CHAPTER 4: "Damage control"

Between Days by Far Caspian (Camile’s & Daniele’s playlist)

*Daniele*

The flight to L.A. was six hours of pure hell. Turbulence. Shit Wi-Fi. Screaming kid two rows back. And Vince, texting as if  the world was burning.

CAMPAIGN’S UP. Numbers look good. You and Camille are trending. Big spike in followers. App’s thrilled. We won the narrative.

Fuck the narrative.

I couldn’t stop replaying it—her standing outside the café, collar pulled high, jaw tight. She had the look of someone already bracing to lose something.

I left because I thought she wasn’t coming. And then she did. Too late.

Now our faces were everywhere—or rather, my face and a digital ghost of hers.  Vince had been careful; the girl in the campaign wasn't Camille, not legally. She was a composite. An AI-generated "likeness" with her jawline, her hair, and her exact posture, scrubbed of any identifying features that would hold up in a courtroom. It was a loophole with a heartbeat.

The internet was already busy gluing the pieces together. Photos from her Instagram were being held up against the AI-model in the ad. Side-by-side comparisons to my ex. Comments dissecting her looks, her clothes, her vibe. Some were sweet—"She’s gorgeous, they look good together." Others were shards of glass in the lungs. "She’s a nobody." "Just another fame-chaser." "She’s too average."

We’d only had one date. But the internet had already decided we were a story worth writing… or ruining.

The artist and the muse. The brooding musician. The mystery girl with depth and trauma™ and perfect fucking lipstick.

All that clickbait. And none of it true. Not in that way, anyway.

I closed my eyes, head tipped back against the seat. My phone kept buzzing. Texts from people I hadn’t spoken to in months. New followers flooding in. Comments calling us soulmates. Edits. Fanpages.

But she hadn’t answered a single one of my messages. Not one.

Maybe she thought I planned it. Maybe she thought I wanted this.

I didn’t even know Vince was filming that night. I didn’t know the app would run the footage through a generator to manufacture a compliant version of her. I didn’t know they’d use her as a template.

And yeah, maybe I should’ve told her who I was. What this was. But I didn't. I was selfish. I’d relished the feeling of not being Saint.D for once. Just some guy she didn’t Google first.

And then I blinked—and it was everywhere.

Vince had people there. Cameras. Angles. Captions ready to go. "Just give ‘em a little something," he’d said the next day, wearing the grin of a man who hadn't just stabbed me in the spine. "Lean in. Laugh. We’ll use a generative double. Total legal protection."

They didn’t protect her. They stole her image and hollowed it out.

That wasn't a strategy. That was betrayal.

And if I let it slide, I’m not just complicit—I’m the same type of asshole I’ve spent years trying not to become.

The screen buzzed again.

VINCE: LA meeting moved to 5. Don’t be late. Wear something people want to fuck.

I stared at it. Then shut my phone off.

I’d deal with Vince later. But Camille? I needed to fix it. Not with posts. Not with likes. Not with some performative "I’m a good guy" speech.

For once in a long time, I wanted something that wasn’t content.

*Camille*

Three days. I hadn’t texted him back. Not because I didn’t want to. Because I did. Too much.

Daniele’s message still hovered at the top of my screen as if it held some secret power. Just five words: Still thinking about that jacket.

Putain. I hated how that line made me feel. As though I actually mattered. That perhaps I was more than someone to flirt with over a drink and a playlist.

I tossed my phone onto the bed. Again. Then picked it up. Again. Scrolled. Sighed.

And then I saw it.

The "Saint.D" campaign. It was an ad for some new music-sharing app, and there he was, leaning against a brick wall, laughing. And there I was. Except it wasn't me.

It was a ghost. A digital composite with my jawline and the specific drape of my coat. It was close enough for my heart to stop, but off enough to make my skin crawl. They’d scrubbed my face. Changed my hair color and length. They’d turned me into a "type"—the Uncanny Valley version of the girl he’d met at the café.

The comments were already dissecting this "Mystery Muse." They were comparing this AI-model to my actual Instagram photos, dragging my real life into a fictional narrative I never signed up for.

What was I to them? A joke? A vibe to be harvested?

I stood in front of the mirror, arms folded. Too pale. Too tired. Too real.

My cheekbones looked sharper lately. My collarbone too obvious. My eyes bruised from nights I called creative but were really just wine-soaked insomnia. I wasn't a polished digital render. I was a mess.

I pulled a mesh bodysuit from the chair. Tried it. Too much. Changed into a vintage tee. Too soft. Back to the bodysuit. Added a black  blazer. Cinched it with a belt. There. Femme fatale fatigue.

By the time I left for class, I looked like someone who didn’t care. Which was the goal. Even if the lie didn’t sit right in my bones.

The lecture was a blur—silhouettes, construction, drape versus dart. I took notes, nodded, even laughed once when Lena whispered that our professor was a dead ringer for a depressed Karl Lagerfeld.

After class, we shared a bottle of Sancerre on her fire escape. Our laughter made the city sound softer, but the wine made my thoughts louder.

“You think it’ll be okay?” I asked, refilling my glass.

Lena tilted her head. “People forget fast online. Especially when the girl isn't even 'real' anyway.”

But I was real. That was the problem.

When I got home, I stood in the doorway for a long time. It was too quiet. So I put on music and poured another glass—anything to stop the buzzing in my head.

Two hours later, I was in bed, phone in hand, stomach tight. I typed: Please don’t text me anymore. I need space. Then deleted it. Typed again. You should stop trying. I am not built for whatever this is. I’m not sure I ever will. Delete. Breathe. Type again.

 ME:I think you made an impression I wasn’t ready for.  So please don’t text me anymore. I need space. Maybe  forever… I hope that doesn’t sound cruel.

Sent.

Air left my lungs.

I held my wrist to my lips.
Wine. Perfume. Regret.

I thought of the way his voice dropped when he asked about my favorite song. His eyes when I mentioned my father.

Some part of me wished he’d call me a liar. Show up at my door with that guitar from his videos. Tell me he saw through all this. That he wanted to know what I looked like when I wasn’t dressed for battle.

But that was the most dangerous kind of fantasy.

So instead, I curled into myself and let the music do what it always did—fill the room where love never stayed.