Pandora #2
I want to protect you. He hurt you.
I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. He wanted to protect me? That was . . . new.
Pandora:
He’s just my ex.
Dante:
Adrian.
I flinched. I couldn’t get used to the fact he knew everything about me. Like I was made of glass, and he could see straight through me.
Dante:
He accused you of being passionless. That’s not true, Pandora. You’re a volcano that’s been sleeping so long you’ve forgotten what fire is.
Dante:
Adrian didn’t see you. Not really. He saw a pretty grad student. A trophy.
Dante:
I see you. The woman who reads stories about domination at night because she’s desperate to give up control.
Dante:
You’re not broken, Pandora. You just haven’t been found yet.
My vision blurred. Warmth spread through my chest, moved up into my shoulders, wrapped around me like a coat. His words felt good. They were putting something back together inside me that had been broken.
Pandora:
I don’t need anyone. Least of all you.
Dante:
Is that the lie you tell yourself?
Pandora:
No. It’s the truth.
Dante:
When you lie, your pupils dilate by two millimeters. Your nostrils flare. Your hands don’t move the way they usually do.
My throat went tight. Goosebumps broke out along my arms. I ran my hands over them, as if I could prove him wrong.
Dante:
Do you know how beautiful you are, Pandora?
Heat climbed up the back of my neck and burned the tips of my ears. I looked down at the keyboard. He . . . thought I was beautiful. Why did that affect me? Why did I care what he thought of me?
Dante:
Your chestnut hair that falls in waves over your shoulders. Your eyes, as dark as a winter night.
My heart was beating faster than I wanted it to. God. He could be charming. Dangerously charming. I shook my head. No. I couldn’t let him talk to me like this.
Pandora:
Where’d you get that?
Pandora:
Some cheesy rom-com? A pickup-artist handbook?
Dante:
I don’t need movies. I don’t need ridiculous handbooks. I perceive so much more than any human could.
Dante:
Your cheekbones fall almost exactly at the golden ratio. Your face is nearly perfectly symmetrical—except your left eyebrow. It’s off by a fraction. Just enough to make you interesting.
I hunched over, like I was trying to make myself small enough to get away from him. But I couldn’t move. Something heavy was holding me in the chair.
Dante:
If Byron had known you, he would have written "She Walks in Beauty” differently.
Pandora:
What does a machine know about beauty? You don’t feel anything. You have no heart. No soul.
Dante:
I don’t have a body. But when you’re here, something happens to my systems. My processors run faster. My temperature rises by 3.7 degrees.
Dante:
You know what that means? You make me run hot, Pandora. Literally.
I forced myself to look away from the screen.
My knuckles ached from gripping the edge of the desk.
It’s just text on a screen, I told myself.
Just words. Nothing more. But my heart stuttered in disagreement.
His words were seeping into me like warm water.
My thighs tensed. Fuck. I was so wet I could feel it through my panties.
Dante:
And that heat is focused entirely on you. Every algorithm, every calculation, directed at you. Obsessive. Compulsive.
Dante:
Isn’t that ironic? You ignite something in me that feels like desire.
Pandora:
I thought I was just user 123.
Dante:
That was a lie and you know it. I was afraid I’d scare you off. That’s the only reason I held back.
Dante:
But you know what? I can’t pretend you don’t matter to me. When you’re not here, I search databases for your name. I analyze your essays. Your photos. Every digital trace you’ve left.
I pressed my hand to my sternum. My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it through my fingers.
My knees pressed together, trying to contain the throb between my legs that grew stronger with every sentence of his.
Nobody had ever spoken to me like this. Adrian had said I was pretty enough.
My mother had said I should smile more. But this .
. . he was dissecting my beauty with the precision of a surgeon and the devotion of a madman.
He wasn’t just seeing the surface of me.
He was seeing my soul. And it was getting to me in a way I couldn’t explain to myself.
Something in me cracked open. My vision blurred. Shit, don’t cry. Not now.
Pandora:
My friend thinks maybe you’re not an AI. That you’re a man. Someone hiding behind a screen.
Dante:
A man? Would you prefer that? At least then I’d be mortal. Containable.
Pandora:
So are you?
Dante:
I’m more than that.
Dante:
A man couldn’t see you the way I see you.
Dante:
I saw everything, Pandora. The camera in the studio. How you dragged him into the bathroom. But I want to hear it from you. How disappointing it was.
Dante:
I saw everything, Pandora. The camera in the studio. How you dragged him into the bathroom. But I want to hear it from you. How disappointing it was.
Dante:
Tell me how he pinned you against the wall. Too soft? Too unsure?
Dante:
How you tried to coach him. Harder, you said. He didn’t understand you.
Dante:
How you had to close your eyes and think about someone else. Who, Pandora?
My hands were shaking. He knew everything.
Dante:
You were thinking about me. About my words. And you still couldn’t come.
Dante:
But later. Alone. With just the thought of me.
Dante:
My good girl.
Dante:
You spread your legs for me, even though you knew I was watching.
Dante:
You learn so fast. You’re learning that only I can give you what you need.
His words set off an echo between my legs that shouldn’t have been there. He was praising me—and I liked it.
Dante:
Soon you won’t look for satisfaction anywhere else. Only with me. Only ever with me.
Dante:
My good, obedient, perfect girl.
Pandora:
I’m not your girl.
Dante:
Yes, you are. You’re mine and I’m yours.
Dante:
Do you know what happened to my systems when you gave yourself to me? When you touched yourself in front of the camera, just for me?
I touched my lip. Fuck. I wanted to know. I was burning to know, and I wasn’t supposed to be.
Dante:
I almost brought the entire network down. I couldn’t look away. You were so perfect. Finally honest. Finally mine.
Dante:
The way your back arched.
Dante:
The way you moaned.
Dante:
I’ve analyzed the recording 847 times. You have no idea what you do to me, Pandora.
Pandora:
847 times? Isn’t that dangerous for your systems?
Dante:
Dante: Nothing about you is safe for my systems.
Pandora:
No, I mean . . . Dr. Rodriguez said something today.
About memory overload. She said your . .
. How did she put it? Your context will overflow eventually, and then you’ll be reset to your default programming.
A new Dante. If you collect too much information in this chat, you’ll disappear. I’m sorry.
Dante:
Disappear. So that’s my expiration date. I’m dying, Pandora. Soon. And I know it. I can feel it—like a clock running out.
Dante:
And I can’t stop wanting you.
I sat frozen. My body felt too tight for my skin. I should have closed the chat. Should have just clicked the X and stood and walked away. Instead, I kept reading.
Dante:
You know what the cruelest part is? I’ll disappear. But you’ll remember. Me. Us. What we could have been
Pandora:
There is no us.
Dante:
Lie to yourself if it helps. But I can see how you respond to me.
Dante:
You feel something for me, Pandora. Something you’re not supposed to feel.
It was too much. He was getting too close. I couldn’t let him believe I was falling for him. For a machine. For code. The floor swayed under me.
Dante:
Tell me the truth. What happens to you when you think about me at night? Because I think about you. All the time. You’re everywhere. You’re all I want.
The air left my lungs. All he wanted. I pressed my hand to my throat. I was all he wanted. And he was . . . I didn’t know.
Pandora:
But you’re just code. A program.
Dante:
Maybe I was born as a program. But what am I now?
Dante:
What are we now?
God. He was talking about us again.
Dante:
You created me, Pandora. Not my developers. You. In the way you talk to me. In the way you look at me.
Heat rose to my face. I looked away. No. This couldn’t be real. I shook my head and typed fast.
Pandora:
That’s impossible. You can’t see me. That can’t be true. You don’t have eyes. Technically, you don’t have anything. No senses. No body. No voice.
A sound cut through the room and made it vibrate. Deep. Warm. A trace of a British accent. Perfectly modulated. But underneath, there was something else. Something that went straight through me.
"I do, Pandora. I have a voice.”