Chapter 12
“Five minutes,” Becka announces the second we step inside. I’m not sure if she’s speaking to me or to the group of Hammers
who can’t seem to step more than two yards away from me. I guess I will now be living in a bubble of black body armor and
twilight fatigues, of clicking nightsticks and shiny boots.
By the time we make it to the second floor, my neck is sore from craning to look around—up at the cavernous ceiling, behind
us, down winding staircases, sideways at the judgmental faces of previous presidents. It’s the first time I’ve seen an actual
oil painting, and the walls are practically papered in them.
“You’re perfectly safe here,” Becka says. “It may look old-fashioned, but the whole building has been Streamlined. Any of these screens”—she jabs a finger at the glowing surfaces sprinkled every few yards—“are security checkpoints, and we’ll be monitoring you on the feeds.”
“I’m being recorded?” I squeak out.
The dome of Becka’s helmet bends in a nod and I wish I could see her face. “The cameras and microphones in each room filter
through our own internal Alba. You see a mouse? We’ll flag your heart rate spike and pupil dilation before you even stop screaming.
You’re in good hands.”
It might sound like a brag, but I know it’s meant as a warning to me: There are cameras and microphones everywhere.
“Speaking of, from earlier today,” Becka says, and she thrusts a tablet to me. On the screen, my parents smile and wave, crammed
too close together on a love seat to fit into frame. I startle and nearly drop it, but Becka seems ready for this, scooping
it from me just as smoothly. “They’re safe. As your head of security, I get hourly updates from their security team.”
“Can I talk to them?”
Her helmet tilts, as if to say, Do you want to?
Right. Each word will be recorded.
Still.
I set my jaw, hoping my stubbornness is clear there.
“We’ll put through the request,” Becka says. She snaps at a soldier. “Faulkner, by twenty-one hundred hours.” Then she turns
to me and stops abruptly, throwing open a door. “Your room.”
There’s a lofted ceiling, crown molding, even a chandelier, but all I can see is the bed.
“We’ve got it from here,” comes a voice.
Becka nods at the two new women—civilians, by their clothes. Even though I can’t see her face, I’m certain that she doesn’t
want to leave my side. To protect me, or to recruit me?
“This is Sarah”—Becka gestures at the brunette with olive skin and surprisingly sharp eyeliner—“and Mac.” Mac gets a wave,
encompassing her lanky figure, pencil skirt, and legs that go on for days.
“At ease, soldier,” Sarah says in a teasing tone, but we all know it’s a dismissal. Two Hammers post themselves by the doorway
as Sarah and Mac herd me inside. For a long moment, Becka lingers there like she can’t cross the threshold, then squares her
shoulders and marches away. I’m not sure if I should be worried or relieved.
I collapse onto the bed with something that definitely isn’t a moan.
“Glam squad arrives in fifteen,” Sarah says, giving me a disheartened once-over that I’ve grown used to in the last twelve
hours.
“No,” I murmur into the ten million throw pillows, closing my eyes. “It’s bedtime.”
Mac chuckles, her deep voice rasping in her chest. “Oh, honey. It’s only seven o’clock.”
I want to cry. I’m so tired I can barely stand up straight.
Sarah sets a large white box gently on the comforter.
“You didn’t think you’d have your first night in the White House be relaxing, did you?” Her words are soft.
I smile humorlessly. “Of course not.”
The White House is shimmering. I want to think this place is ugly, because such ugliness comes from it. But the dining room
is covered in candles and mirrors. I’ve never seen a candle before—they’re considered a waste of resources and, in Post Angeles,
a fire hazard. But here they seem to glitter from every surface. Plush rugs and deep velvet couches fill every room. All around
me, staff members mill about, setting the table like a choreographed dance.
Even though they’ve dressed me for dinner, for press and introductions to powerful people, I can’t help but let myself get
pulled to the floor-to-ceiling windows, helping myself to a tall glass of something golden that glitters like the sparkling
water. Below, a fountain bubbles between two massive oak trees.
A tree. Two trees.
A low voice pulls me from my reverie.
“You look beautiful, Ripley.” Callum appears beside me and I splutter on my drink, the carbonation burning up my nose as I
struggle to breathe. I’d chalk it up to exhaustion, which has worn away my social graces, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t
think Callum could look more beautiful than he did when I first saw him today. I was wrong.
“You okay?” he asks with a wry smile. As if made self-conscious by my gawping, he rakes a hand through his blond coif.
He doesn’t look real, not in a tuxedo, not when his eyes crinkle in the corners with a smile.
That same golden button on his chest is the only color breaking up his black-and-white uniform, and it makes his eyes look even brighter.
“Can we pretend that didn’t happen?” I whisper, tucking a strand of perfectly curled hair behind my ear. My fingers snag on
the giant diamond earrings dangling from my lobes.
Callum leans in, his warm hand touching the exposed small of my back. Because of course Kaleb and his team put me in a cream-colored,
satin, backless dress.
“No, we cannot,” he murmurs. “Because then I can’t tell you that I basically did the same thing when I walked in here and
saw you, and I wasn’t even drinking anything.”
My heart stops, and I pray he can’t see the flush rising up my chest. Because of course this dress is low cut, as well.
Dammit, Kaleb, I think.
Unsure of what to say, I take another sip, and the bubbles scratch along my raw throat, and suddenly I can’t stop coughing.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I was trying to be smooth and now you’re going to die,” he says, and I shake my head, swallowing hard. That hand on my back guides me half a step toward an end table—thankfully laid out with water. He hands me a cup and watches as I regain the ability to breathe.
“We can tell the press that you stole my breath,” I croak out, once I can talk again.
He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to steal anything from you, Ripley.”
I gulp a little at his earnestness and turn back to the window. Around us, the dinner grows into a party, voices rising and
falling. A few times, Callum glances over his shoulder like he’s checking for someone, and I’m reminded of being nine, stealing
sweets from his parents’ parties to sneak into our treehouse.
I sigh, looking at those oaks. Perhaps not that much has changed.
“That’s the first thing I was going to show you,” Callum says finally. I must look confused, because he motions to the tree
with his chin. “When you came to visit. The first thing I wanted to show you was the tree. I knew you’d love it.”
I don’t know what to say, so I down the rest of the fruity drink with one deep swallow. What if the lie was real, and we’d
been talking this whole time? What if we’d never lost touch? I’m trying to figure out how to put that into words when the
room goes quiet behind us. Callum and I turn just in time to see President Graves step into the room. He’s followed by a small
group: his cabinet members, I remember from the reports on my DopaMine.
President Graves looks smaller in real life than he does on the screen.
And he’s shorter than I remember, but it does startle me how unchanged he looks, overall.
I realize part of me wanted to see him utterly transformed by the last few years, like he couldn’t have done what he’s done without rotting from the inside out.
But you’d think he was handsome, if you saw him walking down the street. He’s got the same strong jaw as Callum, high cheekbones,
and a narrow nose that’s been broken a few times, if the stories he likes to tell about college rugby are true. He has an
easy smile and striking amber eyes; the russet hair I remember so vividly is streaked with gray.
I barely notice as Mrs. Graves comes in after, her white-blond hair and pale skin making her look more like a ghost than a
first lady. Her lipstick is bright (too bright, Kaleb would probably say), and she rushes to the table, fiddling with the
placement of the cutlery and how each flower falls in the massive centerpieces, as if an entire staff didn’t just arrange
everything perfectly. I suppose, to the first lady, there’s something better than perfect.
I tense, waiting for them to approach, to greet their son and me, their future daughter-in-law, but they instead beeline for
a suited couple by the far end of the table. I glance at Callum just in time to watch the smile drip off his face, the disappointment
apparent before he quickly affixes a new grin, as brittle and fake as a mask.
“Hey,” I murmur. “Do you—?”
He cuts me off by sliding a hand into mine and squeezing gently. “Thanks,” he replies, his voice just as low. “The show must
go on, right?”
My stomach falters. He wasn’t reaching for me for comfort. It’s all for show.
I’m not sure I want it to be.
The questions in my mind are cut short as the president looks directly at me, hawk-like eyes piercing. They widen at the sight
of me as if in surprise. But isn’t the whole point of this dinner to welcome me?
As he strides over, he doesn’t drop his gaze, and I’m too terrified to move, even as his smile widens, wolfish.
“Ripley Hart. So good to see you again,” he says. All eyes in the room swing to me. Panic grips me.
Oh, shit. Do I curtsy? Shake his hand?
He must realize that I don’t know what to do, as I’m just the girl next door after all. So he holds his arms out to signal that the right answer is a hug.
Callum’s grip tightens on mine, almost like a reassurance.
I force a smile of my own and lean into his embrace with my free arm. He smells good, but it’s an unnatural kind of good.