11. Jules
Jules
The bus smells like coffee, citrus cleaner, and the very specific brand of chaos that follows us everywhere.
Tour energy.
It’s back, baby!
We’re pulling away from Eon Tower and heading towards the heart of Las Vegas for the first stop of the North American leg of ECLIPSE RUN. The excitement buzzes beneath my skin, loud and bright and almost normal.
Better than normal, actually.
For the first time in weeks, I feel rested. Not technically slept for several hours rested. Genuinely rested. Clearheaded. Energized. Like something inside me finally stopped running long enough to recharge.
Maybe it’s the bond. Maybe it’s the absence of some creepy demonic presence hanging over me, waiting to crawl inside.
Probably both.
Whatever. I feel great.
“Tell me when we get there,” Kaia says for the third time, even though she’s already halfway down the aisle toward her seat.
She opens her phone without looking up, already typing, despite the fact that we just left.
Evie, obviously. Of course it’s Evie.
Kaia sits, thumbs moving immediately, expression softening in that way that makes it very clear she is not here with us right now.
She’s somewhere else.
Emotionally compromised.
Tragic.
“Wow.” I slide into my seat. “Look at her. Gone. Lost to love.”
Remy doesn’t glance up from her tablet. “You’re one to talk.”
“Excuse me. I am the picture of emotional stability.”
“You got married yesterday.”
“Fake married,” I correct. “Important distinction.”
From a few rows back, Blaire says, “Not publicly.”
I twist around. She’s already reviewing something that probably determines the fate of the tour, our careers, or civilization itself.
“Hi, Blaire. Quick question. On a scale from one to deeply unethical, how concerned should I be about my current life situation?”
“Moderately,” she replies without looking up.
Cool.
Love that.
I turn back as Mina slides into the seat beside me and bumps her shoulder against mine.
“Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey, Moonbeam.”
She smiles, but there’s tension around the edges. She’s watching me again.
Everyone does that now.
It’s getting old.
“You okay?”
I grin immediately. “Never better. I’ve always wanted a wife. Really completes me as a person.”
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Okay, but, like… actually.”
“Actually?” I lean closer and lower my voice. “I think this is going to be incredible for my personal brand. Married but still hot? Revolutionary.”
She bumps me again. “I’m serious.”
For half a second, I almost answer honestly.
I almost tell her that I feel good. Suspiciously good. That I slept harder last night than I have in months and woke up without the static humming at the base of my skull. That whatever the bond is doing, it’s working.
Which is deeply annoying, considering Camille is still the worst possible person to be bonded to. My body may have decided she’s calming. The rest of me remains unconvinced.
Instead, I steal one of her earbuds.
“Hey—“
“What are we listening to?” I ask, already shoving it in.
She sighs but lets me. “A new track I found. It’s good.”
Across the aisle, Camille sits exactly where anyone would expect her to be. Seat upright. Tablet open. Already working.
Of course she is.
Cream blouse, platinum hair pulled back, gold watch catching the morning light whenever she moves. She hasn’t taken even a second to acknowledge that we got married yesterday and are now driving into Las Vegas together like the beginning of a terrible romantic comedy.
Not that I care, obviously.
Near the front of the bus, Craig is strapped securely into his seat like the world’s creepiest passenger, one skeletal hand lifted in a permanent wave. Blaire insisted he needed to be secured for the drive. I maintain that he deserves the full tour experience.
My actual child was not invited. My sister picked Angel up from the Tower last night, as she does every time we leave, and she has already sent me four photos proving my dog has emotionally replaced me. Apparently unrestricted auntie access is all it takes to erase years of maternal devotion.
The bus picks up speed, Los Angeles blurring past the windows.
For a while, it’s easy. Music and conversation. Mina showing me songs while I pretend to have good taste. Remy occasionally contributing something dry enough to make it ten times funnier. Kaia smiling at her phone like she has stopped trying to hide it.
Normal.
Almost.
I shift and glance across the aisle.
Camille still hasn’t moved.
I settle deeper into my seat and stretch my legs out in front of me. Everything is fine. We’re rested, married, demon-resistant, and on our way to open the biggest tour of our lives in Las Vegas.
I lean my head back and close my eyes. “Wake me up when we get there.”
***
Vegas announces itself before we even reach the hotel.
Our faces are everywhere.
A forty-foot version of Kaia stares down from one digital billboard while another cycles through the four of us beneath the words ECLIPSE RUN: OPENING NIGHT. Three blocks later, my own face appears across the side of a casino, frozen mid-grin with both Voltstep blades blazing in my hands.
“Subtle,” I say, pressing closer to the bus window.
Remy glances up from her tablet. “You love it.”
“I can love something and still recognize its complete lack of restraint.”
By the time the bus pulls beneath the hotel’s gold-lit entrance, fans are already packed behind the barriers. Their screams penetrate the glass before the doors open.
Tour energy hits all at once.
We step out together, Midnight Halo arranged automatically without anyone needing to say it.
Kaia leads. Mina waves with both hands. Remy gives the crowd one of her rare smiles, which somehow makes them louder.
I blow a kiss toward someone holding a sign that reads JULES, RUIN MY LIFE, because it would be rude not to acknowledge such a reasonable request.
Camille exits shortly behind us with Blaire, cream suit immaculate and expression composed as security guides us through the entrance. She doesn’t wave. She doesn’t need to. Cameras swing toward her anyway.
Apparently marrying me has made her interesting.
You’re welcome, wife.
Inside, the hotel is all gold, smoked glass, and huge chandeliers.
Staff rush us through a private corridor while our luggage disappears ahead of us.
Mr. Bane arrived before the bus, which means the entire floor has already been warded six ways to hell.
Thin geometric sigils flicker beneath the lift doors when they close, and another set pulses briefly under the carpet as we step into the hallway.
Comforting.
In a deeply unsettling way.
Everyone starts peeling off toward their assigned rooms. Kaia and Mina disappear through neighboring doors. Remy claims the suite at the end of the hall. Blaire is still discussing tomorrow’s schedule when Camille walks past me without breaking stride.
“This is us,” she says.
She is already halfway toward the next door before the meaning catches up with me.
I stop.
It genuinely had not occurred to me until this exact moment that being fake married might involve sharing actual space.
I look at the door, then at Camille, then back at the door.
“No.”
She taps the keycard against the lock like this is completely normal behavior.
“No,” I repeat, louder, because apparently I need to advocate for myself in my own fake marriage.
The door opens. I follow her inside and immediately stop again.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
The suite looks like someone took a perfectly normal two-bed room and forced it through a honeymoon rebrand.
Gold fixtures. Glass walls. Mirrored panels.
A sunken sitting area positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip.
There is a dining table we will never use, a marble bar, and enough soft lighting to make every surface look suggestive.
At least there are two beds.
Two enormous beds, separated by a gold-and-glass table that feels less like a practical design choice and more like the hotel acknowledging that some marriages require a demilitarize zone.
Thank God, because I’m not sleeping on the sofa.
I turn slowly toward Camille. “You didn’t think this was worth mentioning?”
She sets her bag neatly on the luggage rack, as if she has known about this all day.
“It was implied.”
“By who? The voices in your spreadsheets?”
She doesn’t answer. Of course she doesn’t. She’s already inspecting the suite, checking the windows, exits, and faint ward lines etched into the doorframe. Probably calculating how likely I am to trigger an international incident if left unsupervised.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to process the fact that I am living with my—
Nope.
Not saying it. Not thinking it. Absolutely not happening.
“This is insane,” I decide. “I need you to know that.”
“It’s necessary.”
“For who? The audience? They’re not here.”
“Staff is.”
I gesture broadly at the empty room. “Where? In the walls? The air? The general concept of surveillance?”
“The Council requires close proximity during the initial stabilization period. Separate room assignments would also contradict the public narrative,” she says.
I pause. Okay. Fair.
I hate that she’s right.
She crosses toward the bed nearest the desk and places her tablet on the nightstand.
I immediately drop my bag onto the same mattress.
Camille looks at it. Then at me. “That is my bed.”
“Interesting theory.”
“It has the most direct access to the workstation.”
“And the best view.”
“You do not require the view while sleeping.”
“You don’t require a workstation while sleeping.”
“I will be working before I sleep.”
“Tragic. Still taking it.”
I sit on the edge of the mattress and bounce once. Excellent mattress. Definitely mine.
Camille adjusts her watch. “The other bed is identical.”
“Then you should have no problem using it.”
“The lighting is inadequate.”
“For sleeping?”
“For reviewing documents.”
I stare at her. “You mapped out our beds before telling me we were sharing a suite.”
“Yes.”
“And you still chose not to warn me.”
“It would not have altered the outcome.”