Page 36 of The Last Love Story

Down one hall, then another. Before I know it, we’re at a massive set of double doors.

Above it, a red light glows—a warning. We all stop and stare up, and I know we’re waiting on something.

“Can I ask—?” I whisper, and Debra silences me with ashhhhand a sharp look, pointing to the red light like I’m the world’s biggest fool.

Then, the light goes green. Debra opens the door. But instead of stepping into the darkness beyond, she just holds the door open for me.

I hesitate, but Kaleb makes a move to fix my hair and so I take my out—I step forward into the darkness.

Wherever I am, it’s massive. My heels echo.

I stop when I feel something just in front of my face—fabric. A curtain?

Where am I?

Someone appears next to me, and a deep voice fills the darkness.

“Take my hand,” the stranger says. “I’ve got you.”

There’s a lilt to it, a softness that pricks the edge of my memory. But it’s too low—why do I think his voice sounds too low? He’s a figure in the dark, but for some reason I feel safer with him next to me.

So, I take his hand. Instantly, his fingers twine in mine, finding a place palm against palm, a slash of roughness tickling my skin, and my heartbeat slows. His thumb strums along my skin, and I stare up at him, like I can grow night vision through sheer force of will.

Just as I’m about to ask this stranger what the hell is going on, everything happens at once. The curtain draws back, a huge swath of light hitting both of us. I blink hard as a cheery, sharp voice cuts over a speaker above us: “Ladies and gentlemen... the fiancée!”

Is that the guy’s name? Kinda weird, but okay. Must be French.

And then, with gentle pressure on our interlaced hands, we’re walking.

My eyes adjust to the light, revealing a crowd staring up at me. I’m on a stage. Not just any stage—a colossal stage. The crowd seems to go on forever, rows of cheering people disappearing into shadow as I look upward. A stadium, then—I can see the telltale orange glow of the night sky above us, safely cut off by a massive glass bubble. We’re on a raised platform in the middle of a football stadium. There are only three of these left in the country.

The hand in mine squeezes softly, and I turn to look at him. My stranger.

Then, my heart really stops.

It’s not a stranger at all.

Callum Graves is holding my hand.

The boy I haven’t seen since I moved years ago. The boy I was madly in love with.

Orion.

I turn, my eyes fixing straight ahead, the deer-in-the-headlights look frozen on my face.

Callum leans in. Despite my terror and confusion, the smell of him is still a comfort: citrus and cedar with a hint of night air. I take in a sharp breath, the air unlocking something in me. There, in front of thousands of people, I feel my racing pulse slow.

“I’ll explain everything,” he murmurs, his voice a rush. “But for now, play along, okay?”

I twist to gaze up at him. In the eight years we’ve been apart, he’s grown up into the president’s son. He’s taller, hisjaw broader, his voice lower. His shoulders strain at the formal jacket, his throat bobbing with a nervous swallow, his other hand worrying a golden pin on his lapel. But those eyes. Why did I change their color in my story? Green seemed more romantic than dark blue, and some part of my preteen mind imagined it would preserve the secret of his identity—but I’m struck by the need to write entire paragraphs about the real color of his eyes. Even in hundreds of thousands of words, I didn’t do him justice.

His fingers press against mine, sudden coolness along my fourth finger. I glance down. He wasn’t just holding my hand earlier. He was slipping something onto it—a ring with a hulking diamond.

As the crowd continues to cheer, he lifts my knuckles to his mouth. The gem glitters.

“Let’s hear it for the lovebirds!” the announcer yells, and I didn’t think it was possible for the crowd to get louder. I was wrong.

That’s when I realize...