Page 35 of The Last Love Story

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 mewhat?” 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,” Isay. 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’mgoing 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 ithurts, 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 looklike 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.