the group again.
“Your current trajectory is recoverable,” she says. “Our goal is to keep it controlled.”
There it is again. Control.
“Define controlled,” I say, because I can.
She doesn’t look at me this time. “Predictable.”
I huff out a laugh. “That seems optimistic, considering the conspiracy edits.”
“Not optimistic,” she says. “Necessary.”
I study her for a second. Really study her. There’s no cracks or tells or interest.
That’s new.
I push off the table again, stepping back this time, recalibrating. Whatever game I’m used to playing, this isn’t it. But I can adjust.
She finishes outlining changes. Schedules. Expectations. Boundaries. Everyone listens.
Of course they do.
Even I listen. A little.
Mostly, I watch her, waiting for something. A slip. A reaction. A moment where every movement, every breath doesn’t seem measured.
It doesn’t come.
Eventually, she says, “If you have questions, direct them through me.”
Mina nods immediately. Remy inclines her head once. Kaia just says, “Understood.”
I don’t say anything.
She turns and starts toward the door without hesitation, as if this was just step one and she’s already on to step two. Blaire follows after her, but not before shooting me a sharp, deeply unimpressed look that promises a reprimand later.
Great.
I watch Camille go.
Because now I have to.
Because now I want to.
Because—
What is your deal?
Charm doesn’t work on you. At all.
The door clicks shut behind them. Silence follows; not the comfortable kind. The kind where everyone is waiting for someone else to say it first.
Mina exhales like she’s been holding her breath the entire time. “…Okay,” she says. “She’s terrifying.”
I snort. “Terrifying? No. Terrifying is claws and chanting and things trying to eat you. She’s just—“ I gesture vaguely toward the door. “Deeply committed to not having a personality.”
Remy pushes off the wall. “She has one. You just didn’t get a reaction.”
I glance at her. “Excuse me, I always get a reaction.”
Remy raises a brow. “Did you?”
Rude.
“I got data,“ I correct. “Which is arguably better.”
“She didn’t even smile,” Mina adds, like that’s the part that bothers her most.
“She didn’t blink,” I say.
“She blinked,” Remy says.
“Once,” I say. “And I’m pretty sure it was scheduled.”
That earns me a small laugh from Mina.
Progress.
Kaia hasn’t moved. She’s still standing where she was, gaze on the door like she can see through it. Leader mode. Processing. Of course.
“She’s not here to be liked,” Kaia says finally.
“No,” I agree. “She’s here to ruin our lives.”
“She’s here to prevent another Harbor’s Edge,” Kaia corrects.
I tilt my head. “By making us less fun?”
“By making us less exposed.”
“Same thing,” I say.
Kaia looks at me then, direct and measured. “Not if it keeps people alive. And right now, we need her.”
“Do we?” I push. “Because last time I checked, we handled it.”
“Barely,” Remy cuts in.
I glance at her.
She doesn’t look away.
Right. Fair.
“We’re still here,” I say.
“And so is the fallout,” Kaia says. “Which is why she is too.”
I flop back onto the couch, throwing an arm over my eyes like this is exhausting me personally. “She’s going to micromanage everything. You can feel it. The vibe is aggressive spreadsheet.”
“She seems to know what she’s doing,” Kaia says.
“Oh, she definitely knows what she’s doing,” I say. “That’s not the issue.”
Kaia exhales. “We don’t need to like her. We need her to do her job.”
“And what is her job, exactly?” I ask. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like ‘tell us what to do and expect us to just what, fall in line?’”
“If her plan works,” Kaia says, “then yes.”
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “And if it doesn’t?”
Kaia holds my gaze. “Then we adjust.”
Of course. Always the plan.
I huff out a quiet laugh. “She didn’t even try to be likable,” I say. “That’s bold. Even Devin tried to be likable.”
Mina nudges my arm. “You’re just mad she didn’t flirt back.”
I turn to her, offended. “I am not mad.”
“You are,” Remy says.
“I’m intrigued,” I correct.
“Because she didn’t react?” Mina asks.
“Because she thinks she’s immune.”
Kaia crosses her arms. “She’s not playing your game.”
“Everyone plays eventually,” I say.
Remy tilts her head. “You’re going to make that your mission, aren’t you?”
I stand and stretch like I’ve just reached a perfectly reasonable conclusion. “Absolutely.”
Mina groans. “Jules.”
“What?” I say, already moving toward the door. “We can’t just let her walk in here and be that calm about it.”
“She’s not calm,” Kaia says.
I pause and turn back. “What do you call that, then?”
“Controlled,” Kaia replies. “There’s a difference.”
I consider that, briefly, then shrug. “Same thing.”
Kaia watches me for a second longer. “Don’t underestimate her.”
“Don’t worry.” I smile. “I never underestimate a challenge.”
Remy huffs. “That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s not supposed to be,” I say.
Mina shakes her head, but she’s smiling again.
Kaia doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.
I reach the door, hand on the handle, and pause. Because something about this shift, this friction, isn’t going away.
Good.
I like a challenge.
I glance back over my shoulder. “Besides, someone has to make sure she actually has a personality in there.”
“Or,” Remy says dryly, “you could leave her alone.”
I grin. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Yeah. This is definitely going to be a problem.