I lower my voice just enough to take the edges off of it. "Look, I get it. You're good at your job. You keep the store running. You de-escalate situations instead of making them worse. But that doesn't mean you have to let these men treat you like that just because they spend money here."

She’s still looking down at her hands, twisting the napkin. It’s a tell. When she speaks, her voice is softer. "You think I don't know that?"

I study her. The small crease between her brows deepens as she frowns.

She does know it.

She's just been convincing herself for so long that this is how retail works, that she's stopped questioning whether or not it should be.

She finally looks up, and I meet her eyes—steady, certain. "You don't owe them your dignity, Izzy."

She blinks, and I wonder if anyone's ever told her that before. The light catches in her eyes, making them shine.

A slow breath, then a quiet, "I know."

But she doesn't say it like she believes it.

So I make sure she does.

I lean forward slightly, forearms resting on the desk. "I'm always watching. If you ever need an out, you signal me."

She swallows. "How?"

"Just say my name."

Her breath catches. The implication is clear—I'll be there. I'll intervene. I'll protect her.

Then she nods. "Okay."

She finishes eating, tosses her napkin, checks the time on her watch.

"I should head out," she says.

I nod, standing as she gathers her belongings. "I'll walk you to your car."

She shakes her head, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "That's okay. I know you'll be watching on the cameras anyway."

She's not wrong.

She hesitates in the doorway, looking back at me. "Thanks. For the food. And for..." She waves a hand, like she's trying to find the right words.

For making sure she eats.

For making sure she's safe.

For making sure she's seen.

I nod. "Anytime."

She steps into the hall, disappearing from view. Her footsteps fade as she walks away, leaving me alone with the evidence of our shared meal.

I watch until she's gone, then make my way back to the security room.

Back to her digital life I now have access to.

I should stop.

But I already know—I'm never going to.

WINE. AI. REGRET COMING SOON.

IZZY

The air in the parking garage is thick and still. Normally, I'd be hyper-aware of my surroundings, glancing over my shoulder with every step, keys gripped between my fingers like some flimsy kind of defense. I'd rush through this concrete maze, my heels clicking too loudly against the pavement, drawing unwanted attention to myself.

But tonight, I don't feel the usual unease that comes with walking through this space alone. My shoulders aren't drawn up to my ears, and my pulse isn't racing in that familiar way it does when I'm alone in poorly lit places. Instead, I walk with an unusual calm, letting my bag swing gently at my side.

Because I know he's watching.

It should unnerve me—knowing someone is tracking my every move, watching me cross the garage, following me through the security cameras mounted overhead. But it doesn't. Instead, it settles a fear deep inside me that I hadn't even realized was constantly simmering beneath the surface. Being watched has never felt comforting before, but now it does, and I'm not entirely sure what to make of that.

I ease into the car, shutting the door with a sigh. The faint scent of vanilla clings to the air, a quiet comfort. My muscles ache, my body sinking into the seat like it finally has permission to stop. I rest my head against the headrest and breathe, letting the stillness wrap around me.

The evening replays in my mind—the long shift with too many customers and not enough staff, the VIP incident that left a sour taste in my mouth, the way Cal's voice had gone hard when he told me not to put up with that harassment. Then dinner, the way he set food in front of me like it wasn't a question, wasn't a suggestion. He told me to eat.

And I listened.

I'm not sure what unsettles me more—that I obeyed so easily or that I liked it. The realization sends a wave of warmth across my skin. I shift in my seat, shaking my head as I put the car in drive, pulling out of the garage and heading for home.

The road hums beneath my tires, a familiar rhythm I've grown accustomed to after years of late-night drives home. It's the same route I've taken countless times, but tonight feels different. Maybe it's knowing that for the first time in a long while, someone actually noticed how late I was leaving, actually cared enough to make sure I ate before heading home.

I pull into my complex, shutting off the engine and stepping into the cool night air. My key slides into the lock with a familiar metallic scrape, and I push open the door to my apartment.

Wine. I need wine.

I grab a bottle from the rack, the glass cool against my palm as I pull out the cork with a satisfying pop. I pour myself a generous glass, the deep red liquid swirling against the sides as I lean back against the kitchen counter, kicking off my heels with a relieved sigh. The cool tile soothes the ache in my feet as I flex my toes, but it does little for the persistent buzzing in my head, the thoughts I can't quite silence.

My phone vibrates against the counter, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment. I glance at the screen, hoping for—what, exactly? A message that indicates someone is thinking about me? Words that might actually make me feel seen?

But it's just Evan.

Busy tomorrow. Don't wait up.

That's it. No how was your day, no thinking about you, not a single word that suggests he even remembers I exist outside of our shared schedule. No acknowledgment of my promotion or the dinner he ruined or anything that matters.

I take a slow sip of wine, letting the bitterness linger on my tongue. The alcohol warms my throat as I swallow, but it doesn't ease the hollow feeling in my chest. I don't react to his message, don't respond, don't even feel disappointed anymore. This is just who we are now—or maybe who we've always been, and I'm only now allowing myself to see it.

I move to the couch and unlock my phone, scrolling absently through my notifications. My thumb moves without much thought, skimming past emails, news alerts, social media updates.

Then my thumb pauses.

The Obsess AI app sits there, untouched, its sleek dark icon standing out against the other, more familiar apps. In the quiet of my apartment, with no one to judge me, Amanda's words from earlier drift back, teasing and insistent. "No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you."

I stare at the screen, taking another sip of wine as I consider my options. I should delete it. This is ridiculous, a digital fantasy that can't possibly fill the void of genuine connection.

Then, before I can think too hard about it, my thumb moves⁠—

And hovers over the delete button.

But instead of swiping it away, I tap the app open.

The screen shifts to black, then fades into a sleek, polished interface. The design is minimalist and modern, all clean lines and elegant typography. It feels exclusive, like I've been granted access to a private club where my desires actually matter.

A tagline scrolls across the screen in elegant white lettering:

The perfect lover. Always watching. Always waiting. Always yours.

A slow chill rolls down my spine, raising goosebumps on my arms despite the warmth of the wine in my system.