Chapter 6 Wine. AI. Regret Coming Soon.
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.
It's just a stupid app. A distraction. A way to pass time on a lonely evening.
But still, I hesitate, my finger hovering over the screen.
I tell myself it's harmless, just a little fun, just a distraction to amuse Amanda next time she pries into my nonexistent love life. But as I exhale and press forward, clicking into the customization screen, the questions that appear make my chest tighten with an unexpected vulnerability.
What kind of personality do you prefer?
The options appear in a neat list, waiting for me to shape this perfectly tailored, utterly devoted, digital companion. Each choice feels strangely intimate, like I'm revealing parts of myself I usually keep hidden.
Charming.
Romantic.
Confident.
Protective.
Devoted.
Possessive.
I hesitate on that last one, my finger hovering over the screen as the word burns into my vision.
Possessive
My mind returns to dinner. To Cal sitting across from me, unwavering, watching me eat like it was his responsibility to make sure I did. To the way he told me, If you ever need an out, you signal me. To the feeling of safety as he watched me walk through the parking garage.
The word Protective stares up at me from the list, and I select it with a quick tap.
Then Confident, because the last quality I want is a man who second-guesses what he wants.
My choices feel too revealing, like I'm crafting not just a digital companion but exposing the hollow spaces in my actual relationship.
The next question appears on screen:
How should he communicate?
Sweet and affectionate.
Flirty and playful.
Intense and passionate.
Reassuring and supportive.
I pause, my fingers tightening around the phone, my wine forgotten on the counter beside me. When was the last time someone was reassuring to me? The question sits heavily, and the answer doesn't come easily.
Evan doesn't do reassurance. If I'm struggling, he assumes I'm exaggerating. If I'm tired, he tells me to stop complaining. If I express any need at all, he makes me feel like I’m a burden.
But Cal...
I shake my head, forcing the thought away. This is an AI. It's not real. It's not a replacement for actual human connection.
I select Reassuring and supportive. Then, because the wine has loosened my inhibitions and I'm tired of denying what I want, I add Intense and passionate.
The screen shifts again, displaying yet another question:
What does he call you?
I nearly back out. This feels too personal, too revealing, like each choice I make is exposing a longing I've tried to ignore.
A list of pre-set options appears, safe and generic:
Babe
Sweetheart
Love
Angel
Darling
I barely look at them. My eyes are drawn to the empty text field beneath, the space where I can type in my own preference. A space to make this fantasy mine in a way my reality isn't.
I swallow hard.
I should pick something simple. Something meaningless. Something that doesn't reveal too much about what I'm missing.
But before I can stop myself, my fingers move across the keyboard—
Pretty girl
My throat constricts as I look at the words displayed on the screen. It's not a name Evan has ever called me. Not once in three years.
But I remember reading it in a book years ago. A romance novel where the male lead said it like a prayer, like he meant it. Like his woman was the most beautiful person in the world, and he wanted her to know it every day with those simple words.
I read that line over and over, heart pounding, aching with a need I didn't even fully understand back then. To be looked at like that. To be wanted like that. To have a man see me—really see me—and think she's so beautiful, I'm going to call her that forever.
The thought makes desire twist deep in my soul, a longing for something I've never had but desperately want.
I press enter before I can change my mind, and the next screen loads.
Customize Your Perfect Man
My breath catches, my heart speeding up. A silhouette appears on the screen, blurred and undefined, waiting to be shaped by my choices. Below it, sliders and drop-down options let me adjust every detail of this digital fantasy.
I should rush through this. Pick random features, not dwell on each selection. But instead, my fingers hover over the first option, the wine making me bolder than I would be otherwise.
Height?
I slide it up. Tall. Bigger than me. 6’ 4”.
Build?
I don't hesitate—strong. Broad shoulders. A man who could wrap himself around me and make me feel small, protected.