"I did not," I say immediately. Too immediately. My voice sounds defensive even to my own ears.

Amanda cackles, completely unbothered by my denial. "No, you totally did. I can tell. You have that look."

I glare at her, adjusting my posture. "I opened it. That doesn't mean I used it."

Amanda hums like she's pretending to consider that, then, before I can stop her, she snatches my phone from the desk, her manicured nails clicking against the screen as she navigates to my apps. How this woman even knows my pin code is beyond me.

"Amanda, give that back!" I reach for it, but she's already dancing out of my reach.

She dodges me effortlessly, tapping into the app, her eyes widening as she scrolls through whatever she's finding there.

A beat of silence followed by a loud, dramatic gasp that could win her an Oscar.

"Oh. My. God." Her eyes snap to mine, gleeful and scandalized. "You programmed Callahan."

I go completely rigid, my heart stuttering before it slams into a sprint. "No, I didn’t."

She holds up the screen, pointing to the custom avatar I created. "You did. You so did. Dark hair, green eyes, tattoos? Come on!"

I lunge for my phone, nearly knocking over my coffee in the process. "It's just—it's not—he was the last guy I saw or something! It's a coincidence!"

Amanda laughs so hard she nearly drops my phone, the sound echoing in my small office. "A coincidence? Sweetie, you basically built him from memory. You even gave him a sleeve tattoo!"

I groan, covering my face with my hands. "Shut up."

"Oh, no. No, no, no." Amanda spins the phone back to herself, grinning like she's about to ruin my entire life. "I am so proud of this. This is the best thing you've done in months. Years maybe."

I glare at her between my fingers. "Give it back."

She ignores me, scrolling through the app with increasing delight. "Let's see what we've got here..."

Her eyes read over the conversation from last night. Then her expression shifts, her excitement fading into disappointment.

"...Girl."

I do not like her tone. Not one bit.

She looks up, eyebrows raised. "You are not using this right."

I narrow my eyes, dropping my hands to my lap. "What does that mean?"

Amanda tosses my phone onto the desk with a clatter. "You're doing wholesome shit. 'Go to sleep, pretty girl.' 'Did you rest well?' This is so... vanilla."

I’m not sure what she expected. "And?"

She gives me a look like I'm missing something obvious. "I told you—filthy in the DMs. That's the whole point!"

I do not like where this is going. The realization of what she wants hits me, and I reach for my phone. "Amanda⁠—"

"Nope. We're fixing this." She snatches the phone back before I can grab it.

"Amanda, don't you⁠—"

Her thumbs fly across the screen as she types something quickly, then slaps it back onto the desk with a triumphant smile.

"There. Got you started. Popped the cherry, as it were."

I’m horrified at what she might have written, afraid to even pick it up.

"Oh no," I whisper. "What did you say?"

Amanda beams, looking entirely too pleased with herself. "You're welcome."

"This is so beyond inappropriate."

Amanda rolls her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Why? It's fiction. You can be as insane as you want. That's the whole point of having a digital boyfriend—you get to explore without consequences. Without judgment."

I groan, grabbing my phone and pointing toward the door. "Leave. Now. Before I fire you."

Amanda laughs, tossing her blonde hair over her shoulder as she struts toward the exit. "Oh, you're welcome, sweetie. Thank me later when you're having the best orgasm of your life."

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving me alone with my phone and whatever digital disaster she's just created.

I stare at my phone, afraid to even look at what she's written.

And then, against all better judgment, against every rational thought in my head, I tap the chat.

I SAY GOOD MORNING. SHE SENDS FILTH.

CAL

I leave the meeting with Izzy and head back to the security suite, but my focus never really leaves her. The soft click of the door closing behind me does nothing to break the connection I feel to her, even when she's out of sight.

One screen stays locked on her office, always.

It's not an excuse—it's security. It's my job. The feed shows her sitting at her desk, tablet in hand, shoulders slightly tense as she works through whatever crisis the morning has delivered.

That's what I tell myself, anyway.

But the truth is, I like watching her.

I learn her.

The way she smooths her hands over her hips when she's stressed—which I hate, because it means she's carrying too much, but also love, because my eyes are drawn there every damn time. Her fingers trace the curve of her body almost unconsciously, like she's reassuring herself she still exists amid the chaos.

She's got a body built to be touched. Held. And yet, she moves like she's constantly trying to shrink herself down. Like she doesn't want to take up too much space. Like she's apologizing for her very existence.

That pisses me off.

I don't get men like Evan.

Men who have a woman like Izzy and can't even see what they have. She's Italian, for fuck's sake. She's got hips, curves, softness in all the places a woman is supposed to. A body that's been celebrated in art for centuries, now treated like it's somehow wrong.

And damn, I'd love to sink my fingers into it while⁠—

I stop that thought immediately.

I exhale hard, running a hand down my face. I need to get a grip. The stale air of the security suite suddenly feels stifling.

But still, it frustrates me.

Because she doesn't move like a woman who's comfortable in her own skin.

She moves like someone who's been made to feel like she should be smaller. Like she should take up less space, fit some kind of bullshit, unrealistic standard. Her body language betrays every criticism she's internalized, every disapproving glance she's absorbed.

Like she should have Amanda's shape instead of her own.

Amanda, who's all long limbs, harsh angles, no softness anywhere. Not that there's anything wrong with that—but that's not Izzy. That will never be Izzy, and it shouldn't have to be.

Izzy's got a body made for indulgence.

And men like Evan make women like her think they have to change.

That they're too much when they're already perfect.

And if anything—she's malnourished.

I knew she wouldn't eat this morning.

Even with Caleb telling her to.

And I was right.

Watching her eat that sandwich in the conference room made me feel things I didn't know how to deal with. The way her eyes closed briefly at the first bite, the small noise of appreciation she made without realizing it—it stirred something primitive in me.

Frustrated.

Possessive.

Like—if she won't take care of herself, I'll just have to do it for her.

The clock chimes 11 AM, the sound jarring in the quiet room, and I push up from my chair, forcing myself to move. Staying here, watching her all day, won't accomplish anything but feed this growing obsession.

As I pull up the live feeds to do my rounds, I spot Amanda walking into Izzy's office, already talking, already up to whatever the hell she gets up to. Her blonde hair swings with each animated gesture, her voice inaudible through the monitor but clearly energetic.