Chapter 12 #2
Like it was tested with a focus group and carefully selected. We’ll make it woodsy to imply that he’s grounded . . . a hardworking man. And then a hint of citrus to signal wealth.
And then my heart stops because I’m hugging President Graves. The man who sent my friends to war. The man who banned reading. The man who, according to Becka, wants to end democracy as we know it.
When he pulls back, he shifts both hands to my shoulders. “It is lovely to see you after all these years. Although I’m not
sure if I can forgive my son for keeping you secret this long.”
His gaze bores into mine, and I realize I’m in a game with him now. I’m only eighteen, but I need to spar at his level.
“It’s been too long,” I reply. It seems safe. Noncommittal.
“And we do regret that your parents couldn’t be here. I hope three months will be long enough for your mother to recover?
I’d hate for them to miss your wedding.” He leans in, with the excuse of fixing my hair, and murmurs, just for me, “Think
of the optics.”
I go very still at this, trying to read between the lines without giving away the alarm bells ripping through my mind. What happened to my mom?
And another siren starts somewhere near the base of my skull. Three months.
“The optics,” I repeat weakly, not trusting myself to say anything more.
“Ripley,” a female voice singsongs, and then Mrs. Graves is pulling me into a similar hug. I eye Callum over her shoulder. Those blue eyes are stormy and locked on his father, who is now walking to the head of the table.
“Come, let’s eat!” President Graves calls out. Mrs. Graves scuttles away, and Callum comes up behind me. His hands slot naturally
over my shoulders, guiding me, steadying me. Holding me just as his father did.
Since President Graves has essentially introduced me to the entire room by virtue of greeting me, dozens of eyes fix on me.
I try a shy smile and fold back into Callum, nuzzling into him in a way that seemed romantic when computer-generated characters
did it on my DopaMine but probably looks super awkward when I do it.
Still, it brings my lips close enough to his ear to whisper without fear of being heard. “What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know,” he answers. “But I will find out.”
“Are my parents okay?” I ask, my voice quavering slightly. I can’t cry, not here. I need to keep it together. Who knows which
of these guests have tablets. There are cameras everywhere. Becka could be watching. My parents could be watching.
Hux could be watching.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Callum replies. “My father lies. A lot.”
When my breath only hitches in reply, he wraps his arms around my belly, pulling me closer.
To the other guests, we probably look like a couple deeply in love.
And this close, I can almost feel it too.
I can feel his heartbeat against my back, the rumble of his voice through my spine.
As the guests take their seats, we steal another moment, almost alone.
“Believe me, Ripley. My dad is weaving a story, and they are a part of it. Even if you don’t trust him, trust that. And trust
me. Do you think I’d ever hurt you or your parents?”
The words chill and soothe me at the same time. “A story,” I say, my eyes fluttering as I blink too many times. Callum nods.
“It’s a story. They’re writing it. We just have to follow the script. Can you help me with that?”
I hate how my heart crumples slightly at the words. He’s playing a part—and so am I. Even as his hand ghosts to brush a lock
of hair behind my ear.
I shiver. “Right. For how long, though?”
Callum’s hand stills just under my jaw. “What do you mean?”
Finally, I turn to look at him, grateful to have my back to the rest of the room. “Are we actually going to get married?”
Before he can reply, a clink clink clink sounds on a glass.
“Dinner is served,” someone calls.
Callum’s hand drifts from my jaw to my lower lip. As I stare up at him, a camera flash captures the two of us in our embrace.
I hadn’t even noticed the curious influencer to our left. “Later,” he murmurs.
Reluctantly, I nod, and Callum’s face relaxes into a handsome smile. His mask.
We take our seats, and President Graves goes through the motions of introducing everyone while I try to hide my panic and
look even remotely interested.
Across from me is Sallie Zanders, his new chair of Private Endeavors. She looks like a hawk, with sharp eyes and her light
hair slicked back in a severe bun. Private Endeavors, I realize, is just a way for President Graves to explain that Sallie is the liaison to the billionaires who fund the administration.
All the other names blur together: an offshore fracking consultant; the head of an environmental protection fund. They seem
strangely friendly, considering their jobs. Perhaps I misheard. I can’t seem to focus on anything.
Plates seem to appear on the table. The salad looks delicious, impossibly colorful, but I find myself pushing it around with
my fork.
Are we actually going to get married? The words echo around in my skull as the panic tightens in my chest.
Maybe I should have listened to Hux. I’m so glad to see Callum again—he’s my best friend. But it just reminds me that there
isn’t a plan here. They’re using me to make things worse, and I’m here on the hope that, what, I’d be able to convince Callum to talk
to his dad, get my parents their jobs back, let me and my friends escape the war? If Lyceum put me here, where’s their plan?
What do they think I’m going to do, write the president a pamphlet?
My neck burns with a flush, so I brush my hands against the condensation on my water glass and then affix freezing fingertips
to my throat, trying to calm myself down.
I probably should have listened to Hux. I should have taken his help and escaped off that hoverplane with him when I had the
chance. He’d laugh at me now, wouldn’t he? Huxley Finn would think it was hilarious that I was sitting here in this ridiculous
dress, trying to pretend to be interested in what some energy executive and the first lady are discussing.
“Are you okay?” Callum asks, and his hand gently snakes across my chair until it rests in my lap, palm open. An invitation.
I stare at that hand, the scar across the palm. It’s a hand that belongs to the son of the most powerful man in the world.
I shouldn’t be here. I’m out of my depth.
I definitely should have listened to Hux.
Hux would—
“Excuse me,” Hux says.
My brain short-circuits, eyes snapping up on a figure in the doorway dressed in head-to-toe black. As if summoned by my thoughts,
Hux strides into the dining room, ducking smoothly around a waiter. I clutch at the armrests of my chair, readying myself
to jump up. Intruder. Terrorist.
What is he doing here?
“Ripley?” Callum murmurs, and I fix my gaze down to my lap and his open palm here. In reply, I press my own against his and
he interlaces our fingers.
“I’ve got you,” Callum whispers without moving his lips. “I-I didn’t think my dad was going to pull you into this so fast.
I thought I’d get a chance to talk to you before they—”
“Kidnapped me off the lawn of the training facility?” Hux cuts in, striding up behind us with his cold, cocky grin.
“Shit. They didn’t,” Callum breathes, closing his eyes.
I keep my eyes on Hux even as I answer Callum: “They did.”
But even as I squeeze his hand, I realize: I have to get Callum out of here.
Hux pivots as he walks straight toward President Graves, that same confident ease in every line of his body. He knows I’m
watching him.
My breath comes faster as he reaches the head of the table. Then, Hux looks up, eyes meeting mine as he steps up to the president’s
right side.
I don’t like Graves. But I can’t just sit here and—
Hux hinges down, bending to whisper in the president’s ear. In reply, the president tilts his head toward Hux. As Hux folds
further, I catch a glimpse of the earpiece in his ear.
Confusion fills me, and I fight to keep my expression neutral.
And then, barely a breath later, Hux straightens, and President Graves nods as he whispers something back. The whole time,
Hux’s eyes don’t leave mine. Is this just another game to him?
After another nod, Hux motions to two other Hammers to follow him.
“Ripley?” Callum asks. His hand finds my back, fingers lightly brushing my neck. It’s gentle and reassuring, coaxing me back
to him and the expression of pure concern on his perfect face.
“Who is that?” I ask, motioning to Hux. I don’t care how desperate I sound.
Callum watches as Hux holds the door for the two Hammers, then stalks after them.
“Security,” Callum says simply. “Why?”
“He just . . . he looked familiar, for a second. But I probably just saw him on the news,” I say quickly, picking up my fork
and stabbing my salad.
Across the room, Hux is caught in the doorway, eyes fixed on the nape of my neck, where Callum’s hand rests. My stomach lurches.
Callum murmurs something reassuring I can’t quite catch, and his fingers trace swirls along my skin. My mouth tips open, a
question forming, as Hux’s eyes darken with something unreadable, and he gently shakes his head before pulling the door closed
behind him.
Dinner rushes by in a blur. Exhaustion creeps in, a haze around everything, my eyelids drooping, until I can only focus on Callum’s hand in mine, his smile, the way he gently swipes a thumb along the bare skin of my shoulder.
I can barely stand by the time I get back into my room, stumbling into the bathroom.
In all the gold and glass and crystal, a thousand versions of me are trapped and reflected back.
Three months. I’m supposed to be married in three months.
There’s too much spinning in my head to make any sense of it; I feel like my skin is crackling with the effort of keeping
all my thoughts inside. I splash water on my face, letting the mascara run down my cheeks as I pull the earrings off and set
them on the white marble counter.
If Becka is right and Lyceum did put me here, why didn’t they just tell me? Why didn’t they ask me?
I splash my face again. And then again. Over and over.