The Last Kings Of Hollywood

What do you do when the most dangerous thing in your life isn’t a secret—it’s the moment you choose to reveal it? In The Last of the Monsters (Monsters in Hollywood, Book 6), Lila Dubois argues that truth and love survive only when you claim them in public and on purpose. She contends that you can’t simply confess who you are and hope for the best; you must stage-manage reality in a world primed to fear you. This is a high-heat, high-heart paranormal romance wrapped in a media strategy thriller: a human actress (Akta) falls for a winged gargoyle (Henry) while they co-lead a movie designed to introduce monsters to the human world—softly, cinematically, on their terms.

Across this story, Dubois weaves four strands: a slow-burn (then scorching) love story between co-stars; a behind-the-scenes Hollywood procedural about making a film under siege; a crisis-communications playbook for revealing an explosive truth; and an ensemble of women founders using friendship, competence, and courage to carry everything across the finish line. You watch a production company run by five women (Akta, Lena, Margo, Jane, and Cali) try to keep a set safe, a marketing rollout clean, and their hearts intact—all while vigilantes, tabloid leaks, and history’s prejudice bear down.

A Premise That’s Big—and Personal

The premise sounds like an elevator pitch and an ethical dilemma: monsters are real, they’ve hidden for centuries, and now they want to meet humanity…through a movie. Akta, a human star, and Henry, a gargoyle warrior-actor, are cast as lovers Padma and Ebon. The onscreen reunion mirrors a private yearning they can’t resolve—after an electric kiss a year earlier sent Henry’s control (and body) flying into the night sky. The film becomes a Trojan Horse reveal: if people fall for a love story first, maybe they’ll accept the truth second. (Think X‑Men’s allegory for prejudice meets Wag the Dog’s media engineering, but with a tender, sex-positive center.)

Stakes That Escalate on Two Fronts

Outside, militant group Blackwolf attacks; a damaging photo leak hits a gossip site; and the world’s press circles like sharks. Inside, Henry battles a body that betrays his every emotion—his skin literally changes color with strong feelings. He copes through acting-as-armor and math problems-as-mind-control, until Akta forces the conversation he’s dodged for a year. The twist: Henry is a virgin terrified of visible arousal and emotional exposure. The book’s argument sharpens here—the only way forward is vulnerability made visible, then strategically framed.

What You’ll Learn in This Summary

You’ll see how Dubois turns a fantasy romance into a handbook on narrative control: how to leak the “unbelievable” via images and interviews, how to prep government leaders, how to react when everything goes wrong (like gunfire on a red carpet), and how to recover the message in real time. You’ll get a front-row seat to the film set itself: the choreography required to kiss a woman when you have a 20-foot wingspan, the sound problems wings cause, and the tangle of personalities required to deliver a movie on impossible deadlines.

You’ll also watch an adult, consensual, deeply communicative love story unfold. Akta’s open-hearted directness dismantles Henry’s self-protective myths; she teaches him that control and intimacy aren’t opposites. Their relationship becomes the book’s moral exhibit: telling the truth about who you are (monster, human, virgin, leader, lover) is scary—but tell it with intention, and you give everyone else a chance to join you in that truth.

Why It Matters (to You)

If you’ve ever tried to break a taboo—at work, in family, in your own identity—you’ll recognize this arc. Dubois suggests three lessons you can steal right now: first, love is logistics as much as feeling (plan the reveal you want); second, leadership under fire is mostly storytelling (own the narrative or someone else will); third, intimacy is a skill built through negotiation, not a secret you hide until it explodes (see Akta and Henry’s wish‑list conversations). Where many monster romances lean into mythic battles, Dubois leans into press junkets, editing bays, and boardrooms without losing heat. The result is a story that argues for courage-in-plain-sight: when the lights hit you—on camera, on carpet, or in your kitchen—decide who you are and show it.

In the sections that follow, you’ll meet the book’s core cast, track the PR chess match from leak to White House to red carpet gunfire, unpack how the women of Calypso Productions hold the center, and see how a virgin gargoyle and a human romantic craft a love that’s both tender and tactical. Along the way, expect nods to similar worlds (Nalini Singh’s Psy‑Changeling for interspecies intimacy; Guillermo del Toro’s empathy for monsters; Marvel’s mutants for public fear) and a through-line you can use: tell the truth, frame the truth, and protect the people who make the truth livable.

Dubois treats public exposure like a campaign, not a confession. The monsters’ initial plan—use a movie to gently acclimate humanity—meets the chaos of the internet, vigilantes, and a world that doesn’t read memos. The result is a layered PR war that moves from leaks and rumor to presidential briefings and, finally, a red carpet crisis they spin in real time. If you’ve ever had to roll out a hard truth at work, you’ll recognize the playbook—and the pivots.

Phase 1: The Trojan Horse Film

Calypso Productions’ Truth in Darkness is designed to land emotionally before it argues rationally. Akta (as Padma) and Henry (as Ebon) deliver a love story that ends with a simple thesis: “Someday they will be ready, and we will announce to them that we are real.” Everything—from shooting out of order at unpermitted locations, to choreographing kisses with a wing cradle—serves that reveal. The point: win hearts before minds (a principle you’ll see echoed in social science on persuasion).

Phase 2: Crisis—A Leak, a Kidnap, and a Banshee

A gossip site posts production stills of Henry mid-transformation kissing Akta; suddenly, the “monsters are actors” premise collapses. The leak (from location manager Nell) triggers a cascade: Blackwolf ambushes a set; Maeve—the Clan’s banshee Seer—arrives in LA; and the team scrambles to keep both the crew and public story contained. Dubois shows how a single uncontrolled image can reframe months of careful messaging.

Phase 3: Hire Pros, Pitch Power

Enter Jack Vice, a killer PR strategist whose real surname—Tanel—matches the White House Press Secretary’s (his brother). Jack reframes the problem: stop arguing details, sell a simple archetype—“protectors.” He whisks Luke and Henry to DC, where they reveal themselves to the President and senior staff. The government doesn’t panic; it recruits. The Secret Service soon includes a winged agent; Special Forces wants gargoyles on teams. (This echoes how pop culture sometimes catalyzes policy shifts; think of how films like Philadelphia normalized new conversations in Washington.)

Phase 4: Feed the Media Carefully

With Jack’s guidance, Akta and Henry tape a network news interview with Lillian Jones. The tease—Akta says what’s different isn’t the movie but the actors; Henry walks off camera and returns in full monster form—airs nationally. A measured “seeing is believing” tactic keeps the frame controlled (akin to how Apple stages product reveals: show, don’t overshare). Simultaneously, the team plans a Monday press conference as a Hail Mary if opening weekend confuses rather than convinces.

Phase 5: The Red Carpet Goes Hot

At the LA premiere, two gunmen fire from the bleachers. Henry—skin turned battle‑black, claws red—throws his wings around Akta. Photographers, to their credit or folly, keep shooting. Akta’s bodyguard Christian takes a bullet; so does Henry. What they do next is textbook crisis comms: control the tableau. Akta bandages Henry in public, raises her bloodied hand for the cameras, and—yes—faints photogenically to telegraph “victim” not “threat.” Then they pose. The message: monsters protect; humans lead; we’re not hiding.

(Context: This is PR at its most ethically fraught and effective—spin used to save lives. It invites comparison to Michael Crichton’s media maneuvers in Rising Sun, but with stakes that are existential and romantic.)

Phase 6: Debrief and Double Down

With the boulevard mobbed, Jack reroutes the core team through service tunnels to a hotel and lines up live anchors. Cali, ever ferocious, refuses to let “Miss Manners” (her words) set the tone for the first interview. Luke thanks the women for risking everything. And Dubois makes her thesis plain: telling the truth costs you. Do it anyway; do it together; and when the bullets fly, meet the cameras and choose your frame.

The central love story asks a disarmingly practical question: how do you build intimacy when one partner’s body betrays every feeling? Henry, a gargoyle whose skin shifts color with emotion, believes human–monster coupling is doomed—not because of biology, but because arousal paints him red and fear paints him black. Akta, a romantic pragmatist, wants the man she’s already half in love with. Their arc turns on honest talk, cautious touch, and finally, very public commitment.

A Kiss, a Flight, a Freeze

In a moonlit prologue, a tipsy Akta kisses Henry. His control shatters; he shifts mid‑patio and rockets into the sky. One year later, they’re filming a reunion-kiss scene that keeps dying under stiff lips. Director Cali—who is also Akta’s best friend—asks Henry how he’d kiss a shorter partner. Henry scoops Akta with a wing cradle; the camera loves it; his body almost betrays him again. They can’t fake the kiss until they speak the truth: what happened on that patio?

Secrets and a Scorching Talk

Their off‑set conversation is a model for high-stakes candor. Akta accuses Henry of hypocrisy: he trashes human–monster romance in public but looks at her like a starving man. Henry finally confesses the secret under the doctrine—he’s a virgin. He’s terrified of being visibly aroused in his monster skin, and of being mocked or used if a partner sees every flicker of desire. Akta reframes intimacy as skill, not status, and asks for one promise: “tell me what you like and don’t hide from me.”

Learning by Conversation (and Practice)

Dubois makes consent and communication the plot. Henry researches romance in the most Henry way—he tapes magazine articles across his walls (a detective-corkboard for dating), including one that says you sometimes have to decide to be romantic. He calls Akta late at night with a “wish list” he downloaded online, reading kinks he’d be willing to try. She confesses her curiosity, teases, and guides. Their first time is tender; their next times are bolder. The sex is explicit but framed as negotiation, delight, and aftercare—practically Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are in fiction.

“I Love You,” Strategically and Sincerely

After the DC breakthrough, Henry returns to LA and invites Akta to an old‑Hollywood dinner (a gesture he once dreaded). He tells her he loves her across champagne, in a curtained booth with bodyguards at the next table—romance adapted to reality. He proposes with an antique diamond ring. The moment is hijacked when their PR firm plants a photographer—but they fight, reconcile (“I’m scared to be this happy”), and double down. It’s not the absence of chaos that seals them; it’s choosing each other inside the chaos.

(Comparisons: The “virgin hero” trope appears in contemporary romance from Tessa Bailey to Lisa Kleypas; Dubois gives it a fresh engine by making arousal visible and dangerous—and then resolves it with radical honesty.)

Henry’s color-changing skin isn’t just cool worldbuilding; it’s a metaphor for bodies that won’t collude with social lies. He hates that his emotions surface on him, so he learns to act—first on a cave-stage for his Clan, then on an LA set—hoping performance will mask truth. But in front of Akta, acting fails, math problems barely muffle feeling, and shame finally yields to visibility. The novel argues that the parts of you you’re sure must be hidden are often the very proof other people need to trust you.

Acting as Armor

On set, Henry is a pro: take after take, he modulates tone, cadences, and even wing placement. Yet when the script brings him close to Akta, his body “leaks.” He turns black with anger when he thinks of Blackwolf. He veers blue to show calm for the camera. He fights not to go red when he lifts Akta with a hand under her hips. Dubois shows acting’s limit: you can perform competence, but you can’t out‑perform intimacy. Akta’s real kiss punctures the method.

Math as Control, Love as Countermeasure

Henry solves division in his head to derail an oncoming surge (an anxiety trick some readers will recognize). It’s a way of self‑regulating without shutting down. But math becomes a bridge, not a wall: he tells Akta he’s doing it; she sees the cost; they design workarounds together (cradling lifts, staged embraces, breath cues). When he finally lets go—first in a wing‑sheltered alley kiss, then during a red carpet rescue—his body’s truth becomes his argument. Cameras catch a protector, not a beast.

Shame to Self‑Possession

The most moving beat may be the simplest: Henry admits he’s never had sex because he feared exposure, and Akta doesn’t flinch. That acceptance is what lets him imagine telling the world. There’s a straight line from “Akta might reject my red skin” to “the world might reject our wings”; her acceptance rehearses the reveal. Dubois suggests identity work is fractal: practice in the small circle (bedroom, friends’ living room), then go public.

(Context: This echoes queer and neurodivergent narratives where bodies betray coded norms: flushing at the wrong moment, stimming under stress, being “too much.” Like in Becky Chambers’ science‑friendly space operas, the answer here isn’t to erase difference but to ritualize visibility so community can form around it.)

A big pleasure of this book is procedural: Dubois shows you how movies get made when your lead has bat wings. Sets need larger doors; fight scenes need a tiger the length of a freight car; ADR (voice dubbing) is required when wing membranes thump the boom mic. You attend production meetings, location scouts, and late‑night edits, and see how a women‑led shop keeps a show moving under fire.

Directing the Undirectable

Cali, the director, solves problems in minutes that would sideline other sets for days. A kiss reads flat? She reframes blocking and documents the new move in dailies. A tiger (Tokaki) needs on‑set work when he’s not fighting? He ages metal with spray paint to make a too‑clean alley look lived‑in. Henry’s color shift risks continuity? Production designer Jo leans into it visually, coding danger with black‑and‑red.

Editing, Sound, and Secrets

Oren, a brilliant but rehab‑fragile editor, cuts on a mobile bay so the team can test what reads on camera vs. what only looks great on a monitor (a real filmmaking problem). Later, he dates Maeve (not recommended unless you like your lovers omniscient). When wing flutters ruin dialogue, Akta and Henry spend hours in a booth redelivering lines—with his hand wandering under the table until the engineer clears his throat. Work still gets done.

Logistics Under Threat

Secrecy forces fast, dirty location work: no permits; complicated call sheets; decamp quickly. When the leak hits, Lena (producer) triples security and buys out crew time so no one can bounce to other gigs (and spill secrets). When Blackwolf stuns guards and storms a shoot, Seling breathes fire; the team evacuates; and Henry runs to protect Akta rather than fight, a dereliction his brothers call “cowardice” until they understand love changed the risk calculus.

(If you like the nuts‑and‑bolts vibe in Andy Weir’s The Martian—solve the next problem in front of you—you’ll enjoy how Dubois keeps the cameras rolling while the sky falls.)

The emotional spine isn’t only the romance; it’s the women who refuse to let the center collapse. Calypso Productions is founded and run by five friends—Akta, Lena, Margo, Jane, and Cali—each with a domain and a love affair (cross‑book arcs). Add Jo (production designer) and you have a team that makes decisions, eats consequences, and drags their monster partners toward courage.

Roles and Competence

Lena produces like a field general—negotiating PR contracts, warning Runako not to retaliate when mad, and reminding everyone they signed up for history, not comfort. Cali directs and trash‑talks with equal skill, half drill sergeant, half artist. Jane writes and quietly carries the highest stakes—she’s pregnant with Michael’s child, a secret they hide until the reveal risks outpacing their plan. Margo, engaged to Runako, manages the human–monster family politics like a diplomat.

Female Friendship as Safety Net

When Akta spirals—after seeing paparazzi shots of her engagement online—she calls Lena before confronting Henry. When the premiere turns chaotic, the women lock arms, inventory risks (police, press, vigilantes), and align on tone: calm, visible, forward. There’s a bathroom scene with Cali and Akta that captures the book’s heart—two women trading barbs, then “I love you,” then back to battle. It’s competence porn with affection.

Moral Courage, Not Just Logistics

The women also set ethical guardrails. They push back on Jack’s manipulations (like staging engagement photos without consent), insist on drivers and bodyguards, and hold the line on “no more secrets inside the team.” When Maeve drops eight frozen Blackwolf soldiers into Akta’s pool (yes, really), they are the ones who press for humane next steps rather than vengeance. Dubois honors a romance genre staple—female friendship as infrastructure—without softening their edge.

For a book with banter and heat, The Last of the Monsters has a cool eye for ethics. Protection choices reverberate: who gets saved, who gets hurt, and what compromises you accept after. The boldest example: Maeve freezes captured Blackwolf operatives in magic ice (Everafter stasis) rather than kill them…and later thaws them to become the monsters’ bodyguards. It’s wild, morally messy, and oddly persuasive.

From Enemies to Guards

After the set attack, some Blackwolf fighters surrender. Maeve freezes eight in blocks of ice and stores them in an alternate dimension. Months later, she portal‑drops the ice into Akta’s pool and Seling flame‑thaws them while Runako keeps order. Their leader, Sergeant Alex Gomez (ex‑USMC), takes stock, listens, and—given a choice to leave—chooses to stay. He becomes Henry’s shadow (and delivers a dry “I don’t do women” when love talk starts).

Security with Humanity

Gomez’s presence adds quiet texture: he clocks a Secret Service gargoyle on TV (“I could tell he was different”), hustles Christian to a hospital after the premiere shooting, and refuses to break when PR wants a photo‑op. His romance with Christian is barely sketched but telling—private, competent, and grounded. Security, Dubois suggests, is best when it’s personal and principled.

Lines You Don’t Cross (and the Ones You Do)

The monsters do hard things: Seling breathes fire at attackers; Runako dumps enemy bodies at a naval base to force an internal military investigation; Luke considers retreating to the mountains. Yet they also refuse easy brutality. They don’t “disappear” the thawed men; they employ them. They don’t hide from police after the shooting; they cooperate. The book’s ethic lands here: survival requires teeth, but legitimacy requires restraint.

(Comparison: Fans of Anne Bishop’s The Others will recognize the tension between predatory power and chosen restraint—Dubois keeps that balance under bright LA lights.)

All strategy converges at the premiere—a masterclass in composure under fire. The scene is cinematic: Akta in silver‑hemmed white satin, a Tiffany lariat like starlight down her back; Henry and Runako in tuxedos; photographers chanting their names. Then a pop, a hole in a foamcore poster, and the word “Gun!” ripples the stands. What they do next turns an attempted tragedy into a global reframe.

Reflex, Then Tableau

Henry shifts mid‑run, wings cracking the air, and shields Akta. Christian takes a bullet; so does Henry. Akta’s eyes stay open. She spots the shooters. She hears “They’ve got them” in her bodyguard’s rasp, then steps into a role only she can play. She tapes Henry’s wound (in view), lifts her blood‑smeared hand for cameras (evidence), whispers “Pose, you idiots,” and—strategically—swoons into Henry’s arms. The photos are indelible: monster as protector; star as calm.

Aftermath as Narrative

Inside, the team toasts Akta for fast thinking. Jack Vice arrives with the energy of a man who sees history and ratings aligned. He moves them through service corridors to a hotel suite, dials anchors, and produces clothes. Cali’s line, “I refuse to die because we let Miss Manners go first,” captures their posture: set the tone or get set by it. They will speak for themselves.

Courage, Not Certainty

The book doesn’t pretend this solves everything. The street is a zoo; police are overwhelmed; opening weekend reactions are mixed; a Monday press conference still looms. But Dubois makes a bet: public courage, witnessed and repeated, changes what seems possible. By the time Luke says, “Thank you” to the women—“This wasn’t your fight, and we had no right to ask”—you feel the cost and the choice. They step into the lights anyway.

One more thread matters because it grounds the grand gestures: this is an erotic romance that treats pleasure as a language two adults learn fluently. Henry’s fear of exposure dissolves not with a single grand night, but with a cycle of asking, trying, checking, and tending. Akta’s approach—curiosity plus boundaries—turns intimacy into a practice that fortifies them for public storms.

A Wish List and a Rule

Their phone call about Henry’s “sex wish list” is cheeky and instructive. He reads items he’s willing to try; she answers honestly, including “I’ve never tried that, but with you I’d like to.” They set a single rule—no hiding—and keep it. When they finally experiment (blindfolds, toys, even anal, all negotiated), the emphasis is on checking in and savoring, not performance. Their aftercare includes combing out her hair and holding each other while dawn creeps in. Tenderness matches heat.

The Personal Is Strategic

This isn’t side‑plot sizzle; it’s thematic: Henry’s shame dissolves because one person loves his visible desire. That experience underwrites his public courage. When Akta tells a reporter someday, “What’s different isn’t the film—it’s the actors,” you know what she really means: “We’ve already told the truth to each other; telling it to you is next.”

(Parenthetical comparison: Like in Sierra Simone’s priest‑heroes and Talia Hibbert’s consent‑forward banter, sex here is an engine for character growth, not just a reward.)