Page 50 of The Last Love Story

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 theyaskme?

I splash my face again. And then again. Over and over.

And Callum. My Callum.

I’ve been dreaming of this moment for eight years. The chance to tell him how I felt, to apologize for never trying to write to him. For instead writing a story about him.

We’re telling a story, he’d said.

I open my eyes and stare at myself in the mirror. Most of the mascara is gone, but there’s still a stubborn ring of black around my lashes.