The silence was a creature of its own—wide-eyed, fanged, and still. It sprawled over the studio like a suffocating velvet sheet.
Darius didn't move. Not a blink, not a breath. Mira's face was crimson—half fury, half horror. Her lip curled like she was about to spit something, but her voice betrayed her, locked behind clenched teeth and panic.
Only the camera blinked. Red light, still rolling. Still catching every frame of their disgrace.
And then—
Clatter.
Someone in the back—a nervous assistant, probably—knocked over a water bottle. It rolled off the table and hit the floor with a loud thunk, splashing across the tiles.
Camille didn't say a word. Just rested her elbow on the table, chin propped on her hand. She watched the chaos with a smile that showed teeth. Predatory. Elegant. Quietly delighted.
"Showstopper," she murmured, just for me.
The director shouted, "Cut!" and the silence shattered completely.
Crew members scrambled like ants after a kicked nest. One producer dropped a clipboard. Another was already muttering into a headset, calling legal.
Mira stormed off in a blur of sharp heels and sharper fury, ripping the earpiece from her head like it had burned her. Darius stood stiff, mouth working through unfinished sentences. "This is slander. That wasn't cleared. He's not even—this was off the record—"
Camille stood. Smoothly. Gracefully. As if rising from a throne, not a studio chair. She extended a hand to me, and I took it. Her grip was warm. Grounding.
"Come on, Rey," she said. "Let's get you out of this sideshow."
As we passed one of the younger interns—a wide-eyed kid no older than nineteen—he looked at me like I'd sprouted wings.
"That was incredible," he whispered.
Camille led me down the hallway toward the greenroom. Once we were alone, she turned and brushed a hand over my sleeve. Her fingers paused on a thread that had come slightly loose.
"You just blew up their entire show with a couple lines," she said. Her voice was soft. Warm. Pride, worn like perfume. "I'm proud of you, idiot."
I raised an eyebrow.
She shrugged. "I meant that in the most glamorous way possible."
We didn't stay long. Camille knew how these storms moved. The longer we lingered, the more power we gave them. A car was already waiting. Of course it was—she planned like a strategist but moved like an artist. Champagne chilled in a silver bucket, tucked between our seats like it belonged there. She didn't even wait for the door to close before popping it open.
I slid in beside her just as her phone lit up.
A second later, it exploded.
Notifications. Hundreds. Thousands. Ping after ping after ping. Her lockscreen became a waterfall of chaos.
Trending hashtags: #DariusAffair, #MiraExposed, #CamilleAndMysteryMan, #ExposerInGold, #WhoIsHe, #MaskedSyndicateEnergy
"Oh no," Camille whispered with delight. "Oh no no no, I'm going to die."
Social Media edits were already up. Someone had clipped the moment I leaned forward, just before the reveal. Dramatic filters. Subtitle overlays. Background music swelling like it was a movie.
A tweet went viral almost instantly:
The hosts tried to ambush Camille and got eviscerated by her fashion boyfriend. Iconic behavior.
Another:
He talked for five minutes and ended two careers. Someone hire this man to moderate the next presidential debate.
Camille laughed so hard she choked on the first sip of champagne and snorted it halfway out her nose.
"Stop—stop—I can't—" she wheezed, clutching her phone. "Look at this edit—oh my god they gave you devil wings—"
I took a screenshot. For posterity.
"I haven't had this much fun since I ruined a show with a fire-breathing veil," she managed, wiping her face with the back of her hand.
When we arrived at her private penthouse, the building staff didn't even blink. Camille swept through the lobby like she was floating. Her laughter still echoed when the elevator doors closed behind us.
I didn't know Camille had a penthouse, but of course she did. The kind of place brands booked months in advance. The kind of place that always smelled like luxury and lavender.
By the time we stepped into her place, Alexis had already messaged. The notification lit up the top of her screen.
That was insane. You're not even trying to stay under the radar anymore, huh?
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Sienna.
Her message was simple.
Please be careful.
I stared at it. Didn't reply. Not yet.
The news cycle had begun to spin like a centrifuge. Op-eds were already going up. Tabloids too. They didn't even try to be subtle.
"Is Camille's mysterious guest the next media darling?"
"Who is the man in gold, and is there a connection to the Masked Syndicate?"
"Camille: criminal sympathizer or misunderstood genius?"
Fan accounts had already started compiling clips of us—side glances, the small touches, the synchronized shifts in posture. Slow zooms, gentle fades, dramatic music.
Camille twirled a curl of her hair and winked at me. "We're officially the internet's favorite couple, darling."
I gave her a look. "And how did people reach that conclusion?"
She gave me the smirk of someone who absolutely knew she'd orchestrated it all. "You mean how people started shipping us when I invited you to the most important interview in history and you saved me like a damsel in distress?"
"A very well-dressed damsel."
"Naturally."
Later, she went to change—something 'less couture, more cozy' in her words, which still probably meant silk and tailored pants. I stepped out onto the balcony.
The city glowed beneath me. Neon blues and oranges reflected off mirrored buildings. I watched it all from her balcony, the cool breeze tugging gently at the collar of my jacket.
My phone felt heavier now.
I knew what I'd done. I knew what it meant.
But it had been necessary. If I hadn't turned the spotlight on Darius and Mira, Camille would've borne the weight of the Syndicate accusations alone. The public would have devoured her, dragged her into a narrative she didn't control.
So I flipped the lens.
I replied to Sienna.
I'm okay. I promise. Things just got out of hand for a moment.
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
The other phone buzzed in my inner jacket pocket. The burner. Only a handful of people had the number.
I answered.
"Hello, Evelyn."
She didn't waste time.
"Tell me," she said dryly, "was this part of your master plan? Reveal your face on live TV? Become the subject of shipping threads?"
"Hello to you too."
"You might be the biggest idiot I've ever had for a boss."
There was something beneath her words. Not just exasperation—concern. Not many people would hear it, but I did. It was in the breath she took before she continued. The pause that lingered too long.
"Do you realize what you've done? You weren't even supposed to be in that interview, let alone become the story."
"I know."
"Then explain it to me. Why burn the mask now? Why drag Reynard Vale into the spotlight when the Masked Syndicate could've kept dancing in the shadows?"
She wasn't yelling. She didn't have to. It was worse this way.
"You built these identities to avoid this. You built Mr. Angel, Mr. Dust, Mr. Leviathan and more—to protect yourself. Why throw it away now?"
I stared out at the skyline.
The city stretched out like a galaxy of blinking lights. Somewhere far below, traffic moved like veins—alive and unaware.
I touched the lapel of Camille's jacket. Gold thread shimmered faintly in the night.
"Because I…"
I hesitated. Not out of fear.
But because the words felt true.
"I think I finally know what I want to do—"