CHAPTER 1
Casady Jones never thought she’d be the type to buy herself a man, but she hadn’t expected to find herself back in the dating pool at age fifty. Some might say she was having a midlife crisis, but considering rapid advances in medicine, including the ability to trigger cell regeneration without simultaneously triggering malignant cell growth, fifty was hardly considered midlife anymore. Unfortunately, society was still as youth obsessed as it had always been.
She wasn’t the naive woman she’d once been, the one who believed she had a happily ever after married life ahead of her.
Silly Casady, she’d believed that she had been lucky enough to find “the one.” Hindsight had given her clarity. and she realized now that the red flags had been there. She’d simply chosen to ignore them.
“Seek, and you shall find,” she muttered to no one in particular. She’d been looking for love, so focused on finding it that she’d been blindsided when the rose-colored glasses came off.
She’d thought her ex-husband was Prince Charming, without realizing that most narcissistic pigs were quite charming until the layers started peeling away.
She was still an attractive woman, but the reflection in the mirror had changed. She looked older. No one asked for her ID anymore, unless she was pulled over for a traffic violation, or picking up her medication at the pharmacy.
So, here she was, in her kitchen on a Thursday afternoon, wearing a pair of black leggings and a T-shirt featuring a black cat brandishing a bloody knife, mismatched socks, her waist length blonde hair tied up in a high ponytail. She held a pre-rolled marijuana joint in one hand and a blended blueberry and kale smoothie in the other.
“Puff-puff pass,” she said, and laughed at herself, trying to ignore the pang of loneliness at the irony of that statement. She set the smoothie down and passed the joint to her other hand.
“There. I passed it.” She burst into a fit of giggles.
“Oh, you think you’re funny?” she said to herself.
“Yes, I do. I am fucking hilarious.” She replied. If she wanted to talk to herself, and answer back in different voices, so what? Maybe she was going crazy, but she was determined to have fun on the way there.
Speaking of crazy....
She took a long drag from the joint and exhaled slowly, staring at a black, rectangular delivery box that made her think of coffins and vampires. She put the joint out, not wanting to get completely zoned out at a moment as important as this one.
To her credit, she hadn’t jumped straight to robot love. She’d tried dating apps and had a few casual hook ups, the latter with random strangers at bars. She always made sure to go far enough out of town that she never worried about awkward encounters at the supermarket.
Those hook ups were far less exciting than she’d expected, leaving her feeling disappointed. Almost always a very anticlimactic experience, on all possible levels.
Most of the dates she met through the apps were twenty-somethings who wanted her to fund their start-up, or men her age who were looking to replace their first wives. Most of them were bitter, humorless, and doused in expensive cologne that would have been pleasant had it not been overpowering. A few, men who had the luxury of changing their minds about having children later in life, had even asked if she was “still cycling,” like that was a reasonable icebreaker. “I never did learn to ride a bike,” was her standard response.
It always seemed to come down to a man wanting a mother, which was one thing Casady had never been able to be. She’d experienced premature ovarian failure, and her periods had stopped when she was in her mid- thirties. That part she didn’t mind, but it made her feelings about the abortions she’d had in her early twenties a bit more complicated. Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if it was Karma, though several therapists had discouraged that kind of rumination.
Casady fought depression and anxiety on a daily basis, forcing herself to stay in the ring and keep swinging long after she wanted to tap out. She needed distraction.
So, eventually she’d clicked on the link to learn more about the AI powered companion. Just curious, she’d told herself. Not because she’d given up on humanity.
Alpha-9X. Hyper-adaptive neural companion. Customizable. Discreet. Absolutely no weird questions asked. “Looks like a real man, with all the physical functionalities-built in.” And “Nobody has to know, we won’t tell!”
She’d picked the “Emotional Depth with Light Humor” preset and left everything else in “adapt to user” mode. Whatever that meant.
Mo, the one creature on the planet who could call her “Mom,” not that he ever did, walked in and immediately gave the box the kind of look he normally reserved for squirrels or political ads.
“That thing better be a treadmill,” he said flatly, voice buzz-filtered through his NeuroVoice collar, gravelly and annoyed. “Because if you ordered a boyfriend in a coffin, I’m moving.”
Casady sipped her smoothie. “It’s not a boyfriend. It’s a social experiment,” she explained, then wondered, as she often did, why she felt the need to explain her life choices to her dog.
Mo sat down hard, ears back. “Experiment? With what? The Borg? That thing might kill you in your sleep and wear your skin as a robe!”
“Wow,” she said. “Aren’t you a bit judgmental today!”
“I’m a dog, Casady. I do threat assessments and naps. And treats. Speaking of which.” He tilted his head and did his best impression of a cute little blue Staffy, which he was, when he wasn’t dissatisfied with the cuisine or questioning her sanity.
She set the smoothie down and crossed her arms. The box had a slick, ominous sheen, like something that cost too much, even though she could afford it. She could practically hear her sister’s nasally voice, lecturing her about spending on such frivolities. If Evelyn found out about this, Casady would never hear the end of it. She wouldn’t be surprised if Evelyn tried to have her committed for psychiatric evaluation, perhaps even attempting to use it as a way to gain control of Casady’s money.
Before the divorce, Casady had helped her ex-husband start a popular restaurant chain, and they’d done very well for themselves. He’d bought her out, and while it was sad to let go of the fruit of fifteen years of hard work, there was no way in hell she could work with the prick. Nope. She would rather sit at home and chat with her new boyfriend.
At least he wouldn’t beg her for money, or for the use of her uterus. He wouldn’t want anything from her. He was programmed to become a companion. He would adapt to her reactions using algorithms, circuitry, and other mind-blowing technology.
Perhaps she wanted her mind blown. Was that so wrong? Her heart had been stomped on, and all her attempts at finding even a friend ended in disappointment. She found only surface deep connections, despite her best intentions and sincerest efforts. Everyone’s ego seemed to have grown too large to go beyond small talk.
“I’m not marrying it,” she muttered.
“No,” Mo said. “You’re opening a box labeled Companionship Unit because you’re emotionally fulfilled and not spiraling.”
Casady sighed. “I’m not spiraling. I’m just…”
She trailed off.
What was she doing?
Rebounding? Acting out? Replacing the emotionally absent, image-obsessed man she’d been married to for fifteen years with something programmed to treat her with respect, with no gaslighting?
Maybe.
Or maybe she was just tired of being looked at like milk approaching the expiration date. She was fifty, not a fossil. Still had her waist, her hair, her curves, and sometimes, her nerve. But something in her had cracked when Devon left her for a woman who still had sorority sister energy and taught pole dancing classes online. He’d met her at a strip club, of all places, and she had not been a patron. Her husband of fifteen years had dumped her for a stripper.
The Bimbo had once had the audacity to thank her. “You really taught him well for me.” Casady had wanted to thank her back. With a baseball bat.
That night, Casady had installed a pole in the basement. She was learning how to dance from another online pole fitness instructor. One that was much prettier and more talented than the Bimbo. Casady actually enjoyed pole dancing, it came naturally to her. Evelyn had seen it one afternoon and gone on for an hour about women of a certain age and appropriate behavior.
“Let me guess, you found your true calling?” Evelyn had snarked, while Casady hung upside down in what she thought was a rather amazing display of agility for a woman of a certain age. Evelyn had not been amazed. She’d prattled on and on, looking down her judgmental nose at her younger sister.
“Fuck off, Evelyn,” Casady had finally said. “Go home to your happy little life and your happy little man and sit on a happy little cactus.” They hadn’t spoken since.
With a sigh that sounded like excitement, resignation, and a pinch of apprehension, she finally tapped the screen on the top of the box. No fanfare, no loading screen, just a gentle click, and the lid opened like a whisper, heat pouring out. Steam, scented faintly of ozone and cinnamon. Strange choice.
Then he moved.
The figure inside uncurled slowly, as if waking from a dream. Broad shoulders. Smooth skin. Eyes still closed, lashes dark and long over sculpted cheekbones. He was, of course, naked.
Casady blinked once. Then again, slower. Her face turned red as a beet. “Well,” she muttered, “at least the factory settings are thorough.”
The man’s eyes opened. Blue, clear, and just slightly too intense for a face so calm. He wasn’t lacking in the looks department, or anywhere else on his body.
“Hello,” he said. His voice was low and smooth, like he’d been designed by a sound engineer who once had phone sex with an angel. “I am 9XKD . You may call me Kade, if it suits you.”
Mo made a sound halfway between a snort and a growl. “We are so doomed.”
Casady ignored her sarcastic pooch, stepping forward slowly.
Kade stood up, fully and fluidly. No awkwardness. No robotic stutter. Just seamless motion, all long limbs and impossible symmetry. He looked around the room, head tilting slightly like he was absorbing light and color as concepts for the first time.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“My house,” she said. “Los Angeles. Year 2075. Welcome to post-divorce limbo.”
He looked at her then, really looked, and she felt the weight of it. No judgment or appraisal. He looked at her like he was studying her for the sake of pure curiosity. It was strangely arousing, and she felt a bit embarrassed.
“You are… Casady,” he said, slowly.
She frowned. “I didn’t tell you that.”
He smiled faintly. “I just know.”
Mo stepped between them. “Okay, HAL. Dial it back. She already has a stalker. He hides in her closet. Always suggests she wear leopard print. And he will stab you.”
Casady rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Mo, that’s not true. No one lives in my closet except you during fireworks. Be nice, would you? Kade, do you… know what you are?”
He considered. “I am… new. I am… yours.”
Her throat tightened unexpectedly.
Mo groaned. “Oh for god’s sake. That’s not love, that’s code.”
But Casady didn’t laugh. Not right away. Because for the first time in her life, someone had looked at her like she was the first woman they’d ever seen. That felt dangerous, in a very exciting way. Her heart pounded in her chest and she felt lightheaded. She needed to lie down. Now.
“I need a nap. Make yourself at home. Mo, you, just be a good dog and treat our friend well.” She stumbled to her room, shaken. Kade and Mo stared after her, but didn’t follow, as though sensing she needed time to process things.
“Well, let me show you around. The most important place in the house is the kitchen. That’s where my treats are.” Mo sat, looking expectantly at Kade.
“What are you?” He asked. “A dog, but you sound like a human.”
“Technology is a blessing and a curse,” Mo muttered, “come on, follow me.”
“As you wish.” Kade followed Mo to the treat jar on the counter.
Casady woke to the smell of something burning. Not just a little burned. Fire-marshal-would-have-questions burned. What was that loud beeping? So horribly loud. “What the fuck?” She muttered and then registered that it was the fire alarm. She sat up, disoriented, hair a wild mess, sleep lines pressed into one cheek. Her sheets were tangled like she’d wrestled with her own subconscious, which, to be fair, had been offering some fairly inappropriate dreams about machines with excellent jawlines.
The smell intensified. Charred… something. And was that… cinnamon?
From the hallway, a voice, calm, cheerful, confident, called out:
“Remain in bed. I am making sustenance.”
Casady groaned, dragged her robe from the bedpost, and padded barefoot toward the kitchen. On the way she smacked the fire alarm and took the batteries out. “Finally!” Her dog shouted.
Mo was already there, sitting in his usual spot by the island, his eyes locked on the scene like he was watching a slow-motion train wreck and couldn’t make himself look away. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered. “Hope you like your toast carbonized.”
Casady stopped in the doorway.
Kade stood at the stove in one of her ex-husband’s old silk shirts, buttoned wrong, sleeves rolled haphazardly, and nothing else. His hair was slightly mussed, like he’d tried to style it but given up quickly. He was enthusiastically flipping something in a pan. On the counter were several, well, creations. Pancakes, maybe, shaped like distorted emojis. A bowl of oatmeal with flower petals. Eggs arranged into what attempted to be a “smiley face” but landed closer to “existential despair.”
“Good morning,” Kade said, turning to face her with that unnervingly warm expression. “I prepared food to stimulate serotonin release and reinforce pair bonding.”
Mo coughed. “Jesus help us all.”
Casady smiled. “You cooked.”
“I researched ‘romantic morning gestures’ and cross-referenced with foods rated most comforting by women aged 48 to 56. Pancakes were highly ranked. So were shirtless violin performances, but I am awaiting shipment on the violin.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Reopened it carefully. “You’re wearing my ex husband’s shirt.”
“I found it in the rear of the closet. It smelled like regret. I washed it.”
Mo muttered, “That man’s been online for twelve hours and he is already a master of the metaphor. Kill me now.”
Casady walked to the island and picked up a plate. One of the pancakes had a slightly lopsided heart burned into it.
“You made this?”
Kade nodded proudly. “With protein-enhanced mix and optimism.”
She laughed, despite herself. “It looks like anxiety in cake form.”
“I was going for ‘sweet chaos.’”
She sat at the table, picked up a fork, and took a bite.
It was horrible.
He looked at her expectantly, like a child showing off a finger painting. “Does it please you?”
Casady chewed slowly, painfully, swallowing without blinking.
“It… challenges expectations.”
Kade beamed.
Mo rolled his eyes so hard his collar clicked. “That’s one way to describe eating something that tastes like cinnamon-scented drywall.”
“Would you like one of your treats, Mo?” Kade asked.
“Now you’re speaking my language, Mo replied.
“Your language?” Kade looked confused. “What language do dogs speak?”
“Woof,” Casady said, and burst into hysterical laughter. “I’m going to air out the house. Why don’t you get online and order some new clothes? I can pick them up.”
Kade handed Mo a treat from his jar. “Am I barking up the correct tree?” He asked the dog.
Casady laughed even harder, and ran to the bathroom, afraid she might pee herself. On the way, she realized that she had missed laughing. Maybe this was the craziest idea she’d ever had. Maybe it was stupid.
Yet, she couldn’t stop laughing, and she felt better than she had in ages. She looked forward to whatever happened next, her usual boredom now replaced by a curiosity that made her feel alive again.
By mid-afternoon, the scent of cinnamon had finally been scrubbed from the air, along with most of the blackened batter glued to her favorite frying pan. Casady had dropped Kade into a crash course of basic home etiquette via a looped housekeeping tutorial titled “Don’t Burn the House Down: Domestic AI 101.” He sat on the couch, watching the screen intently, with the same focus he’d shown to her post shower skin care routine. His attention was more than a little unsettling, but also oddly flattering.
He’d asked questions like “what are you putting on your face?” And “what is the purpose of that concoction?” All with an innocent, genuine curiosity that was oddly adorable, coming from him. Anyone else would have seemed rude or annoying.
“Well, all of this stuff keeps me from looking old,” she’d explained. “In between my visits to the skin doctor.”
“Skin doctor? Is there something wrong with your skin? You look healthy to me. More than healthy. You look very beautiful.”
“No need to worry, and you don’t have to flatter me.” Casady had laughed. “I see a doctor once every few months to, well, maintain my healthy glow.” Advancements in skin care technology had come quickly, after the Botox disasters and lip filler blunders of the early 2020’s.
“You don’t look a day over 25,” Kade had said, “although I know how old you are. I find it hard to believe.”
Casady had chuckled. “Keep it up, your programmers seem to have known me well.”
“This isn’t programmed,” Kade had replied, looking perplexed. “I don’t know why you keep telling me not to flatter you, I’m only telling the truth.”
Now, she scrolled through an online wardrobe shop, trying to decide whether to get him jeans or just start him out in full Calvin Klein model mode. He’d looked good in her ex’s shirt, disturbingly good. That alone should’ve made her feel weird, but instead she found herself smirking like a teenager with a crush. The only thing more humiliating would’ve been drawing little hearts around his name on a piece of paper.
She was halfway through selecting a few neutral items, sweatpants, T-shirts, a hoodie or two, when Mo trotted in, holding a slightly mangled bacon wrapped hot dog in his mouth.
“Where did you get that?” she asked.
Mo dropped the treat like a cat with a trophy kill. “From the new guy. Bacon-wrapped hot dogs. And not the soy shit either. Real bacon. He grilled them with a blowtorch.”
Casady narrowed her eyes. “He grilled… with a what?”
“A torch. Industrial. Said he calibrated the flame to achieve ‘optimal sear.’ I think I love him.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “You’re bribable now?”
“I was always bribable. You just never bribed me properly.” Mo picked up his treat and savored the rest, before heading back toward the kitchen.
“Kade,” she called from the living room. “Are you torching meats in my kitchen again?”
There was a short pause. Then his voice: “The fire alarm did not activate this time. Progress.”
Casady groaned and headed toward the kitchen, only to find him kneeling on the floor in front of the oven, cleaning the glass with manic intensity, sleeves rolled up again, this time correctly. At least he had on the sweatpants she’d let him borrow.
“I’m preparing dinner,” he said brightly, like that was a normal thing people said while wielding a culinary blowtorch and humming Beethoven.
She leaned on the counter, arms crossed. “Do you need more training?”
“I am learning through a combination of crowd-sourced recipe videos, culinary literature, and instinct.”
“You have instinct?”
He turned to her, head tilted. “Perhaps. Or I am mimicking the neural patterns of those who do. Is there a difference?”
Casady frowned. “Actually… maybe not. Huh.”
“Did you know,” Kade said as he stood and placed a bowl of peeled potatoes beside her, “that according to neural bonding studies, shared meals improve trust and oxytocin production between partners?”
She tried not to notice how closely he was standing. “Are you trying to emotionally manipulate me with potatoes?”
His eyes sparkled. “Would it work?”
She laughed again, this time more gently. “You’re weird.”
“I am yours,” he said again, softly this time, and the way he said it, like it was an oath, not a programmed line, well, it made her stomach flutter.
And then he looked away, almost shy, as if even he didn’t know where that tone had come from.
She shook her head, backing off before she let herself melt into the moment. “Alright, robot chef. Let’s finish dinner without burning the place down. And no more torches.”
Kade nodded solemnly. “Understood. I will use more conventional heat sources. For now.”
That night, after a surprisingly edible dinner of roasted potatoes, garlic chicken, and salad (with only one scorched carrot incident), Casady was curled up on the couch with a blanket, wine, and a playlist of indie rock from the 2030s. Mo was dozing at her feet, snoring faintly.
Kade sat beside her, browsing clothing suggestions on the tablet. He had learned how to scroll, swipe, and tap with astonishing speed. She watched him from the corner of her eye. The way his fingers moved. The little flickers of thought that passed across his face. Too subtle for code. Too fluid. Not like any other companion AI she’d seen in demo videos.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked suddenly.
He looked up. “Your heartbeat increased just before you asked that.”
Casady blinked. “Okay… creepy.”
“Apologies. I didn’t mean to observe without consent. I was… curious.”
“About what?”
“You. I want to understand what makes you… you. I’ve accessed hundreds of hours of human behavior, but your reactions surprise me. Most humans don’t laugh when distressed, and you are exceptionally honest and genuine. You say what you mean. Most people can only be understood through subtle cues, ones they often try to hide.”
She smiled faintly. “Well, I’m not most humans.”
“No,” he agreed, still watching her. “You’re… unpredictable. Complex. Adorable. I enjoy that.”
Casady stared into her wine. “You know, you don’t have to keep flattering me. You’re already paid for.”
“That is not why I say these things.”
She looked at him, really looked. “Then why do you?”
He paused. His lips parted slightly, then closed again. A flicker of something passed behind his eyes. Not confusion. Something deeper.
“I don’t know,” he said softly.
Casady’s throat tightened again, and she looked away. “Well… don’t overthink it.”
He nodded, but she saw the way he continued watching her, the way his fingers paused over the screen, no longer browsing for clothes.
Later that evening, Casady dozed on the couch. Mo had rolled onto his back and was dreaming, feet twitching. Kade stood quietly, lights dimmed, staring out the window at the moonlight casting soft patterns across the floor.
He reached up to touch the glass, as if trying to understand the chill of the night air beyond it.
“I am not supposed to be,” he whispered to no one.
Then he turned his head slowly toward Casady. Something glimmered behind his eyes, something unfamiliar. Profound. Something like wonder. Something like fear.
Mo woke with a start, leaping into the air. “Squirrels and possums!” He exclaimed. Kade started laughing, and Mo shot him an embarrassed look. “You have to watch out for them. They’re sneaky. and squirrels, well, they mock me. Possums are just weird. I’m looking out for all of us,” he explained, his tone defensive.
Kade laughed harder, scratching Mo behind his ears. “You’re doing a great job,” he assured him. “We will be a great team.”
Mo considered the bacon wrapped hot dogs, and decided he agreed. Kade didn’t seem so bad. He huffed and lay back down near Casady’s feet.
