Chapter 2: The Ghost in the Machine
629 Words
Elara stared at him. "You're joking."
"I don't joke about data."
"So your algorithm thinks the person most likely to destroy me… is you."
"Correct. And I want to prove it wrong."
She almost laughed. "You want to prove your own algorithm wrong?"
"I want to prove that human choice overrides prediction. That love isn't inevitable — it's a decision."
She noticed the dog‑eared copy of her third novel on his desk. "You've read my work."
"Extensively. You write about love as redemption, but you always leave a loophole. Your characters never fully trust their happy endings. That's you, isn't it? Waiting."
She didn't like being read. "You're not a robot."
"No?"
"No. Robots don't have that much ego."
He laughed — a real, surprised laugh. Then extended his hand. "Truce?"
She took it. Warm. Dry. She hated that she noticed.
"Fine. I'll do it. But I'm writing everything."
---
Three hours later, she was in a town car, staring at an NDA longer than her last three books combined. Her phone buzzed. An unknown number.
"Guest house is ready. Security code is your birthday. Don't ask. — L"
She typed back: "That's creepy."
"Data is thorough. Also, your flat white with oat milk is in the fridge."
She put the phone down. The estate was minimalist and obscene. The guest house had a fireplace, a stocked fridge, and a handwritten note:
"Try not to fall in love with me. — L"
She crumpled it. Then smoothed it out. Then put it in her pocket.
---
The first anti‑date was a restaurant that required a reservation three months in advance. Liam was already there — navy blazer, no tie, annoyingly handsome.
"Seven minutes late," he said. "That's data."
"That's traffic."
"You're always seven minutes late. I checked."
She ordered the most expensive thing out of spite. He ordered the same.
"Rules," he said. "Say things you'd never say on a real date. Brutal honesty. No charm."
"Then test this," she said. "You built this empire to avoid one thing — the possibility that you're just as messy as everyone else."
Something flickered in his eyes. "I built Eris to prove love is predictable. Not because I'm afraid of being messy. Because I lost someone. My brother. He died in a car accident. I was supposed to drive him. I said no. He took an Uber. The algorithm would have predicted the driver's fatigue, the route, the weather. But I didn't have it then. I just had guilt."
Elara's chest tightened. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not telling you for sympathy. I'm telling you because it's data. Now you can use it against me, or sit with it."
She sat with it.
"Would your brother have wanted you to build a machine to stop love from hurting you?"
He blinked. "That's not what it does."
"Isn't it? You designed Eris to help people avoid heartbreak. But avoiding pain isn't living."
"You write romance novels. You're the expert on fiction."
"I'm the expert on happy endings that come with a cost. That's what makes them good."
He stared at her. Then: "You're infuriating. And you're right. That's the infuriating part."
---
The car ride back was quiet. They sat apart, but she felt the heat off him.
"Why did you tell me about your brother?" she asked.
"Because you asked the right question. And I didn't want to lie."
"Liam."
"Don't. Don't say something that makes this harder."
"Makes what harder?"
"The part where I'm supposed to prove we're wrong for each other."
The car pulled into the estate. She reached for the door — then stopped.
"What if we're not wrong?"
He didn't answer. But as she stepped out, she heard him murmur:
"Then I'm in trouble."
---
- Writer
