13. Jules #3
Everyone separates in the hallway. Kaia calls after me to be ready for soundcheck. Remy disappears into her room without speaking. Mina gives me one last concerned look before following.
Camille stops at the door beside mine.
Then she opens it.
Right.
Ours.
I follow her inside.
The suite has two separate sleeping areas divided by a doorway this time, which is either a major improvement or Eon’s attempt to prevent a murder.
One room holds a low bed beside rain-streaked windows.
The other sits nearer a built-in desk and a wall of dark shelves.
Grey fabric, warm wood, muted lighting. No chandeliers.
No visible evidence that anyone expects us to consummate anything.
Still, two beds.
“Wow,” I say, dropping my bag beside the window one. “Consistency. Love that for us.”
Camille closes the main door behind us. She doesn’t answer.
We have less than an hour before we’re expected downstairs for a tour briefing, followed by soundcheck at the arena and dinner with the local production team. Apparently crossing state lines overnight does not qualify as a reason to stop scheduling things.
Outside, Seattle stretches beneath a curtain of rain, all dark glass, wet streets, and music venues tucked between coffee shops. Under different circumstances, I’d already be plotting how to escape long enough to find something loud, local, and probably held together by exposed brick.
Instead, I’m operating on bus sleep and whatever caffeine remains in my bloodstream.
Camille looks worse. Not visibly, unless you know what to look for.
Her posture is still exact, her cream blouse somehow unwrinkled, but faint shadows sit beneath her eyes and her movements are a fraction slower than usual.
She must have spent most of the drive upright in one of the front seats, working while the rest of us slept.
Her tablet is open before her suitcase is unpacked.
For several minutes, she works in silence in the main area while I only half-pretend not to watch. Emails. Schedules. Whatever crisis she’s decided can’t survive without her immediate attention.
“You know,” I say eventually, “this is legally a honeymoon. You should rest at least a little.”
“I am working,” she says evenly.
“Yeah, I can tell. You’ve sent, like, twelve emails in the last five minutes. Impressive. Truly inspirational.”
She ignores me.
Rude.
I sit on the edge of my bed and watch her for a second. Her platinum hair is still pulled back, but not perfectly. A few strands have escaped around her face. Focused like this, everything else disappears for her.
It’s kind of terrifying.
And a little—
Nope.
Absolutely not.
I get up and wander behind her chair, leaning just enough to see the screen. “Oh my God. Is that a spreadsheet about me?”
“It’s a schedule.”
“It has color coding.”
“Yes.”
“For my personality traits?”
Her fingers pause over the tablet. Slowly, she turns her head. “No.”
“Because if you’ve assigned me a color, I feel like I should know. Am I red? Chaotic red? Actually, no. Orange. Definitely orange. High energy, poor decision-making, excellent in warm tones.”
“Jules.”
“What? I’m trying to understand how I’m being categorized as a human being. This matters to me.”
“It’s the revised security schedule.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean closer and squint. “Then why does it say ‘containment risk window’ next to my name?”
Her lips press together.
I grin. “Oh my God, it does, doesn’t it? I’m a risk. That’s so flattering. You think I’m dangerous.”
She exhales sharply.
Then she laughs.
It’s small and quick, barely more than a breath, as if it escaped before she could stop it.
We both freeze.
Camille’s expression closes immediately, every trace of amusement sealed away behind that familiar composure.
Too late.
I saw it.
I lean closer. “There it is. Knew you had one.”
“That was not—“
“That was a laugh. A real one.” I place a hand over my chest. “I’m honored. Should I document this? First confirmed instance of Camille Hart experiencing joy?”
“Go shower.”
“You can’t undo it. I heard everything.”
“We leave in thirty-seven minutes.”
I retreat to my bed, delighted. “And now you’re trying to bury the evidence beneath scheduling. Classic.”
She gives me a flat, unimpressed look before returning to her tablet.
Recovered.
Mostly.
But I’ve got it now. Filed away. Weaponized.
For half a second, I got through.
The knot that’s been sitting in my chest since the livestream loosens.
Not completely, but enough that the room feels less heavy.
Enough that Camille looks less like the woman who watched me nearly disappear on camera and more like the impossible, irritating person I’ve somehow managed to make laugh.
She isn’t unshakeable. She isn’t some perfectly controlled system without a weak point.
Camille Hart glitches.
And apparently, I can make it happen.
I grab my shower bag and head toward the bathroom. “Orange, by the way.”
She doesn’t look up. “You’re yellow.”
I stop in the doorway.
Slowly, I turn around. “You really assigned me a color?”
She doesn’t answer, but something faint and warm brushes the bond.
I grin all the way into the shower.