Page 88 of The Last Love Story

He flips the dagger at me and, despite my years of training, I almost drop it.

“Kill him,” the president orders.

“Father—”

“Shut up, Callum,” the president snaps. “Perhaps this is my fault. I coddled you. Well, it’s time for you to see what it takes to clean up your own messes.”

I step forward, sweat dripping down the back of my satin dress.

“So,” the president continues, “what will it be, Ms. Hart?”

“I know what it’s like to be betrayed,” I say truthfully. I feel Callum flinch, but I press on. “But love is stronger. I wish I didn’t love Callum anymore, but I do. I could never hurt him.” The dagger drops from my hands. “But I’m also not a killer.”

President Graves listens, cocking his head. “That’s whereyou’re wrong, Ripley Hart. In the right situation? When your back is up against the wall and the enemy is closing in? Anyone can be a killer. I learned that eight years ago.”

My stomach sinks. “When you instituted the draft?”

The president grins, a cold, twisted expression. “No, Ripley. When your parents stabbed me in the back.” His eyes glitter. “Or tried to, at least. And then I realized I would have killed you, to stop them. I might have even enjoyed it. After such a long time, regardless of what my insipid son thinks of you, don’t believe for a minute that has changed.”

Becka sticks her head in. “Mr. President. We’re clear.”

She glances briefly at Hux, who winks at her, sprawled on the floor with blood gushing between his teeth. She shows no emotion, but we both know that he could out her too. She could be right there on the ground next to him. But she’s not.

“I think I know what my first act will be,” President Graves says, with a light whistle. “You know public executions are always fantastic for morale.”

I don’t know which one of us he’s talking about. Maybe he’ll kill us all.

And then he winds up his foot, kicking Hux squarely in the cheek. I rush forward, ignoring Callum’s hurt look, and cradle his head, stopping it from cracking against the pavement.

“Hux,” I breathe, and he just shushes me. He can’t say what he wants to say, and neither can I. Not with our audience. Even Becka’s lip curls.

“Hux,” I whisper as quietly as I dare. What if this is the last time I see him?I love you. Thank you. I love you.

All the things I need to say dance on my tongue, but I can’t utter one of them.

“I think I win, Hart,” he whispers. “But you should have something to remember me by.” He uncurls one of the hands bound behind his back, where gold glitters.

The poker chip.

The fucking poker chip. I want to slap him. How could that help now? He may have given it little pincers—what am I supposed to do, pinch the president to death?

“Keep it close, yeah?” Hux whispers as I stare, unbelieving. “Get out there, Hart. Don’t let them see you sweat.”

Becka beckons me onward, and I glance back once, at the shutting door, to see Callum bending down to Hux, holding him up by his hair.

“Let’s go,” Becka urges, opening a door and thrusting me out into the wings. Because the president is waiting for me at the edge of the stage. With a smirk, he holds his arm out to me. I shudder at the thought of touching him, but I know what I have to do. I take his arm, and we walk out onto the stage, up the stairs to the dais.

I tuck Hux’s poker chip in my bra as I climb the stairs.

President Graves paces to the front of the raised platform, staring pensively at the powder-blue curtain. I inch closer to him, trying to see what he sees. The future? America, in the palm of his hand? The end of the world?

“Do you remember Evan Nabler?” Graves asks.

I just see a moth-bitten curtain. “No.”

I didn’t think I could hate him more. It doesn’t matter that he threatened me. But the thought of losing Hux hollows me out completely, and it’s everything I can do to stand upright.

“He was a local bully when you kids were little. Pushed you down and stole your lunch one day. Ring a bell?”