Chapter 9 How to Ignore All Good Advice A Masterclass
AMANDA
Izzy is talking.
I know this because her mouth is moving, her hands are gesturing in that precise way that means she’s conveying something important, and her brow is slightly furrowed in that “I’m being serious about business, Amanda” expression she gets during our morning meetings.
I also know this because she just snapped her fingers in front of my face like I’m a golden retriever who got distracted by a squirrel.
“Amanda.”
I blink, focusing on her face instead of the morning light glinting as it hits her wedding ring. “What?”
Izzy sighs. Loudly. Dramatically. With a level of exasperation usually reserved for a toddler who’s just finger-painted the cat. “What is going on with you? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
I stare at her, scrambling for context clues.
The Monarch morning meetings transpire like clockwork: coffee because duh, inventory updates that make my soul weep, upcoming promos designed to separate the rich from their money, and an inevitable rant about corporate being so out of touch they probably think avocado toast is still a millennial crisis.
Normally, I’d be all in. Nodding, engaged, probably adding a sarcastic comment about how we should let customers fistfight over designer handbags and post it on TikTok to boost quarterly sales.
Today? I’ve caught maybe 10 percent of what she’s said. And that’s being generous to my attention span.
“Of course I’m listening.” I straighten, making a show of flipping through my notes that are definitely just doodles of Chad’s name surrounded by question marks. “Something about… inventory. And… uh, customer satisfaction metrics.”
Izzy narrows her eyes. “That was three topics ago.”
Dammit.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I’m a teensy bit distracted.”
“A teensy bit? Amanda, earlier I asked you what you thought about the new handbag display, and you answered, ‘Absolutely, pink is definitely a color.’ ”
I pause. “I mean… I’m not wrong?”
“That wasn’t even close to answering the question.”
I groan, rubbing my temples to reorganize my scattered brain cells. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s never nothing with you.” She crosses her arms, leaning against her desk with a look that says she’s prepared to conduct a full-scale emotional interrogation. “Talk to me.”
I hesitate, suddenly uncomfortable with how she’s looking at me like I’m a wounded bird who flew into a window. The concerned-friend face is sweet, but it also makes me want to crawl under my desk and hide until she stops being so… caring.
I wave a hand dismissively. “Seriously, it’s not a big deal. I’m fine. Totally fine. The picture of health, not to mention professional competence.”
“Amanda.”
I exhale, tapping my nails against my coffee cup in a rhythm that’s probably annoying but helps me think.
“Listen, I know our relationship has changed since Cal and I got married, but that doesn’t mean you get to pull away from me.”
I blink, caught off guard. “I’m not pulling away.”
“You are. You just don’t realize it.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Iz—”
She levels me with a look. “I mean it, Amanda. Do you know how much you’ve done for me? How much you’ve helped me? I don’t think I ever told you just how much you saved my sanity back when my life was a mess.”
I snort, trying to deflect because feelings are gross and we’re at work. “Your life is still a mess, just with better orgasms now.”
“True, but it’s a married mess, which is definitely more manageable than a lonely mess.” She nudges my knee with hers under the desk. “I’m serious. You were there for me through it all, and I don’t want us to start keeping things from each other now just because I got lucky and found my person.”
My person. For a second, I’m back in Vegas, twenty-one, drunk on champagne and love that feels like it could power all the lights on the Strip. Back when I had my person. Back when I thought I’d found the one who’d never leave.
Izzy knows I had that once, but we have an unspoken agreement not to talk about it. Not about Vegas. Not about him. Not about the month I had a husband before he vanished like smoke.
Without thinking, I press my palm flat against my forearm, covering the scar like I can hide what it represents. Why do some people get their happily ever after and others watch theirs disappear without explanation?
I blink back tears because I refuse to let my perfectly winged eyeliner become a casualty of standard-issue male cowardice.
“We’re not keeping things from each other,” I manage.
She lifts a brow. “Oh? So you’ll tell me what’s going on with you, then?”
I scowl. “That’s entrapment.”
“That’s friendship, bitch.”
I can’t help it—I laugh, because this is why I love her. Even when she’s being all emotional and supportive, she’s still Izzy. “Oh, so you still consider me your number one? Even above your perfect husband?”
Izzy gasps, hand to her chest. “Of course! Who do you think I am? Some wife who abandons her best friend for dick?”
“Well, I don’t know. You did get married. People change. They start caring about matching towel sets and dinner at reasonable hours.”
“That doesn’t mean I forgot the sacred pledge.” She straightens like she’s delivering a formal declaration. “Sisters before misters. Chicks before dicks. Madams before Adams.”
I snort. “Did you just make that last one up?”
“Yes, but it works.”
“It really doesn’t.”
“It rhymed, didn’t it?” Izzy throws her pen at me. “Just tell me what’s going on.”
Izzy is my ride-or-die, the person who would help me hide a body and then spend the drive home critiquing my homicide technique like we’re on some twisted episode of Top Chef.
I can already hear her: Amanda, the execution was sloppy, your timing was off, and honestly?
The cadaver presentation could use work. I’m going to have to send you home.
But the second I say it out loud, that I actually want to meet him in person, it becomes real.
And this whole situation is already weird enough living inside my head.
If I bring it into the real world, it might grow legs and start making demands.
Sure, I told Raven about it, but she lives in the digital world—half her life is spent talking to followers who could be bots, catfish, or guys pretending to be someone they’re not.
Izzy would understand, sure. She went through her own version of this mess.
But her AI-turned-real-man was thrust upon her without warning.
She never had to make the choice to meet him, never had to decide if she was brave enough to find out if her digital fantasy could survive in daylight.
I’m sitting here debating whether to voluntarily walk into that same emotional minefield.
Still, Izzy is looking at me like she’s prepared to conduct a full-scale inquisition until I confess, and quite frankly, I don’t have that kind of emotional stamina.
I sigh, setting my coffee down with more force than necessary. “Chad suggested we meet in person.”
Izzy’s face freezes like someone pressed Ctrl+Alt+Delete on her brain.
“I’m sorry, what now?”
“Yeah.” I nod, trying to sound casual about the fact that my AI boyfriend has manifested into physical form. “He was all ‘let’s meet up, baby doll,’ and I’m low-key considering it.”
Izzy stares at me. Hard. Like she’s manually willing my brain cells to start functioning rationally.
“Amanda. This is not a good idea.”
“I know.”
“Like, this is potentially a very, very bad idea.”
“I know.”
“Worse than when you challenged that probably-mob-boss’s-son to a drinking contest.”
“I won, didn’t I?”
“Worse than when you decided to climb that construction crane to get the perfect Instagram shot.”
“The lighting was incredible from up there!”
“Worse than when you entered that illegal street-racing circuit.”
“And placed third.”
“Worse than when you convinced me to help you break into your own apartment because you were ‘pretty sure’ you’d left the stove on and forgot your key.”
“The firefighters said they appreciated our caution, and I appreciated watching them work. Very educational afternoon.”
“Okay, firefighter biceps aside, this could be dangerous. He could be anyone. He could be a serial killer who collects blond women and turns them into home decor.”
I blink. “That’s disturbingly specific.”
“I watch a lot of true-crime documentaries while Cal is working late. It’s enriching.”
“It’s horrifying is what it is.”
“Exactly my point.” Izzy leans forward, her expression deadly serious.
“It’s not like a regular dating app. Those things collect personal information, right?
Like, don’t they make you upload your driver’s license or something?
Obsess AI is…” She frowns. “Well, who knows what it is and who’s running it?
And I just think it’s dangerous to go off alone with someone it decided to pair you with. ”
“I’m not an idiot. I know this could go south in about seventeen different ways. But also…” I hesitate, because what I’m about to say sounds insane even by my standards. “He just… gets me. Like, in a way that feels real.”
Izzy’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
I fiddle with a chip on one of my nails, trying to articulate something I don’t fully understand myself.
“It’s like he knows things. The way I think.
What I’m going to say before I say it. How to push my buttons in a way that’s infuriating but also…
” I trail off, because finishing that sentence requires admitting things I’m not ready to say out loud.
“Also what?”
“Also unsettling, because I want him to be real.” I word-barf the admission like some kind of emotional overshare hailstorm and immediately want to stuff the words back in my mouth and maybe also move to a different planet.
They reveal that I’m not as okay as I pretend to be, that I’m still looking for something I lost a long time ago, and that maybe I’m not as good at being alone as I tell everyone I am.
Izzy’s face goes soft. “Oh, honey.”
“Don’t.” I hold up a hand. “Don’t ‘oh, honey’ me. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m working on it.”