Page 91 of The Last Love Story

“We tell the truth,” I say slowly, motioning to Hux, who nods before taking his place at my side. Becka moves to the other side of Callum. The curtains sweep back, and someone screams. A sea of faces, anonymous as the stage lights burn into my eyes, but the fear comes off of them in waves. They thought they would see America’s future, and instead they’re staring at four teens and a dead man.

Blood drips off the edge of the stage down onto the front row.

Okay, so we’re probably going to prison.

But maybe—maybe not. After all, I can write the ending of this story.

I reach for Hux’s hand, and he locks his fingers in mine as we stare down at the crowd, lights blinding us. But, perhaps without realizing what’s happening with my right hand, Callum reaches for my left, for the hand with that ring, and once again presses a kiss to my knuckles. To the ring that I still choose to wear.

From the back of the theater, a catchy tune plays:

There’s no turning this ship around, you pathetic child. It has sailed. And we only have room for the people at the top.

“Excuse me?” I call, shielding my eyes. “Can we get these lights? I can’t—I can’t see—”

The house lights creep on, as if just as nervous about this as I am, and as the bright white in my face fades, I can make out each and every horrified expression.

Finally, a senator stands up. She walks to the front ofthe theater, her blue dress swishing softly as she moves. She clears her throat and turns to face the crowd.

“The vote has passed. Graves is president for life. Long live the president.”

My stomach churns, and my eyes find the body at the edge of the stage.

But the senator holds up a gloved finger. “And upon the death of the life president”—she turns to look up at Callum—“the president’s heir shall become president.”

Everything around us falls silent as the crowd considers.

I turn to Callum, his bloody hand pressed to mine. I can feel the redness seeping into my very fingerprints. His eyes find mine in the bright light.

“Ripley,” he whispers, uncertain.

My mind is racing.

Callum, president for life.

“Callum must accept,” another senator calls out.

“What should I do?” Callum whispers out the side of his mouth.

The vote has passed. If he doesn’t take the presidency, someone else will. Someone who doesn’t ever have to give it up. We can’t take that back.

“The devil we know,” I whisper, looking to Hux.

“Hart,” Hux warns, but I shoot him a look.

“Got a better idea?”

Hux’s mouth opens and closes—

Callum looks at me, and then to Hux. Something settles over him, then. A decision.

“I accept,” he says.

“What? Louder, boy!” the senator gripes.

“I accept,” Callum bellows. He looks at me, a question burning in his eyes. He just became the most powerful man in the world, but he looks helpless as he stares at me.

And holds out his hand—a question.