Gold embroidery, high collar, exaggerated cuffs—Camille's handiwork, obviously. Not exactly subtle, but neither was she. I adjusted the fit as we stepped out of the apartment into the crisp morning air. She walked ahead, boots clicking confidently on the pavement, her curls catching the sun like a halo of fire.
"Hey," I called. "I thought everything you needed was in your office. Where are we actually going?"
She didn't even slow. "We have other business today."
I caught up, frowning. "What kind of business?"
She stopped just long enough to glance at me over her sunglasses. "The interview."
The one about her alleged involvement with the Masked Syndicate. Ever since someone had pointed out that the member's elaborate masks looked a little too familiar—mirroring her earlier work, echoing her signature lines—the conspiracy train had taken off without brakes.
Camille kept walking, and I followed, jaw tight.
"You sure you want to do this live?" I asked.
"You think I'd let someone else write my narrative?"
I hesitated. The answer was obvious.
"Can I come with you?" I asked.
She stopped again. This time, her smile was softer.
"You better," she said. "I'm not doing this alone."
I glanced at her. "That reminds me... I need a new mask. Journalist job."
Camille rolled her eyes playfully. "I'll get to it. But only if you promise something first."
"Don't take another job," she said, voice low but firm. "Not until we know it's safe for you. Promise me, Rey."
Her tone left no room for negotiation.
I nodded. "I promise."
We stopped by a mall first—not because we needed to, but because Camille insisted. Something about needing new materials, last-minute fabrics, and "emergency snacking provisions."
Inside, she darted between shops like a precision missile. I trailed behind with an increasing number of bags.
Every so often, someone would recognize her.
"Oh my god, it's Camille Voss!"
A woman squealed. "She's even more radiant in person!"
Then they'd look at me. Not with curiosity. With disdain. Like I'd stepped on sacred ground. Like I'd dragged muddy boots across a designer rug.
One teenage fan whispered loudly to her friend, "Who even is that guy?"
Another gasped, "He touched the blazer."
Camille, of course, found it all hilarious.
She offered no clarification. No explanations. Just let them simmer in their righteous offense.
Eventually, we arrived at the news station.
A tall, glass-paneled building with a giant rotating screen above the entrance blaring news blurbs and celebrity gossip in equal measure. The front desk receptionist blinked when he saw us.
"Camille Voss," she said. "Here for the live interview."
He nodded, pressed a button, and called someone up.
Camille draped an arm around my shoulder.
The man made a noise like he'd swallowed something sour but said nothing else.
We were escorted to a backstage area that looked straight out of a late-night talk show—leather couches, bright lights, and way too much beige.
As Camille walked toward the set, a bulky stagehand stepped in front of me. He shoved me lightly in the chest.
Literally. Didn't budge an inch.
Thank you, Boxer and Construction Worker Portfolio.
"She's with me," I said.
"Don't care," the man replied. "Only the guest goes in."
"Let him through," Camille called, voice calm but sharp.
"Sorry, miss," the man said. "You gotta follow protocol. Not to mention that it's not like you can refuse doing the interview. If you did that, it will only raise more suspicion about the Syndicate thing."
My muscles tensed. A dozen possible moves flared in my mind.
Then Camille let out a laugh.
Not a cute giggle. Not a flirty tease.
A full-bodied, queen-on-her-throne, you-dare-defy-me laugh.
She pulled out her phone, already opening a live stream.
"You want to talk suspicion? Let's talk optics. What's more suspicious—me choosing not to answer a ridiculous accusation, or you barring my guest and treating me like I'm under arrest? Go ahead. Let the world see how you treat people."
I'd always known Camille was confident. Teasing. Commanding. But this was something else.
This was war paint and fire.
The man scowled, muttered something under his breath, and stepped aside.
We walked in together.
"That was... impressive," I said.
She didn't look at me. Just sipped from a water bottle and whispered, "You're welcome."
There was the faintest hint of pink on her cheeks.
We took our seats at the talk show table. Lights blazed. A countdown began.
The music played, jazzy and upbeat. The set lit up.
Two hosts entered from the side—a tall, gleaming man in a maroon suit and a woman with a sleek ponytail and predatory smile.
"Welcome back to Truth & Tact, your source for elegance, insight, and a hint of scandal," the man boomed.
"And today, we have the one and only Camille Voss joining us to address the swirling rumors about her connection to the Masked Syndicate."
"And with her," Mira said, eyebrow raised, "a mystery guest."
Darius gave me the once-over, his smile fixed. "We'll get to that."
They started light. Fashion questions. Upcoming lines. How Camille felt about the rumors, the media, the fans.
Camille answered with charm and grace, occasionally deflecting with humor. She was good at this. Too good. As if she'd done it all her life.
I chimed in once or twice.
The temperature changed every time I did.
Camille would chuckle, or nod, or even rest her hand near mine on the table. But the hosts?
Their smiles stiffened.
They didn't like me here.
I didn't fit their narrative.
And they were waiting.
Eventually, Darius leaned forward.
"So, Camille," he said, voice smooth. "One thing we're all wondering... why bring someone to your interview who isn't even A-Rank?"
He looked directly at me.
"Who is this guy, really?"
That line. The weight behind it. The implication.
They were going to use me to embarrass her. To paint her as unprofessional. To insinuate that she had something to hide.
I could see it now—the headlines, the edited clips, the faux-concerned analysts dissecting her every glance toward me.
I straightened in my chair.
If they wanted a show... they were going to get one.