10. Camille
Camille
Everyone starts moving at once. Chairs shift, documents are gathered, and voices resume at a controlled, professional volume, as if nothing meaningful has occurred. As if this was only a meeting. Only procedure.
I remain where I was when the ritual ended, one hand lowered at my side, fingers still slightly curled as if they haven’t received the message that the moment is over.
Because it isn’t.
Not for me.
Something is there. Not external or visible. Not separate.
It isn’t a thought or language, nothing I can categorize cleanly. It is presence. Constant. Immediate.
Wrong.
This degree of constant awareness was not disclosed.
The thought is precise. Measured. Useful. I latch onto it and draw in a breath, slow, controlled, and attempt to compartmentalize.
Isolate the sensation. Define it. Remove it.
It doesn’t move.
It doesn’t reduce.
It doesn’t respond at all.
Because it isn’t something I can manipulate.
It is her.
Jules stands across the room, talking to Mr. Bane as he returns the binding instrument to its case. Her posture is loose, her shoulders relaxed in a way they were not before the ritual. She looks stable. Grounded. The erratic fluctuation in her baseline has smoothed into alignment.
The bond is already working.
Objectively.
I am not.
I shift my attention inward and approach the problem structurally. What I feel is not cognitive. It is physical: warmth, movement, an awareness that does not belong to me.
Not chaotic, exactly.
Uncontained.
Like fire contained within a shape it has no intention of respecting.
Jules is like fire.
This is invasive.
Except, it isn’t wholly destabilizing the way it should be. Beneath the restless movement and excess energy, there is something that holds. Something unexpectedly solid.
An anchor.
I reject the interpretation immediately. Contradictions are inefficient.
The bond is functioning. Jules is stabilized. Her risk of external interference has been reduced. Therefore, the mechanism is effective.
That conclusion is clean. Usable.
I hold on to it as I collect my documents, align their edges without looking down, and walk into the corridor at the same measured pace I have maintained all day.
Externally, nothing has changed.
Internally, Jules remains beneath my skin.
Constant. Unavoidable.
I correct my posture and continue moving.
***
The first stage of the Council and Eon-approved rollout plan is a marriage announcement interview.
I scheduled it for the same afternoon because delay creates speculation, and speculation creates variables.
The obvious solution was to establish the public narrative before anyone could build an alternative.
At the time, the decision was efficient.
Now, with the bond newly active and Jules humming against the edges of my awareness, it appears we should have allowed more time for adjustment.
The realisation comes too late to be useful.
Before the interview, I stand alone in a nearby bathroom and run cold water over my wrists. It has no effect. I splash some across my face instead, careful not to disturb what the makeup team has already applied, then press my damp fingertips against the marble counter.
The warmth remains. Jules’s energy has no respect for boundaries, including biological ones.
I adjust my watch and watch myself in the mirror until my expression returns to neutral.
Then I enter the Tower’s media studio exactly on time.
Jules is not there.
Of course.
The prep area beyond the set is already active.
Stylists move racks into position while PR strategists argue quietly over phrasing and brand managers review engagement projections on tablets.
Onstage, two chairs have been placed beneath warm lighting against a neutral Eon backdrop.
Every detail has been designed to suggest intimacy without appearing staged.
“Camille.” One of the senior strategists approaches me. “We need to finalize the narrative before the announcement.”
“We’re behind,” another says.
“We’re on schedule,” I correct.
We are. Jules is not.
I take control of the briefing. “The relationship has been private and long-standing, not newly formed.”
“Timeline?”
“Six months minimum. Anything shorter lacks credibility.”
“Origin?”
“Professional proximity developing into a personal connection.”
“Too vague.”
“Intentionally.”
They nod.
This is where I function best. Structure. Narrative. Control. Every detail slots into place exactly where it belongs.
Jules arrives ten minutes late.
I feel her before I see her, a bright flare of energy pressing against the bond as she slips through the studio door. My body recognizes her presence before my eyes confirm it.
Unacceptable.
She crosses the floor looking entirely unbothered, dressed for the announcement in an outfit selected to complement mine without matching it too closely.
Slim gold bands have been added to our left hands, understated enough to look personal rather than promotional.
The stylists make one last adjustment to her hair before guiding her onto the set.
I take my seat beside her.
Beyond the cameras, the rest of Midnight Halo waits with Blaire. Mina gives Jules an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Jules answers with a peace sign before turning to me, her smile sharpening.
“So I saw the script. We’re madly in love now?” she asks. “Got it.”
I glance down at the approved talking points on the monitor between us. “We need believable, not theatrical.”
She grins. “I can do believable.”
“You haven’t yet.”
Her laugh registers twice. I hear it, then feel the flicker of amusement beneath it, light and warm against the bond. She leans into humor like armor.
I dislike how easily I recognize it.
More than that, I dislike that I would recognize it with my eyes closed now.
She leans closer. “Elaborate.”
“Less exaggeration. More consistency. You are not performing for attention. You are maintaining a narrative.”
Her head tilts. “Those feel like the same thing.”
“They are not.”
She opens her mouth, then closes it and smiles instead. Through the bond, amusement brightens into satisfaction. She knows she irritates me.
“Okay,” she says. “So I’m in love with you, but like… chill about it?”
“Controlled,” I correct.
“Controlled love,“ she repeats. “Hot.”
I ignore that.
“Stick to the structure,” I say. “If you deviate, I will correct.”
She leans back in her chair. “You’ve been doing that already.”
Yes.
I have.
Now it is permanent.
“Thirty seconds,” the floor manager calls.
I angle my body three degrees toward Jules.
The interviewer takes her seat across from us, smiling with the measured warmth of someone who has been given strict instructions not to improvise.
The cameras begin rolling.
The interviewer faces the center camera with a polished smile. “Today, Midnight Halo’s Jules Navarro and Eon director Camille Hart are sharing some unexpected news. They are not only in a relationship, but also officially married.”
The shot widens to include all three of us.
“Thank you both for sitting down with us,” she says, turning toward us. “I think it’s safe to say no one expected today’s announcement.”
“That was intentional,” I reply.
“Who doesn’t love a good surprise?” Jules adds with a wink.
The interviewer laughs. Jules smiles as though she has already won something. Slightly off-script, but effective.
“So let’s start with the question everyone is asking. How long have you been together?”
“About six months,” Jules says easily.
“Privately,” I add. “We wanted to maintain professional boundaries while we determined what the relationship meant to us.”
The phrasing is approved. Calm, credible, intentionally restrained.
The interviewer turns to Jules. “Six months is a long time to keep something like this secret, especially with Midnight Halo under so much scrutiny. Was that difficult?”
Jules leans back. “I’m excellent at secrets.”
Remy makes a quiet, disbelieving sound from behind the cameras.
Jules ignores it. “But yes. Sometimes. But Camille is a very private person, and I respected that.”
That is not the approved answer.
She was supposed to say we agreed to keep the relationship out of the public eye while we established professional boundaries. Clean. Plausible. Controlled.
Instead, she makes it sound personal.
I keep my expression neutral while annoyance flickers sharp through the bond.
The interviewer looks at me. “What first drew you to Jules?”
The question was approved. I prepared three possible responses. Her confidence. Her loyalty. Her ability to connect with an audience.
All accurate. All strategically useful.
Jules turns toward me, waiting.
“Her confidence,” I say. “Jules is entirely comfortable being seen. That is difficult not to notice, and even more difficult not to be drawn to.”
It is the safest answer.
The interviewer smiles. “And Jules? What drew you to Camille?”
“Are you kidding? Have you seen her?”
Laughter moves through the crew.
That is not one of the approved responses. She was supposed to mention my intelligence, my discipline, or my ability to remain calm under pressure. Three credible answers, all reviewed in advance.
Instead, she gestures vaguely in my direction as if my appearance is sufficient explanation.
I keep my expression neutral. Mostly. What, exactly, is she doing?
The interviewer laughs again. “So who made the first move?”
“Me,” Jules says immediately.
“Repeatedly,” I add.
Her grin widens.
“What did that first move look like?” the interviewer asks.
Jules places a hand over her chest. “I was subtle.”
“No,” I say.
“Charming?”
“Persistent.”
“Seductive?”
“Disruptive.”
She leans closer. “But memorable.”
I hold her gaze for one calculated second. “Unfortunately.”
The interviewer laughs hard enough that the producer behind the camera gives me an approving signal.
The exchange works. Jules’s public persona remains intact, while my resistance creates the impression of established familiarity rather than genuine hostility. Through the bond, her satisfaction brushes against me like heat.
She knows exactly what she is doing.
“What made you decide to go public now?” the interviewer asks.
“Circumstances changed,” I say. “Maintaining privacy was no longer the most practical choice.”
Jules glances at me, then turns back to the interviewer with bright sincerity. “And we’re very brave.”
I do not react, but the interviewer laughs.
Acceptable.
“Was there a proposal?”
“It was a mutual decision,” I say.
“Yes, of course there was a proposal,” Jules cuts in. “Romance isn’t dead, after all. Right, Camille?”
She winks at me. Another deviation.
“But we’re keeping the details private for now,” she adds smoothly.
The interviewer gestures toward our hands. “And you already have rings.”
“Yes,” I say.
Jules lifts her left hand toward the camera, displaying the band. “Very romantic. Very us.”
“Can we get a closer shot of both rings together?” the producer asks from behind the main camera.
The request is practical. Visual confirmation increases credibility and gives media outlets a clean still image for coverage.
I extend my hand. Jules shifts closer and places hers beside it, but the framing is insufficient. The floor manager gestures for us to close the gap.
“Closer, please.”
Jules’s chair moves until her knee brushes mine. Then she layers her hand over mine, resting it directly on my skin.
The bond responds immediately. The restless energy settles. Not visibly. No one else reacts.
But I feel it.
The bright, restless current smooths into alignment, the edges softening as her skin brushes mine. My own breathing catches for less than a second.
Too long.
Jules glances at me. She felt it too.
Proximity produces measurable stabilization, but physical contact strengthens the effect further.
I catalogue the information for later.
Then Jules turns her palm upward and laces our fingers together.
Her gaze lifts to mine, faintly flirtatious and unmistakably challenging, as if she is waiting to see whether I will pull away on camera.
I don’t. Not because I approve of the improvisation. Because reacting would give her exactly what she wants.
Still, my annoyance flashes sharp through the bond. Her amusement answers immediately.
The interviewer smiles at our joined hands. “You two seem very different. How do you make that work?”
“Spreadsheets,” Jules says.
“Communication,” I correct.
“She sends me spreadsheets about communication.”
“I have never done that,” I protest.
“Not yet.”
The interviewer looks at me. “Does Jules ever make you loosen up?”
Jules’s fingers tighten around mine. “Oh, I’m very good at making her loosen up.”
She winks.
The crew laughs, and satisfaction flashes through the bond before she can hide it.
I keep my expression neutral and return to the approved framework. “She encourages spontaneity. Our differences create balance.”
I face the interviewer again.
The remaining questions are predictable. How we will balance the marriage with the tour. Whether the other members knew. What this means for Midnight Halo’s future.
I answer with structure. Jules adds warmth. Whenever she drifts too far, I redirect her. Whenever my answers become too clinical, she turns them into something the audience can feel.
The mechanism is unexpectedly efficient.
The final question is directed at both of us.
“What would you say to fans who might be surprised by the news?”
“Surprise is understandable,” I say. “We chose privacy because it allowed us to build something without external pressure. Going public does not change the relationship. It only changes who is aware of it.”
Approved. Controlled. Believable.
The interviewer turns to Jules. “And what would you say to the fans hearing this for the first time?”
Jules looks directly into the camera, her expression softening just enough to appear sincere. “That we’re happy. That nothing about Midnight Halo is changing. And that they should probably give Camille a minute to get used to having several million new in-laws.”
Laughter moves through the crew.
I turn to her. She smiles sweetly. The floor manager signals closing.
“Congratulations to you both, and thank you for sharing this with us.”
The cameras cut. The lights dim, and the room exhales.
“Perfect,” someone says.
“Exactly what we needed.”
“Engagement projections are going to spike.”
The narrative holds. The system works.
Externally, the interview is a success.
I release Jules’s hand and stand, adjusting my sleeve as I prepare for the next phase of the rollout.
The connection remains.
Not physically or visibly, but present. Constant. Integrated.
I attempt to compartmentalize it again. Isolate the warmth of her hand from the awareness beneath my skin. Separate her emotions from mine.
It doesn’t work.
Jules stands beside me, speaking to Mina, but I feel the lingering satisfaction beneath her words. The quiet relief. The current beginning to accelerate again now that the contact has ended.
I still for one second, then straighten.
The bond is functioning. Jules is stable. The narrative holds.
Every measurable outcome is within acceptable range.