21. Jules
Jules
Waking up feels like being dragged out of deep water.
Slow. Heavy. Everything hurts before I even open my eyes, like my body filed a complaint while I was unconscious and is now presenting the evidence.
Cool. Love that for me.
Something warm is wrapped around my hand. Steady. Grounding. I don’t question it. I just latch on.
“Camille?” I mumble, my voice rough and barely there.
Silence.
Then a soft inhale.
“Hey,” Mina says gently.
My eyes open.
Right.
Mina.
Not Camille.
The disappointment lasts only a second, but it lasts long enough.
I blink until the room comes into focus in pieces: white walls, monitors, and that constant electronic beeping that says you’re fine in the least convincing way possible.
Mina sits beside the bed, still holding my hand.
Remy leans against the opposite wall with her arms crossed, looking like she hasn’t moved in hours.
They both look terrible.
“You scared us,” Mina says.
I swallow against my dry throat. “Yeah. That tracks.”
My voice sounds too thin.
I squeeze her hand, mostly to prove I can. “Damn. Wife bailed already?”
Mina’s expression flickers. Her eyes dart toward Remy, who gives nothing away.
“She’s handling things,” Remy says.
Not an answer. Or maybe exactly the answer I should have expected.
Pain cuts through my ribs, and I immediately regret every decision that led me here.
“Wow,” I mutter. “Rude. My body has a lot of opinions right now.”
Mina lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “Yeah. It does.”
I settle against the pillow and stare at the ceiling.
Of course Camille isn’t here. She’s busy handling PR, controlling the damage, and fixing whatever story the internet has invented about my dramatic onstage collapse.
That is literally her job.
And I’m—
Nope.
Not finishing that thought.
“Do I look cool, at least?” I ask. “Hot injured pop star? Or more ‘girl who lost a fight with a lighting rig’?”
“Jules,” Mina says, half exasperated and half relieved.
“What? It’s important.”
Remy pushes away from the wall and comes closer. “You look like you should stay still.”
“Wow. Brutal. No filter.”
She doesn’t smile, but some of the tension leaves her shoulders.
Good.
Time gets strange after that. Doctors come and go.
They ask questions, shine lights in my eyes, press against places that hurt, and adjust things I don’t care about.
Kaia arrives after the second round of scans, composed and efficient, asking all the right questions and making sure no one forgets anything important.
I answer when I have to. Joke when I can. Keep it light.
That’s what I do.
But every time the door opens, I look.
Only for a second.
It is never her.
That’s fine.
The bond feels wrong too. Still there, but distant, like a radio signal just beyond range.
I don’t like it.
I definitely don’t examine why.
By the time the doctors clear me to leave, irritation has mostly replaced fear. I’m annoyed by the pain, the stiffness, and the way everyone keeps watching me as though I might shatter if they blink.
“I’m literally fine,” I say for the third time as Mina helps me sit up.
“You were thrown into stage equipment,” Remy says.
“Okay, but I stuck the landing.”
“You did not.”
“Agree to disagree.”
Kaia sighs and continues coordinating our return to the hotel.
They decide against keeping me overnight. The hotel is controlled, private, and easier for Mr. Bane to secure. I receive several pages of discharge instructions no one trusts me to follow without supervision.
Fair.
When I get back to our suite, it is far too quiet.
I step inside slowly, trying not to reveal how much every movement hurts.
Camille stands near the window with her phone pressed to her ear.
Of course she does.
“No, I want the specialist consultation confirmed before morning,” she says, her voice sharp and precise. “I don’t care if you have to—“
She sees me and pauses.
Only for a second.
Then she finishes the call as though nothing happened.
“Update me when it’s done.”
She hangs up.
Silence settles between us.
I lean against the doorframe and loosely cross my arms, ignoring the protest from my shoulder. “Wow. There she is.”
Her gaze moves over me in one efficient sweep. Face. Shoulder. Ribs. Balance.
An injury assessment.
“You should be resting.”
No hello. No I’m glad you’re awake. No indication that she spent last night wrapped around me or that she looked at me yesterday morning like she might actually see me.
Fine.
I push away from the door and step farther into the room. “You’d think my loving wife would be at my bedside.” The line comes out light and easy.
Something twists through the bond. Sharp. Painful. Gone before I can identify it.
Camille goes still. Only for a second.
“We’re only married on paper.”
Oh.
Right.
For one second, everything inside me goes still. Not dramatically. Nothing breaks. I don’t fall apart.
I just understand.
I nod once. Small and automatic. “Wow. Romance really is dead.”
I force out a quiet laugh as though the sentence didn’t hit exactly where she intended it to.
Or maybe she didn’t intend anything.
That might be worse.
“God, can you imagine if this was real?” I add. “Tragic.”
She doesn’t respond.
Of course she doesn’t.
I move toward the bed, slower now.
One bed.
The room I booked on purpose because, less than twenty-four hours ago, it seemed like my best idea yet.
Now it feels like the worst.
I lower myself onto the far edge and adjust until the pain fades into something manageable. The bond remains faint but steady beneath my skin.
It doesn’t feel the same.
Or maybe I don’t.
Nope.
Not going there either.
“Anyway,” I say, picking at the edge of the blanket, “next time I almost die, I’ll make sure to schedule it around your availability.”
I don’t look at her. I already know what I would see.
Control. Distance. The clean, careful line she keeps between herself and everything else.
Including me.
“Good to know where we stand,” I add.
She still doesn’t answer.
That’s fine.
Better, actually.
Now it’s clear. There is no confusion, no blurred line between the contract and whatever happened in Barcelona. No reason to mistake proximity for affection or sex for something it wasn’t.
Just a job.
A bond.
A marriage on paper.
I lie back carefully and stare at the ceiling.
My body hurts. My head is still spinning.
Neither is the real problem.
I close my eyes before I can name what is.
“Wake me up if the world ends again,” I mutter.
No one laughs.
I don’t expect them to.
The quiet settles over the room, heavy and complete. It doesn’t feel steady this time.
It feels empty.
Good.
Empty is easier.
Safer.
Yeah.
That’s definitely safer.