18. Camille
Camille
I wake before her.
That is not unusual.
What is unusual is that I do not move.
For several seconds, I remain still and register the room, the quiet, and Jules asleep beside me. One arm is thrown above her head as though she collapsed mid-motion and never corrected it. Completely unguarded. Completely uncontained.
The bond hums low between us.
Steady. Calm. Stabilized.
I close my eyes.
This was a mistake.
No. Incorrect.
It was a situational response to stress, proximity, and residual instability from the possession attempt.
That is all.
I sit up, breaking the moment cleanly.
Efficiently.
Good.
I am out of bed by the time Jules shifts, dragging a hand across her face as she wakes.
“Morning, wife.”
The word lands incorrectly.
I do not turn around. “This does not change anything.”
Silence follows, long enough for me to feel her pause through the bond.
Then she says lightly, “Wow. You really know how to ruin a perfectly good morning.”
“I am clarifying expectations.”
“Mm. Romantic.”
I do not engage. I cross to the desk, open my laptop, and pull up the schedule. Metrics. Timelines. Structure.
Something clean.
Something stable.
Something I can control.
Behind me, the mattress shifts.
“Relax,” Jules says. “I’m not about to start planning our anniversary.”
“That would be inefficient.”
“God, you’re consistent.”
Yes.
I am.
I need to be.
***
Breakfast is served in a private dining room overlooking Barcelona.
Morning light pours through tall arched windows, turning the pale stone buildings outside gold. The table is crowded with coffee, pastries, fruit, eggs, and several dishes Jules ordered because she recognized none of their names and considered that a challenge.
There is too much movement. Too much conversation. Too much noise.
Not physically. Not in any measurable way.
Jules sits across from me with one leg stretched into Mina’s space as though personal boundaries are theoretical. They are sharing something on Jules’s phone, laughing while Remy watches them without appearing to.
Kaia sits farther down the table, texting Evie.
Normal.
This is normal.
It should feel controlled.
It does not.
“You’re staring,” Kevin says quietly as he sets a fresh coffee beside me.
“I’m observing.”
He glances towards Jules, then back at me. “Looks normal to me.”
“It is.”
“So why do you look like you’re about to reorganize the entire tour schedule again?”
“That is not relevant.”
“It’s a little relevant.”
I do not respond because doing so might produce something inaccurate.
Like: because I cannot stop tracking her.
Jules laughs again, bright and easy, and leans closer to Mina until their shoulders touch.
My chest tightens… It is not Mina.
It is the ease with which Jules turns away from me and becomes exactly what she was before last night.
I adjust my watch once.
Then again.
I stop.
I do not fidget.
I refocus on the screen in front of me.
Voss has been messaging me since six this morning. The language changes, but the instruction does not.
Engagement remains below target.
Increase positive-content saturation.
The narrative requires stronger displacement.
The conspiracy footage is circulating again.
Clips from Harbor’s Edge, the distorted livestream, fragments of backstage equipment moving without visible cause.
Every new spike in official Midnight Halo content pushes those videos lower in search results and gives the recommendation systems something more marketable to prioritise.
Higher engagement means more interviews, performances, and marriage content flooding the same channels.
More noise to bury the wrong kind.
The strategy is effective.
It is also placing additional pressure on four women who are already exhausted.
Jules drops into the empty chair across from me without invitation. “You’re being weird.”
“I’m working.”
“You’re avoiding me,” she accuses with a smile.
“I am not.”
“You are.”
I keep my attention on the schedule. “If you are finished analysing my behavior, you have rehearsal notes to review.”
“Already did.”
“Then hydrate.”
“Done.”
“Then rest.”
She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m prioritizing.”
She studies me too closely.
I dislike that.
“Did you tell them?” I ask.
The question leaves before I can prevent it.
Immediate mistake.
Her eyebrows rise. “Tell them what?”
“Nothing.”
“Camille.”
“It is not relevant.”
Her eyes narrow. “Oh my God.”
“What?”
“You think I told them.”
“I did not say that.”
“You absolutely said that.”
“I asked a question.”
“You asked a very specific question.”
I look at her now, my expression controlled. “Information management is part of my job.”
“And you think I’m going to announce it to the group chat?” she asks. “Hey, guys. Quick update. Camille and I—“
“Jules.”
“What?” she asks. “I’m ‘clarifying expectations.’”
That is my line.
She smiles when she says it, but something sharper sits beneath the humor.
“You didn’t answer,” she adds.
“Answer what?”
“Whether it changes anything,” she says.
“It does not.”
“Right.” She leans back and shrugs. “Good to know.”
Then she is finished.
Conversation over.
She returns to Mina, slipping easily back into bright, unbothered normality as though last night did not happen. As though I did not—
No.
Irrelevant.
***
The Barcelona venue is smaller than the last three stops.
More intimate.
More controllable.
That is precisely why tonight’s strategy should work.
I pull up the engagement projections while Kevin reviews the final logistics beside me, his headset resting over one ear.
“The crowd’s already loud,” he says. “Feels different tonight.”
“That is expected.”
“Different how?”
“More responsive.”
“Mm.”
He does not sound convinced.
That is not data. It is a feeling.
I ignore it.
“Have the camera angles been adjusted?”
“Yes. You still want tighter shots?”
“Increase emotional visibility.”
He hesitates before nodding. “Got it.”
Blaire steps into the production area behind us, arms folded. “You’re pushing them tonight.”
“I’m optimizing output.”
“They’re already stretched.”
The performance configuration is already aggressive. I know that.
Reducing it now would require explaining why my judgment changed overnight. It did not change because of Jules. I will not allow it to appear that it did.
“They’re stable.”
“Camille.”
I do not look at her. “We need higher engagement.”
“We need them alive.”
The words land heavily.
I do not respond immediately because, technically, she is correct.
“We can maintain both,” I say.
“That’s not how it’s been trending.”
“Previous engagement thresholds were too conservative.”
She studies me for longer than necessary. “You’re sure about that?”
“Yes.”
I am.
I have to be.
Blaire exhales slowly. “Fine.”
It is not agreement.
Only a decision not to intervene.
Backstage is controlled chaos, and Jules is at its center.
Of course she is.
She catches my eye across the room and immediately changes direction, approaching like a problem I failed to prevent.
“You’re really committing to the ice-queen thing today,” she says, leaning against the table beside me.
“I’m working.”
“You’re always working.”
“That is the job.”
“Pretty sure your job isn’t ignoring your wife.”
“That is not—“
She leans closer. Too close.
“Or is it?” she murmurs.
The bond tightens, sharp and immediate.
I step back deliberately, restoring the appropriate distance.
“Focus on your performance.”
She laughs under her breath. “Wow. Cold.”
“You’re late to warm-ups.”
“I’m right on time.”
“You are not.”
Her grin widens. “There she is.”
“What?”
“Control-freak Camille. Missed you.”
“I have not gone anywhere.”
“No,” she says lightly. “You just pretend you did.”
Mina appears behind her, catching the end of the exchange. “Should I be concerned?”
“Nope,” Jules says immediately. “She’s just pretending she hates me again.”
“I don’t—“
Jules is already moving away, pulling Mina with her. “Come on. We’re about to be late, and apparently that’s a crime.”
Remy watches them leave.
Then she looks at me.
She knows something.
Of course she does.
I turn away first.
***
The venue operations room is active when I arrive.
Blaire stands at the center table with both hands braced against its edge. Mr. Bane occupies the far side, his assessment device connected to the venue’s warding interface. Kevin is beside the monitors, reviewing audience projections and pretending not to notice the tension in the room.
Devin appears on one screen.
Alaric Voss occupies another.
Of course he does.
“The bond is functional,” Bane says. “Jules’s signature remains reinforced, and there is no evidence of current alignment.”
“Current,” Blaire repeats. “That is doing a lot of work.”
Bane does not react. “Residual interference remains elevated after London. A twenty-four-hour observation period would produce a more reliable assessment.”
“Then we delay the performance,” Blaire says.
“No,” Devin replies immediately.
She turns towards his screen. “That was not a request for your opinion.”
“The venue is full. Sponsors are present. Post-marriage engagement is still above projection, and this is the first performance since the relationship narrative stabilized.”
“Jules was fully possessed less than forty-eight hours ago.”
“And the bond removed the entity,” Devin says. “Which means the mitigation strategy worked.”
“It means Camille pulled her back before the thing finished using her.”
Silence follows.
Voss breaks it.
“Can she perform?”
The question is directed at Bane.
“The issue is not physical capability,” he says. “The bond is providing protection, but neither participant has fully adapted to it. Emotional destabilization may affect its consistency.”
My body remains still.
Blaire looks at me.
I do not return the attention.
“What is your recommendation?” Voss asks.
“A reduced set,” Bane says. “No adaptive audience-response systems. No extended emotional peaks. Camille should remain within effective range throughout.”
Devin’s expression tightens. “Removing the response architecture will compromise the performance data.”
“It will lower supernatural exposure,” Blaire says.