Page 71 of The Last Love Story

As he stares at me, though, that smirk fades into an expression I can’t quite place, his eyes searching mine frantically. His hand flexes at his side, and I wonder if it’s because he’s stopping himself from touching me.

Then the mask slips back into place. It’s so subtle I’d miss it if I blinked, but I’d know that shit-eating grin anywhere, that flintiness to his eyes. The promise that he doesn’t care, and nothing can hurt him, even me. Although the split in his lip says otherwise.

“Don’t worry about my soul, Ripley Hart. I’d hate to see you disappointed.”

Before I can say another word, his wrist beeps. He looks at the watch, his face freezing and then darkening. All hints of playfulness are gone as he reaches for the remote on the end of the bed and clicks on the wall of screens.

“What are you doing? I need to get ready for bed—”

Hux rapidly scrolls my DopaMine—apparently our feeds are different, or whoever’s feeding him intel is deep into the raw footage—because we pass a few snippets ofBrokenHarts, my cheeks burning at the green-eyed protagonist; a video of a puppy gamboling on a trampoline that is definitely AI-generated; and then finally—

Callum and I kiss in slow motion as the Brooklyn Bridge in all its watery glory plays out behind us, drone lights exploding like fireworks.

My stomach drops deeper than the bottom of the ocean as Hux makes a retching noise in the back of his throat. I reach out, leaning on the vanity. My knees are as good as jelly.

The kiss.

There were cameras?

But it’s not a question, because Hux and I are watching the proof in 4K.

Panic races up my back as the next thought barrels into me.Did they hear what we talked about?If so, I’m about to be arrested for treason.

Hux must read the look on my face, because he lifts the remote and clicksmute. The feed continues to play—not looping, but an unnaturally long video of my make-out session with the president’s son.

“It was a visual-only feed,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “They didn’t hear anything. You wouldn’t be here if they had.”

I blink, my mind spinning. “He said there were no cameras.” I grasp for answers. Foolish. Hadn’t Becka warned me, and Callum himself told me? There arealwayscameras. Theangle suggests it was built into the wall above the bed. I suddenly feel so violated that I don’t know if I want to scream or throw up.

“Was this you?” I bite out.

“Me?” he asks, deathly still.

“Did you put a camera in the room?” I swallow against the burn in my throat. “You opened the door, so don’t lie to me. Did you lead us into that particular room because you had set up cameras and you wanted this footage—”

“I didn’t, Ripley,” he answers plainly. There’s no hint of teasing as he stares darkly at the screen. “I wouldn’t.”

“Then why show me this?” I bark out, hating how frantic I sound. “To humiliate me?”

Hux raises his eyebrows. “Becka alerted me to it. The president is ordering a security sweep. This is a breach. I thought...” He stops, searching for the right words. “I thought you’d want to know. I thought you deserved to know.”

I look back to the screen and watch as Callum’s hands drag down my back. Someone, using the green screen features, appears over the footage, fanning themselves, jaw dropped open dramatically. I’m mortified. I slip down onto the end of the bed.

I thought the worst thing that would happen in this fake-dating scenario would be helping a bad man become president for life. And that still might be the worst. But thisfeelsworse.

I’m glad I know. Hux is right. The only worse thing would be being surprised by this as we head to the yacht tomorrow morning.

Frantically, I swipe up in my feed. But since I’ve spent so long on this video, the algorithm thinks it’s hooked me. Callum and I make out with a filter so it looks like it’s raining hearts. Callum and I make out as someone green-screens themselves in as a third. Callum and I make out as someone uses AI to remove my shirt—

Hux fumbles for the remote, swearing, but it only turns on the volume as I land on a video of one of the influencers I recognize.

“Okay, chat, I’m opening a poll. Because that was way too hot. How many months do you think we’ll have to wait before this Girl Next Door has a bun in her oven?”

I blanch, my hand flying to my abdomen. “What thehell?”

Finally, Hux finds the right button and the TV goes dark, filling the room with shadow and an eerie quiet. I press a hand over my mouth, unsure if I’m holding in angry words, angry tears, or vomit. “Get out, Hux,” I whisper.

He’s still frozen with the remote aimed at the screens, so I walk over and bodily shove him toward the door.