Chapter 16
The White House is beautiful at night, and I never thought I would think that. Everything glistens in the early spring heat;
crickets and bubbling fountains fill the silence as Callum walks me back to my room.
We haven’t broken the interlace of our fingers since we kissed. How was I content to walk around as one person? There’s a
calming completeness about his hand holding mine; I feel delirious at the feel of his thumb rubbing against my knuckle, spinning
the massive diamond as we cut through the courtyard.
And for now, it’s just us. The press secretary has captured the attention of the cameras and now that we’re back on White
House grounds, the security team seems satisfied that we’re safe. Even Hux couldn’t argue with that, even though I could tell
he wanted to.
So we’re alone, the two of us, with a sort of secret hope that we’ll never be alone ever again.
Callum walks me to my door, pulling my arms around his waist as he leans in to kiss the top of my head. I clasp my hands against
his lower back as lift my head, loving how he runs his fingers through my hair. How he bites at his lower lip like he’s remembering
our kiss. How he stares down at me like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
“So. Today was better,” he murmurs, and I nod.
“Today was amazing,” I reply. Maybe when I wrote this scene, I would have written a pithy retort, let myself be a little silly
or snarky. But in real life, there’s no room for that. I am glitter in a snow globe; I’m a shimmering pink cloud of happy.
“Get some sleep. Tomorrow we have another outing,” he says, pulling back to look at me properly as he brushes the hair from
my face, like he’s memorizing it.
“What is it?”
His expression tightens a bit, and I stand up straighter. “Hurricane Zelda,” he says. “They’re downgrading it, and the press
thinks it’ll be a smart photo opportunity, kind of like your debut into society. I don’t love it. It’s dangerous, and this
time it’s not just us. We’ll be on the Demeter.”
The name rings a bell. “Isn’t that one of the—”
“—weather-hunter superyachts owned by the Bellaccimi sisters? Yeah. They call them hurricane parties.”
My stomach twists at the title. “Do you think the levees are going to hold?”
Callum looks away.
“And did they finish evacuating? I heard that it’s been hard with the fuel shortages—”
“Where did you hear that?” Callum asks. There’s no violence in it, only curiosity.
I flush. “My DopaMine algorithm must skew toward social justice,” I lie. I’m not ready to tell him about the server room.
Not yet. Just like Callum said, we have to wait until the right time to do the right thing.
Right?
Callum sighs. “You’re so perfect. Have I told you that today?” He leans in for a kiss but I gently rebuff him, holding him
at arm’s length with a light palm on his chest.
“Still,” I push, worrying my lip, “I don’t see how hanging out at a party like that will be good for the Girl Next Door angle.
Disaster tourism isn’t exactly relatable.”
Callum nods. “I know. I know. But it’s the only vessel that’s been tested and cleared to get that close to an active hurricane.
If we want to show the world what’s happening, we have to see it. The Bellaccimi sisters are letting us do that.”
I feel my hackles lower, just a little. He’s right.
We have to use what we can to show the world the devastation that the administration would hide from the country otherwise.
It’s too easy to pretend this stuff isn’t happening, especially with handpicked feel-good stories and DopaMine streams offering a way out of the depressing reality we’re in.
“Okay,” I whisper, going up on my tiptoes. Callum grins as he leans down, knowing what I’m after. He lifts me, and my legs
wrap around his waist as he deepens the kiss.
We’re endgame.
He spins me around, and I squeal as I pull myself tighter to him.
After a few moments, he eases back and lowers me to my feet. I grab the handle of my French doors with one hand, and Callum
lifts the other to his lips, kissing me just over the band of my engagement ring. Our engagement ring.
“Good night, Ripley,” he whispers against my skin.
I bite my lip, watching him leave. He walks backward, like he can’t bear to lose sight of me. When he reaches the corner,
he blows me a kiss, offers me a dazzling smile, and, with a little spin, jogs down the path.
I sigh, pulling open my door and stepping into the dark quiet of my room.
“So,” comes a voice, and I jump. “How’s the ‘saving the world by the power of rhetoric and truth’ going?”
The light next to my bed clicks on, revealing Hux lounging on my bed, boots kicked up and ankles interlocked on the cream
coverlet. “Your hair is a little . . .” He makes a motion for messy, and I know he’s making fun of the kiss he just witnessed through the windows that peer out onto the courtyard. “Don’t worry,”
he adds. “I killed the cameras.”
He says it like it’s so easy. Because I suppose everything is easy to him.
I fold my arms over my chest and cross the room, keeping my eyes on him.
“Better than your kill everyone plan, I promise you that,” I spit, dropping my bag into the chair.
He lifts something, and it takes me a second to realize
it’s a book.
I lunge at him, reaching to snatch it. Dracula.
“Where did you find this?” I hiss.
“Oh, this?” he asks innocently, peering at the cover. Then he drops the smug act, tossing the tome at me. “It was in a shipment
that arrived today. Hidden in a box of ridiculously sugary cereal, which I guess everyone in Lyceum knows is something only
you would eat.”
I hold the book to my chest. “Count Chocula? Where is it??”
Hux gives me a flat stare. “Craving a late-night sweet treat?” He rolls his eyes. “That was a stupid thing to do, Ripley,
given that the other books were taken, and we still don’t know who did it.”
“So you threw the cereal out is what you’re telling me.”
When Hux doesn’t rise to the bait, I look down at the book, gripping the edges like a lifeline. I’m still pissed at Lyceum,
but I can’t deny that they know what I need right now. “This is all stupid. Everything we’re doing is risky.” I lift the book.
“They know we need to remember what matters.”
“Vampires?” Hux asks flatly.
“You know what Dracula is about?”
Hux crosses his feet and clasps his hands behind his head. “You aren’t the only one who reads, Ripley. I just think that there are things more important than books.”
“I’m not saying that. But I am saying that stories . . .” I stop, wondering why I’m still talking. He doesn’t care. He’ll
probably make fun of me. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
“Stories what?” he asks, and I look at him, wondering if he’s being cruel, accumulating ammo to throw back in my face during
our next argument. But there’s no teasing to his voice.
“Stories have kept me alive,” I admit. “They make me brave when I’m scared and help me remember how good humanity can be.
That I’m not . . . alone. Even if this is about vampires, it’s not really about vampires. It’s about life and right and wrong
and people making mistakes and, sometimes, happy endings. I need that, especially when it’s easy to only see the bad stuff
we can do.”
I tuck the book away and walk to the vanity, already wishing I could take it back. Oversharing makes me feel like I’m covered
in ants, and I hitch up my shoulders, waiting for him to make fun of me for getting all emotional over vampires.
Instead, Hux is silent. As I go about my nighttime routine, removing earrings, kicking off my shoes, even trying to smooth
my hair back, Hux only watches, slowly sitting up, his feet reaching the ground.
Part of me wonders if he’ll stay there all night, and to test it, I reach for the strap of my dress, knocking it from my shoulder.
He clears his throat and I freeze.
“What happened on the sub?” he asks quietly, and I shoot him a look as I unclasp my necklace instead. We’re back to where
we’re comfortable, not friends, not enemies, but something like allies.
“None of your business.”
Hux stands, then. “You have two days before I order the death of the president and basically start a civil war. It’s my business.”
When I ignore him, turning to the mirror, he makes his way to stand behind me, meeting my eyes in the mirror. I glare at him
as I lower my necklace, letting it clatter softly on the vanity.
“Ripley,” he says, and I feel myself tense at that. I prepare myself for the barbs, for the restatement of our deadline. “Are
you okay?” he asks gently.
And I feel myself still. I didn’t prepare myself for soft. It doesn’t sound right coming from him. My eyes fly up to meet his in the glass, and I take in the tight expression on his
face. His jaw ticks as he looks at me, and I can’t help but feel like he’s being sincere. I wait a second like I’m expecting
a punchline. With Hux, it feels like I’m always waiting for the punchline.
How am I? I press a hand to my chest, like I can still feel the lightness there buoying me from my day with Callum. The way he unlocked something in me. I’ve never felt this free and open and—myself. Even pretending to be his fiancée, for the first time I can be honest, real Ripley. I’m not alone.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I’m . . . better than I have been in a long time, really.”
That seems to be the answer he needed. He steps back, walking toward the hallway door. I don’t owe him anything. I know that.
We’re not friends. But I know, deep down, he’s scared. He built a life where he couldn’t trust anyone, where the entire world is on his shoulders.
He’s wrong. He’s not alone.
“It’s going to be okay,” I say out loud. I can see him go still across the room as I stare into the glass.
“Did Callum agree to renounce his father? Is he going to come out and expose what the Union Conference is really about? Because
you’re down to”—he consults his watch—“fifty hours.”
A small panic bites up the back of my throat. Fifty hours, and the Machs take over. I don’t want President Graves to be elected
for life. But I also don’t want him dead.