Gabriel called again.
This time, Camille answered.
"Good morning," she said.
Her voice was steady. Even warm.
Too even.
"I assume you've seen it," he said without greeting.
"Yes."
A pause.
"It's misleading."
"It's effective," she replied calmly.
Silence flickered on the line.
"I stepped away the moment she touched me," he said. "You know that."
"I do."
No accusation.
No sharpness.
Just acknowledgement.
"That's all you're going to say?" he asked.
"For now."
Another silence.
He didn't like that.
"Camille."
"Yes?"
"You're quiet."
"I'm at work."
"That's not what I mean."
She adjusted a file on her desk, eyes scanning numbers she wasn't truly reading.
"I don't react before I think," she said.
"I'd prefer you react with me rather than withdraw."
"I'm not withdrawing."
But she was.
Not visibly.
Not dramatically.
Just… recalibrating.
---
By midday, the headline had spread further.
Two more outlets picked it up. One speculated about a "strategic reunion." Another replayed archival photos of Gabriel and Lena during their earlier relationship — gala appearances, interviews, hand-in-hand shots from years ago.
Camille didn't comment.
She didn't post.
She didn't ask him for reassurance.
When he texted, she responded.
Briefly.
Politely.
Not cold.
Not affectionate.
Measured.
Gabriel noticed the difference immediately.
Lunch? he texted.
Busy today.
Dinner?
I have a late meeting.
Both true.
Both distant.
That evening, she stood in her bedroom staring at her reflection.
She did not look insecure.
She looked composed.
That unsettled her more.
Because she wasn't angry.
She was evaluating.
He had said Lena was irrelevant.
But relevance wasn't decided privately anymore.
It was decided publicly.
And the public had a memory.
Her phone lit up again.
Another repost of the image.
Another commentary panel dissecting body language.
She placed the phone face down.
Then it rang.
Gabriel.
She let it ring once.
Twice.
On the third, she answered.
"You're avoiding me," he said immediately.
"No."
"You cancelled dinner."
"I rescheduled. There's a difference."
His exhale was slow.
"I don't like this."
"Like what?"
"This distance."
She walked toward her window, looking out over the city lights.
"I haven't created distance," she said calmly. "I'm observing."
"Observing what?"
"How you handle this."
That landed.
"I'm handling it," he said.
"You haven't addressed it publicly."
"I don't respond to gossip."
"It's not gossip when it trends."
Another silence.
Sharper now.
"You don't trust me," he said.
She closed her eyes briefly.
"I trust what you tell me," she replied. "I don't trust narratives."
"And you think I'm part of one?"
"I think you underestimate how they affect me."
That was the first crack.
Not loud.
But precise.
On the other end of the line, Gabriel went quiet.
Because she wasn't accusing him of betrayal.
She was questioning his awareness.
"I chose you," he said.
"And I chose you," she replied.
Her voice softened slightly.
"But I don't compete with ghosts."
"I'm not asking you to."
"Then don't position me where I look replaceable."
The words were calm.
Controlled.
Sharp enough to cut.
He inhaled slowly.
"That photo was a moment."
"And moments become stories."
She let the silence stretch.
Not punishing.
Intentional.
"Goodnight, Gabriel," she said finally.
Before he could respond, she ended the call.
Not dramatically.
Just decisively.
She placed the phone down and stood still in the quiet of her room.
She wasn't crying.
She wasn't spiralling.
She was thinking.
And when Camille thought too long—
She built walls.
Across the city, Gabriel stared at his darkened phone screen.
For the first time since this began—
He felt something he didn't like.
Not anger.
Not guilt.
Loss of control.