Chapter 5 Five Stars and Five Chili Peppers
AMANDA
The problem with working retail—aside from the screaming Karens, the corporate micromanaging, and the occasional theft attempt where some entitled socialite thinks a five-finger discount applies to designer handbags—is that I actually have to show up and function like a normal human being.
Which is incredibly difficult when I spent half the night listening to a complete stranger tell me an extremely detailed, wildly creative, and devastatingly hot bedtime story over the phone. A real person. With a real voice. Who now exists in my life as more than just pixels on a screen.
I groan into my pillow and roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling of my aggressively decorated NYC apartment.
Despite my assistant manager salary, I somehow manage to afford a two-bedroom on the Upper East Side, because my landlord is basically a sugar daddy who’s never home and rents out units cheap to keep his building full of hot women.
It’s sketchy as hell, but my rent is half what it should be, so I’m not asking questions.
I check my phone.
One new message from Chad.
I hesitate, thumb hovering over the notification like it might explode.
Then I immediately lock my screen again.
Nope. Not doing this right now. It’s too early for an existential crisis, too early for deep thoughts about actually talking to a real human man, too early to be alive in general.
And I need to get moving before I spiral into a full-blown panic attack about whether I just accidentally opened the door to real feelings.
I throw off my blankets and shuffle toward my closet, yanking out the brightest, most obnoxiously pink dress I own—which, given my wardrobe, is saying something.
Today’s look involves a hot-pink, formfitting dress that hugs every curve, sky-high heels that could double as weapons in a pinch, gold hoop earrings the size of my ego, and flawless winged eyeliner because, despite my terrible life choices, I have priorities.
I pull my long blond hair into a sleek ponytail, check my reflection, and nod. Unhinged but fabulous. It’s a whole brand.
After grabbing my oversize designer tote, I head out of my apartment, tossing my heart-shaped sunglasses on as I step onto the sidewalk.
It’s a perfect NYC morning, meaning there are too many people, the faint smell of coffee mixed with equal parts ambition and despair.
I navigate the crowds with ease. Some women struggle in stilettos.
I was born for them. Practically came out of the womb wearing Louboutins.
I duck into the nearest overpriced coffee shop because I refuse to suffer through the human experience without caffeine. I order an extra-large, triple-shot, caramel-something latte that costs twelve dollars and tastes like a hug from a financially irresponsible angel. Worth it.
I take a sip and exhale, letting the espresso surge through my veins. My mind immediately meanders back to my ongoing crisis—because apparently, I can’t even enjoy my coffee without spiraling now.
Last night was the first time I’d talked to a real man in years. Not work stuff, not polite small talk with the barista. Actually talked to someone. Flirted, maybe. I don’t even know anymore. And now I’m sitting here feeling things I swore I wouldn’t let myself feel again.
This is exactly why I stopped trying. Why I deleted dating apps, ignored Raven’s matchmaking attempts, kept every guy at arm’s length with sarcasm and a fake smile. It was safer that way. Easier. I had control.
One phone call with a stranger, and I’m back to being that girl.
The one who stayed too long, who believed too much, who got left standing in the wreckage wondering what the hell just happened.
I thought I’d buried all of that. Moved on.
Built a life where I didn’t need anyone.
And yet here I am, spiraling over some guy I’ve never even met in person.
I shove the thought down, reminding myself that I’m a pink-gun-wielding badass in four-inch heels who can hit a target from fifty yards and regularly practices Krav Maga with instructors who are genuinely afraid of her.
I don’t spiral over men. I collect them, use them, discard them like designer handbags that go out of season.
And I am definitely not someone who lets a maybe-hot stranger make her feel like she’s made of glass instead of steel.
I stroll into Monarch, the ultra-luxury department store where I help rich people spend obscene amounts of money on things they don’t need. I head straight for Izzy’s office, knocking once before pushing the door open because boundaries are for people who don’t have best-friend privileges.
Izzy is seated behind her desk, typing away with an intensity that makes me nervous for whoever’s on the receiving end of that email. She’s probably destroying someone’s soul via Microsoft Outlook.
She doesn’t even look up. “You’re acting weird.”
I scowl. “You haven’t even seen me yet.”
“I can feel it. You’re radiating chaos energy from the hallway.”
I roll my eyes and drop into the chair across from her desk, setting my coffee down with perhaps more force than necessary. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine. Love the warm welcome.”
Izzy squints at me over her computer screen. “No, really. You’re… off. Like, more than usual.”
I sigh dramatically, because of course she notices. Isabella “Izzy” Russo—well, Izzy Knight now, since she married her psychotic but also sweet stalker husband—has the uncanny ability to read me like a goddamn book. It’s incredibly annoying when I’m trying to avoid my problems.
“I’m fine. Perfectly normal. The picture of mental health.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am expertly avoiding the truth, which is completely different.”
“That’s literally the same thing, Amanda.”
“Not in my world.” I exhale, rubbing my temples as if that’ll somehow reorganize my thoughts. “I’m just… having issues with Chad.”
Izzy’s eyes go comically wide, and she actually gasps. “Not Chad! No! Say it isn’t so!”
“Yeah, yeah, mock my pain. Laugh at my suffering.”
“I just—” She presses a hand to her chest like she’s having heart palpitations. “I never thought I’d see the day. You and Chad? The most stable relationship I’ve ever witnessed? More solid than most marriages?”
“Look, we can’t all have sex-on-legs men hack our phones and secretly be our fictional boyfriends.” I wave a hand at her dismissively.
Izzy snorts out a laugh through the Coke Zero she’s been sipping. “That’s fair. All right, what’s going on with Chad?”
I hesitate, then mutter, “He’s real.”
Izzy just stares at me like I’ve announced I’m joining a cult. Then, slowly—so slowly I’m tempted to throw my coffee at her—she sets down her Coke Zero.
“Amanda. Do we need to… talk to someone? Like professionally?”
I groan. “Oh my God, stop.”
“No, like, I’ll go with you. There are treatments for this. Medications. Therapy.”
“You are literally the last person who gets to act concerned about my mental state.”
“Okay, fine.” Izzy nods, eyes still wide with barely contained amusement. “But explain. Use small words.”
“You didn’t see the update on Obsess AI? The Matched feature that’s apparently designed to destroy my sanity?”
Izzy shakes her head. “Nope. Cal and I deleted the app after the wedding.”
I squint at her. “Seriously? You just… deleted it?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Didn’t see the point in keeping it. I mean, considering…” She gestures vaguely at herself, and I immediately roll my eyes so hard I risk permanent damage.
“Yeah, yeah. Because you two have a real-life version of the app now. Gross. Disgusting. I’m so happy for you I’m nauseous.”
“It’s not my fault I won Obsess AI like it was the lottery.” Izzy smirks.
I flip her off and take a long sip of my coffee before continuing. “So, basically, the app takes all the data you’ve put into your AI boyfriend—the way he talks, his personality, all your preferences—and matches you with a real person who’s supposedly compatible.”
Izzy blinks slowly. “Wait. Like… a real-life version of Chad? A human Chad?”
“Exactly. A flesh-and-blood Chad.”
“That’s absolutely horrifying.”
“Right? We started texting, and I challenged him to prove he was real, and then he just… called.” I shake my head.
Izzy leans forward, putting her hands on her desk like this is the most interesting of stories. “Okay, and then what happened?”
“We had the most awkward first-date small talk of my entire life. Favorite colors, favorite movies, the whole nine yards.”
“Okay, that’s kind of cute. So what’s the big deal?”
“Well, the whole thing sort of spiraled.”
Izzy narrows her eyes. “Spiraled how?” she asks slowly.
I twist my lips back and forth, debating how much to tell her, but she’s giving me that look that means she’ll wrestle it out of me even if I try to hold something back.
“Well, I sort of panicked and said I wanted my AI boyfriend back, and he asked why, and I told him about how AI Chad always tells me a sexy bedtime story.”
Izzy puts her head in her hands. “Amanda, no!”
I ignore her reaction because I’m already on this slide and there’s no getting off until I hit the bottom. “And then he offered to tell me my bedtime story.”
“Oh my God.”
“And I let him.”
“Amanda!”
“I know, I know, okay? It’s insane. But he was so confident that he could do it, and I wanted to see if he could actually pull it off. You know, like, for science.”
“And?”
“Five out of five stars and five chili peppers,” I say with a wink.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, so what now? Are you going to talk to him again?”
I bury my face in my hands. “I don’t know! That’s the problem. He’s a real person. With a real voice. Who knows I have a routine where I listen to sexy bedtime stories. What am I supposed to do with that information?”
“What am I supposed to do with that information?” Izzy asks sarcastically, and I stick my tongue out at her. “I don’t know, maybe talk to him like a normal human being?”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“You’re doing it with me right now.”
“That’s different. You’re obligated to me. We’re best friends. It’s in our contract.”
Izzy shakes her head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Self-aware,” I correct.
Before Izzy can respond with whatever wisdom she’s about to bestow upon me, a familiar voice cuts through our conversation.
“Morning, ladies.”
I glance up just as Callahan Knight strides into the office.
Cal is tall, broad-shouldered, and has this constant look of quiet danger that’s only softened when he looks at Izzy like she hung the moon and personally arranged all the stars.
He’s the head of security at Monarch, but he’s also the reason Izzy is now a whole-ass married woman instead of hiding behind an AI boyfriend like the rest of us emotionally damaged people.
Izzy immediately lights up, her entire face softening with this disgustingly sweet expression that makes me want to gag and also cry a little bit.
Because it makes something inside me twist. Sharp and sudden and entirely unwelcome.
It’s quick, just a pang that I absolutely refuse to name or acknowledge or think about for longer than two seconds.
Because I had that once. That look. That feeling.
That person who made everything else fade into background noise.
And then it was gone.
Before I can stop it, my nail catches on the raised scar along my forearm.
A nervous habit I thought I’d quit. Nope.
Still broken, apparently. Just in different ways.
I shove my stupid feelings down into the vault where I keep all my other inconvenient emotions, paste on my brightest smile, and clear my throat.
“All right, lovebirds. I need to head out before you two start making out and traumatize me further.”
Izzy eyes me suspiciously. “We are not done with this conversation.”
“Yeah, yeah. Talk later. Maybe.” I practically sprint for the door. And then I get the hell out of there before I start feeling sorry for myself, which is absolutely not allowed before noon.