Chapter 16 #2
I turn, leaning back against the vanity as I stare Hux down. “No, he didn’t agree to that. But there’s more at play here than
you think.”
Hux eyes me, his eyebrow lifting. “Like what?”
Maybe telling him what Callum told me will buy us time. “He hinted that there are things that might come out. Bad things.”
Hux takes a measured step closer. “What kind of bad things?”
“I didn’t find out. But give me a chance to. Like you said: A ruined Graves is more useful than a dead one, right?”
Hux makes a show of looking down at his watch. From this angle, I can clearly see the mark on his face where I hit him—a purplish
bruise blooms angrily under the scruff on his jaw. “Yes. Incriminating evidence? Great. And if you can figure it out . . .
I’ll pivot. But in the meantime, the agreement still stands. Fifty hours.”
I push off the desk and move closer to him. “I’m working on it. And I’m close. I just told you—why are you being such a pain
in the ass? Where’s the Thank you, Ripley. This lead sounds so much better for the world, for democracy, and the state of my rapidly deteriorating
soul.”
His eyes narrow as he cocks his head, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. I hate when he does this—when it’s like my
anger amuses him.
I know I regretted the last time I slapped him. But it’s hard to remember why in moments like this.
“Should I make a list?” he retorts. “Once he’s elected, dirt won’t matter. So I’m not being a pain in the ass, the rapidly approaching death of the democracy is. I just told you. You seem to have Callum wrapped around your finger. So . . . bat your eyelashes at him and find out what he has.”
“Bat my eyelashes?” I start, the rant ready on my tongue, but the breath catches in my throat when Hux closes the gap between us, leveling his
chin at me in challenge as we stand toe-to-toe. The slight tang of his sweat mixes with the pop of mint gum he was chewing
earlier, and it sparks a magnetic pull, dragging me farther toward him.
What is wrong with me? I can still feel Callum’s lips on my knuckles. I shouldn’t be shivering at the thought of touching
Hux again.
At the thought of kissing him again.
At the memory of him shoving me against a wall, his body flush with mine.
He’s going to kill someone, I remind myself. He’s going to kill Callum’s father. Snap out of it.
“Did you forget the rest of your list?” I ask, embarrassed at how breathless I sound.
“Second,” he snaps, his voice barely a growl. “That soul you mention?” Now he lowers his face to mine, trying to catch the
gaze I’ve fixed stubbornly on his collarbone. “It’s low on the list of priorities.”
Don’t look up at him. Don’t look up.
But sometimes, you just have to do it for the plot. Although, at this point, I’m fairly certain I’ve lost that.
Because I look up.
The green in his eyes seems darker in this light.
His eyes bounce between mine, and I know it’s my turn to say something. Anything.
“What if I care about your soul?” I ask, and the words catch in my throat, so sharp they burn.
But Hux only chuckles, his tongue slipping out to run over his bottom lip.
The air between us turns charged. I think if I took a step, it’d shock me. I’m scared to move.
As he stares at me, though, that smirk fades into an expression I can’t quite place, his eyes searching mine frantically.
His hand flexes at his side, and I wonder if it’s because he’s stopping himself from touching me.
Then the mask slips back into place. It’s so subtle I’d miss it if I blinked, but I’d know that shit-eating grin anywhere,
that flintiness to his eyes. The promise that he doesn’t care, and nothing can hurt him, even me. Although the split in his
lip says otherwise.
“Don’t worry about my soul, Ripley Hart. I’d hate to see you disappointed.”
Before I can say another word, his wrist beeps. He looks at the watch, his face freezing and then darkening. All hints of
playfulness are gone as he reaches for the remote on the end of the bed and clicks on the wall of screens.
“What are you doing? I need to get ready for bed—”
Hux rapidly scrolls my DopaMine—apparently our feeds are different, or whoever’s feeding him intel is deep into the raw footage—because
we pass a few snippets of Broken Harts, my cheeks burning at the green-eyed protagonist; a video of a puppy gamboling on a trampoline that is definitely AI-generated;
and then finally—
Callum and I kiss in slow motion as the Brooklyn Bridge in all its watery glory plays out behind us, drone lights exploding
like fireworks.
My stomach drops deeper than the bottom of the ocean as Hux makes a retching noise in the back of his throat. I reach out,
leaning on the vanity. My knees are as good as jelly.
The kiss.
There were cameras?
But it’s not a question, because Hux and I are watching the proof in 4K.
Panic races up my back as the next thought barrels into me. Did they hear what we talked about? If so, I’m about to be arrested for treason.
Hux must read the look on my face, because he lifts the remote and clicks mute. The feed continues to play—not looping, but an unnaturally long video of my make-out session with the president’s son.
“It was a visual-only feed,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “They didn’t hear anything. You wouldn’t be here if they
had.”
I blink, my mind spinning. “He said there were no cameras.” I grasp for answers. Foolish. Hadn’t Becka warned me, and Callum
himself told me? There are always cameras. The angle suggests it was built into the wall above the bed. I suddenly feel so violated that I don’t know if I want to scream or throw up.
“Was this you?” I bite out.
“Me?” he asks, deathly still.
“Did you put a camera in the room?” I swallow against the burn in my throat. “You opened the door, so don’t lie to me. Did
you lead us into that particular room because you had set up cameras and you wanted this footage—”
“I didn’t, Ripley,” he answers plainly. There’s no hint of teasing as he stares darkly at the screen. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then why show me this?” I bark out, hating how frantic I sound. “To humiliate me?”
Hux raises his eyebrows. “Becka alerted me to it. The president is ordering a security sweep. This is a breach. I thought . . .”
He stops, searching for the right words. “I thought you’d want to know. I thought you deserved to know.”
I look back to the screen and watch as Callum’s hands drag down my back. Someone, using the green screen features, appears
over the footage, fanning themselves, jaw dropped open dramatically. I’m mortified. I slip down onto the end of the bed.
I thought the worst thing that would happen in this fake-dating scenario would be helping a bad man become president for life.
And that still might be the worst. But this feels worse.
I’m glad I know. Hux is right. The only worse thing would be being surprised by this as we head to the yacht tomorrow morning.
Frantically, I swipe up in my feed. But since I’ve spent so long on this video, the algorithm thinks it’s hooked me. Callum
and I make out with a filter so it looks like it’s raining hearts. Callum and I make out as someone green-screens themselves
in as a third. Callum and I make out as someone uses AI to remove my shirt—
Hux fumbles for the remote, swearing, but it only turns on the volume as I land on a video of one of the influencers I recognize.
“Okay, chat, I’m opening a poll. Because that was way too hot. How many months do you think we’ll have to wait before this
Girl Next Door has a bun in her oven?”
I blanch, my hand flying to my abdomen. “What the hell?”
Finally, Hux finds the right button and the TV goes dark, filling the room with shadow and an eerie quiet. I press a hand