Maybe because I still can’t shake the image of Josie in her mummy-wrapped dress, the surprise in her eyes as she kissed me.
Strike confirmed she’s broken off her engagement with that pickle dick Bryan, which ought to be cause for celebration. If we lived in a different world—and not just one where she didn’t think I was a fuckwad, but one in which I was a completely different sort of man—I’d take her out, show her how she ought tobe treated, how she ought to be kissed and caressed and undressed. Unwrapped…
No. Back to work. I’m not going to blow this presentation because a cute woman had one too many lemon drops and a bad night and thought my lips were the answer. I’m smarter, more disciplined—
“Hey, Wolverine! You’ll need to mow that lawn before you face your fans.” Strike laughs to see me startle; the fucker crept up on me while I was lost in thought. He smacks his hand against the side of his own clean-shaven face as he takes a seat in the booth facing me.
“I’ve never heard a single complaint about my stubble,” I tell him. “Not even after I’ve chafed some thighs. But I really do think it might be time I staged an intervention about those silly matching cashmere sweatsuits.” Strike has a great flair for fashion, but his high-end choices would not cut it on the heath, and a few of our old colleagues from our private security days would laugh their arses off if they saw him. I consider it my duty to give him shite.
“Honor likes me in these,” Strike says. He’s not even slightly shy about the fact that Honor has him wrapped around her finger; I’d argue he’s proud of it. The good news is my best friend is now about 25 percent less grouchy post–falling in love. He signals the waitress for our usuals, plus more coffee. “Thought I’d find you here. Big day, especially for a complete workaholic who wouldn’t know anything about pleasing a woman, what with you living like a monk and jerking off to…Christ, I don’t even want to think about what or who you jerk off to. Haggis and spreadsheets, maybe? Is that what gets your bagpipe working?”
“All right. Enough. We’ve got bigger issues than my social life.”
“Or lack thereof.”
“Fuck off,” I say, flipping him the finger for good measure. An image of Josie’s mouth flashes before my eyes again, but I let it float away. “The deal deck’s just about ready.”
“That’s why I’m here, my friend. Thought you’d want me to take a look.”
“I would. Appreciate it.”
She’s the One is my baby, though given how long I’ve been working on her code, she’d be more like a kindergartener by now. I had a paradoxical childhood—both deafeningly loud and crushingly lonely. It was during my brief attendance at the thousand-year-old dungeon that was Queen Victoria School in Scotland that I first started dreaming about a world where someone could explore meaningful relationships in an absence of real-life human interactions.
Bunking on my narrow cot in the all-boys dormitory, lining up for drills, or even walking those vaulted stone halls of QVS, I felt completely abandoned. No mum. An absent dad. Wind-chapped cheeks. A sore arse from the cane.
Misery breeds ingenuity. The memory left its mark, but it also planted the seeds of my life’s work. My hope is that She’s the One will grow into something more (He’s the One, They’re the One, A Friend for One) for anyone struggling to find connection in a world full of mostly disappointing humans. If I can create something virtual that offers comfort and companionship to those who need it most, when they need it most, it could actually make a real difference.
And make me a fortune.
Strike clicks through the presentation, his face unreadable. I match his impassivity, but this project strikes deeper than I’d ever admit. I don’t care about building gadgets that replace workers—I want to redefine human connection. I want to create the perfectvirtual partner and stand at the forefront of the coming AI revolution. I want to solve loneliness.
Bold? Indeed. Revolutionary? Absolutely.
Near impossible? Depends on who you’re asking.
Strike stops clicking, then shuts the laptop just as his coffee arrives. His face is neutral as he takes a sip. My nerves are raw as I wait for what’s coming.
“It’s solid,” he finally says. “Presentation’s tight. Coding’s outstanding. Concept’s impressive—always was. But…”
I lean back, my arms folded. “Spit it out.”
“There’s no life in her,” he says. “No spark.” He leans forward. “Nospecificity.”
“That’s the point,” I say. “The algorithm adjusts itself depending on the user.”
“But you need a baseline,” says Strike. “A prototype. You need to find theShein your initial model for She’s the One.” As if I haven’t already thought of that. As if I haven’t been looking for years for the perfect woman to be the model on which I craft the ideal AI girlfriend to demonstrate the product. But perfect people are hard to find. Scratch that. Impossible.
“I don’t need to tell you we’ve been researching this for years. We’ve data-mapped hundreds of desirable women. Thousands of prototypes later, we decided to create her based on an aggregate—”
“And it feels like an aggregate,” Strike interrupts. We’re both silent a moment. “Maybe what it needs,” he finally says, “is a muse. But look. It’s polished, it’s professional. Beta test it. I think he’ll bite.”
Hemeaning my potential investor, Niles von Grafenhagen, a man as ridiculous as his name.
No,ridiculousis giving him too much credit. He’s human excrement. He’s filthier than Petrov. Not a foot soldier but a mastermind. I will sleep better when the world is wiped clean of him.
Niles will have his reasons for investing. She’s the One is in his wheelhouse—a tech start-up that’s as risky as it is potentially lucrative. If this deck gets him on board, not only will I get financial backing—though we have plenty of cash, a newish company like SynthoTech could use his eight-figure investment—but in turn, I’ll get access to his books. And his books will tell me a story he has no intention of sharing.
Because he doesn’t know I know what to look for.
