Page 58 of The Last Love Story

“For another four years?”

“For life.”

I tighten my hands on the railing, and we’re quiet for a moment. “What do you think about it?” I ask.

“I hate being the son of the president,” he admits quietly.

Hope blooms in my chest. “What if you told him that? Like you said, he’s a good guy. He’ll listen to his son.”

Callum stares at the water and then drags his eyes to me. “Exactly, Ripley. He’s a good guy. Not perfect, but... better than others. If it’s not him, it will be someone worse. It’s the right thing for him to be our leader... for his whole life.”

“For life?” I echo. “Callum, that’s not democracy.”

Callum nods. “I know. Iknow, Ripley. But we’re not dealing with ideals here. The billionaires at the dinner? They pull the strings. They’d let the world end if it meant more dollars in their pockets and clicks on their videos.The will of the peopledied a long time ago.”

I process his words, forcing myself to be still. He continues gently, “This is just like what we’re doing here, with the Peary Act. Working in the system, compromising. Once weget past this vote, they can’t stop us. We just have to wait for the right time, and then we can do the right thing.”

I listen. I can’t tell how much of this Callum really believes and how much he’s saying because he can’t say the alternative: that his father is going to become a dictator.

“What does it mean foryou, Callum? If he’s like some sort of king, what does that make you? A prince? A king, one day?”

He looks up at me, his expression broken and sad but strangely hopeful. “That’s not what I want. That’s the last thing I want.” He breathes, looking at his hands on the railing. “But damn, the things I would do. The rights I would wrong.”

Graves abolishing the term limit is wrong, but it can always get worse. But with me and with Callum? Maybe this is a third option. An option where he—we—could make our own rules. And we could do it right.

I shake my head. “Why did you tell me?”

“Because I’m scared, and you always had a way of making me feel brave. Helping me sort out things that felt impossible,” Callum says softly. The honesty shocks me, and I feel myself tear up. I blink fast.

“And when you were talking about the bad guy in the story?” he asks. “What was that phrase you used?”

The sun breaks through the clouds, weak, anemic, and he squints as he looks at me.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” I reply.

He nods. “That.” He’s looking back at the water. “That.”

When the hovercopter lands on the circular pad that dominates the gallery deck, Callum helps me up and we ride back to New Washington in silence, not letting go of the other’s hand, even when we disembark and approach the motorcade. Callum moves to open the door of the last dark hovercar, a hulking vehicle that should seat at least eight, but one of the guards tells him to hold on. I don’t know if they’re doing a safety sweep or, equally as likely, they’ve been ordered to leave time for the eagerly waiting press to snap more photos. But as I stand on the blacktop with Callum, even though it’s been minutes since we were in the hovercopter, all I can hear in my ears is that buzzing.

The vote is next week.

Callum rests his shoulder against mine as we stand in silence. One week, and it’s all going to end all over again. The end of democracy. Maybe the end of the world.

Seven days to make my decision. I could bail. Escape. Find a way to make sure my parents are safe—maybe joining the Machs would make that happen—and leave. I don’t know if a salacious PR dip will do enough damage to foil the vote at the Union Conference, but at least I’ll know I’m not helping get him elected.

Callum brushes a hand along my bicep and my escapefantasy vanishes in a puff of smoke. Because another copter touches down and the press pours out, heads bent down into their tablets as they excitedly manipulate their images. The Hammers are working a perimeter as the driver steps away. No eyes on us. For once, this isn’t for show.

He knows I’m in my thoughts. He knowsme, and he’s trying to ground me.

I don’t know what I think. I know Graves is wrong. I know he can’t be president for life. That cannot happen. But about a couple of things? Callum is right. Running away from power doesn’t fix anything. And I can do more here, with Callum—trying to convince him—than I could if I ran.

I can’t just look away, let myself get swept into the fantasy. I have to do something.

Maybe I can save the galaxy like this, just like Saffron did.

Maybe the right thing to do is also the thing that feels like coming home. I can feel his eyes on me, like he’s thinking the exact same thing.

He leans in, so his words are for me and me alone. “You didn’t finish your story,” he breathes, tickling the small hairs against my neck.