Chapter 9 #2
“A more casual look, I think. We don’t have time for red-carpet glam,” the man in gray says, talking over me like I’m not
here.
“I think that’s part of her charm. I mean, those cheeks? I should take a photo for my injector,” the woman replies, reaching
out to pinch my face.
I duck away, slamming my head into someone’s elbow. “What are you talking about?” I raise my voice even more as the group
moves to the right and then turns down another hallway, whisking me away like a small fish caught in a riptide.
“Plus, that tested well,” the woman in red says, checking her phone screen as she walks. “Very girl next door.”
“Literally,” the man snarks, and she cuts him a glare as the whole entourage comes to a sudden, terrifying stop next to a
door at the end of the hallway.
“What’s going on?” I finally ask, my voice rising enough to get their attention. The woman stops and looks at me like I’m a doll that just moved on its own.
“Did no one brief her?” she asks, her sharp eyebrows rising on her forehead. It’s the closest she’s come to actually speaking
to me.
But then she puts a finger to her earpiece, and I know she’s listening to something.
“Seriously?” the man asks, fighting a laugh.
“That’s his decision,” the woman says, shaking her head. “No one else tell her,” she says, raising her voice to our coterie.
“He’s going to do it himself.”
“Who’s going to tell me what?” I demand, but the door is open and I’m being shoved inside. Six people jump to attention, and I’m guided into a chair.
I resist sitting, but Red Pantsuit appears in front of me again.
“Hi,” she says. “I’m Debra.”
“And I’m not cooperating,” I say. “Until someone gives me some answers.”
“Well, I only have questions,” Debra replies, holding up her tablet. On it, I see a livestream of the training room. Nef sits
at her computer, looking worried as she casts glances to my empty seat. It’s one thing to know all the screens have built-in
cameras. It’s quite another to see their feeds. “Question one: That’s your friend, right?”
I swallow hard, fear gripping my windpipe. “Yes,” I say. There’s no point in lying. They already know or they wouldn’t have pulled up her feed.
Debra nods as she lowers the screen. “Okay, then, question two: Do you have any other questions for me?”
I look around the room. It’s medium-sized, with racks of clothes covering every wall. Three women with aprons full of brushes
and sprays stand anxiously at Debra’s elbow. Gray Sweater squints like I’m a science experiment.
On the other side of him, a man sifts through clothes on the rack, while two others prepare what looks like a torture device
but I know from DopaMine is actually a really expensive curling iron.
“Hart. Do you?” Debra barks, making me jump.
“No,” I say, my voice small. “No more questions.”
“Good,” she says.
The crowd surges around me until all I can see are bright eyes and hands raised to grab me. I try not to look scared, but
I know I’m failing.
“Someone get her feed up,” another voice says, with an annoyed finger click, and a screen intrudes among the faces with the
familiar AI-generated faces of my DopaMine feed. Broken Harts.
I shove it away. While whatever they’re preparing me for isn’t something I can elude, I don’t have to accept it lying down. Whatever is about to happen . . . it’s public. And I’m going to make sure I’m wide awake, angry, and ready to go down swinging.
“I’ve never seen someone with dry and oily skin at the same time,” one of the girls breathes, choosing a brush from her apron.
“Thanks. It’s a mixture of stress and malnutrition,” I say. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea why I’m here. But I’m
still me. I’m still alive, and that counts for something.
I expect another chastising for speaking, but I’m shocked as the girl snorts out a humorless laugh. “She’s funny,” she says.
“Kaleb, turn the feed off.”
My hands relax just slightly on the chair. Kaleb—Gray Sweater—picks up a bottle of tan liquid and spins it in his hand like
I would twirl a knife before sparring. “Okay, Ripley Hart. Time to make you a main character.”
They tug, they pull, they scrape.
They pluck, they dust, they paint.
At first, I can’t help but flinch away, because it hurts, and they’re doing things to my eyes that probably constitute torture, but most of the hands are gentle and I remember that
footage of Nef. I hold myself as still as possible.
After almost an hour, Kaleb finally steps back, huffing out a breath of appreciation for his own genius.
In the DopaMine videos I’ve seen, there’s a big reveal.
I search for a mirror, for a sense of what they’ve done to me.
Have they painted bruises and blood down my face so I look like I’ve been tortured?
Have they styled me like a country bumpkin, with pigtails and rosy apple cheeks?
I don’t get to see, though, because a voice barks over the walkie-talkie: Two minutes.
Two minutes.
Whatever is going to happen to me, it’s one hundred and twenty seconds away.
The chair is pulled out from under me and I stumble forward. The girls shove me behind a modesty screen where they pull my
clothes off and yank a soft pink dress over my head, careful to avoid my hair, which is apparently now very big. They strap
on a pair of cream-colored heels before ushering me out through the door.
I’m being herded again, with Debra in the lead. My feet click under me with every step, the world lurching and off-balance.
I’ve never worn heels before, so it’s everything I can do to not fall over, but I manage.
Down one hall, then another. Before I know it, we’re at a massive set of double doors.
Above it, a red light glows—a warning. We all stop and stare up, and I know we’re waiting on something.
“Can I ask—?” I whisper, and Debra silences me with a shhhh and a sharp look, pointing to the red light like I’m the world’s biggest fool.
Then, the light goes green. Debra opens the door. But instead of stepping into the darkness beyond, she just holds the door
open for me.
I hesitate, but Kaleb makes a move to fix my hair and so I take my out—I step forward into the darkness.
Wherever I am, it’s massive. My heels echo.
I stop when I feel something just in front of my face—fabric. A curtain?
Where am I?
Someone appears next to me, and a deep voice fills the darkness.
“Take my hand,” the stranger says. “I’ve got you.”
There’s a lilt to it, a softness that pricks the edge of my memory. But it’s too low—why do I think his voice sounds too low?
He’s a figure in the dark, but for some reason I feel safer with him next to me.
So, I take his hand. Instantly, his fingers twine in mine, finding a place palm against palm, a slash of roughness tickling
my skin, and my heartbeat slows. His thumb strums along my skin, and I stare up at him, like I can grow night vision through
sheer force of will.
Just as I’m about to ask this stranger what the hell is going on, everything happens at once. The curtain draws back, a huge
swath of light hitting both of us. I blink hard as a cheery, sharp voice cuts over a speaker above us: “Ladies and gentlemen . . .
the fiancée!”
Is that the guy’s name? Kinda weird, but okay. Must be French.
And then, with gentle pressure on our interlaced hands, we’re walking.
My eyes adjust to the light, revealing a crowd staring up at me.
I’m on a stage. Not just any stage—a colossal stage.
The crowd seems to go on forever, rows of cheering people disappearing into shadow as I look upward.
A stadium, then—I can see the telltale orange glow of the night sky above us, safely cut off by a massive glass bubble.
We’re on a raised platform in the middle of a football stadium.
There are only three of these left in the country.
The hand in mine squeezes softly, and I turn to look at him. My stranger.
Then, my heart really stops.
It’s not a stranger at all.
Callum Graves is holding my hand.
The boy I haven’t seen since I moved years ago. The boy I was madly in love with.
Orion.
I turn, my eyes fixing straight ahead, the deer-in-the-headlights look frozen on my face.
Callum leans in. Despite my terror and confusion, the smell of him is still a comfort: citrus and cedar with a hint of night
air. I take in a sharp breath, the air unlocking something in me. There, in front of thousands of people, I feel my racing
pulse slow.
“I’ll explain everything,” he murmurs, his voice a rush. “But for now, play along, okay?”
I twist to gaze up at him. In the eight years we’ve been apart, he’s grown up into the president’s son.
He’s taller, his jaw broader, his voice lower.
His shoulders strain at the formal jacket, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow, his other hand worrying a golden pin on his lapel.
But those eyes. Why did I change their color in my story?
Green seemed more romantic than dark blue, and some part of my preteen mind imagined it would preserve the secret of his identity—but I’m struck by the need to write entire paragraphs about the real color of his eyes.
Even in hundreds of thousands of words, I didn’t do him justice.
His fingers press against mine, sudden coolness along my fourth finger. I glance down. He wasn’t just holding my hand earlier.
He was slipping something onto it—a ring with a hulking diamond.
As the crowd continues to cheer, he lifts my knuckles to his mouth. The gem glitters.
“Let’s hear it for the lovebirds!” the announcer yells, and I didn’t think it was possible for the crowd to get louder. I
was wrong.
That’s when I realize . . .
Callum isn’t the fiancée the announcer was talking about.
I am.