Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 480(@200wpm)___ 384(@250wpm)___ 320(@300wpm)
I don’t confirm or deny.
“Go back to the hotel, Theo.”
Romy hugs Theo and says, “Keep her safe.”
“I will.”
He lingers with his arms around her, hugging her for a little longer than my liking. Finally, he lets go before disappearing into the crowd. I grab Romy’s hand again and guide her away from the people to a hallway that leads to the restrooms.
I pull her phone out of my pocket and then turn on some Beethoven. “Put in an earbud and give me one.”
She fishes them out of her small wristlet. I can’t help but stare at the ring again on her finger. It looks good on her. I guessed her size perfectly.
Once we have Beethoven blasting and earbuds in place, I feel as though I can breathe. It tunes out whatever messaging they’ve been forcing on us the entire time.
“You’re wound up tight,” Romy says, frowning. “What aren’t you telling me?”
There’s a lot I’m not telling her. It should stay that way.
And yet, my stupid mouth blurts out shit anyway.
“I’ve been getting texts from someone,” I say, hating how the truth sounds on my lips.
“Calista again?”
“No. Some guy. Well, I assume it’s a guy, who calls themself S.”
“What does S want?”
“To fuck with me. Hell, I don’t know. He knows about Calista. No one but me, you, and Dad knows about her.”
She frowns in confusion. “Is it Orion sending you the texts?”
I’m not sure why I’m confiding in her, but to be honest, it’s nice to be able to discuss things with someone.
“I considered it,” I admit. “But S has texted me before while I was talking to Dad. Theo was there too. He couldn’t have pulled that off.”
“A scheduled message?”
“We went back and forth. Even my AI programs aren’t that sophisticated. It was a real person.”
“Could S be pretending to be Calista?”
I pace the area in front of her, spearing my fingers through my styled hair, likely messing it up. “I don’t know. It’s possible.”
She stops me with a hand on my arm. “Caius. Look at me. I can help you figure this out if you will let me.”
I stare into her truthful eyes, believing every word she says. For a second, I get lost in this moment. The girl I’ve been sleeping with is smart, loyal, and brave. She’s mine. After this, I can take her to bed and forget the whole world while inside her. This is probably why people fall in love and get married. They gain a partner—someone to conquer their demons alongside with.
Pulling her to me, I kiss her deeply and speak with my tongue swiping along hers words I wish I could say. She means something to me. That’s real. Can she feel it?
When I break the kiss off, she remains still, waiting.
“I want your help,” I say, unsure if I truly mean it.
The determined glint in her eyes does wonders to confirm I do. “We’ll figure this out together.”
I take her hand and bring the diamond up close for me to inspect, stalling for time. She’s patient and waits until I’m ready.
“I think our dads are in on whatever music shit they’re doing out there,” I admit, voice tight with tension. “Call it intuition or a hunch. Whatever.”
“I believe you,” she says, nodding. “They’ve proven to be manipulative.”
“And Huxley is…” I trail off, unable to pinpoint how I feel.
“Creepy as hell. I agree.”
I smirk at her. She’s cute when she’s in detective mode.
“Subliminal messaging through music is something that’s been going on for a long time,” I reveal. “It’s nothing new. But it’s usually done in a niched way. As therapy for a patient or an experiment on a small group of people.”
“I saw a chapter on it in one of your books,” she confirms. “I skimmed it, but I am familiar with it.”
“Do you remember which book?”
“Propaganda and Psychological Warfare: The Past, Present, and Future. Page one-fourteen, to be exact.”
It’s a shame her father spent so many years muddying this brilliant brain of hers. I’ve taken it for granted how clever she is time and time again. Her memory is impeccable when not clouded with drugs. She puts puzzles together at a dizzying speed.
“You have a photographic memory?” I ask, arching a brow.
She shrugs. “I remember things and store them to use later. It’s more of an internal cataloguing system. You never know when you’ll need to access those files.”
It makes me wonder if this system was born from years of being forced to repress memories—a survival tactic to hold onto every clue about the truth she was being denied.
“I think they’re using subliminal messaging as a type of propaganda,” I explain. “Before I realized what was happening, I kept thinking what a stand-up guy Huxley was.”
She nods emphatically. “Me too. And how wonderful this event is.”
At least I’m not going crazy.