Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Amelia

How about Harry, Meghan, Kate, and William?

I couldn't sleep last night because they need names.

Pets need names, right? But how do I tell them apart? It's basically impossible. And how many names from British monarchs can I use if I rescue more of them? I mean, I know a lot about the monarchy, but a thousand names ?

Musing over this trivial yet somehow pressing issue, I stare at my computer screen, not really seeing the lines of code blinking back at me. Normally, I'm focused at work, at least on a good day. I didn't end up at Elysium because it was my dream job—I chose it because it was my ticket out, my escape from the life my parents had meticulously planned for me.

This wasn't about ambition. It was about survival.

Elysium offered the freedom to prove myself on my terms, using my potential away from their overbearing expectations. Even if I had ended up designing smart toilets, it would have been worth it to put the ocean between them and me .

If working on the moon had been an option, I would've taken it.

The only pang of regret is for my brother, August. He's back in London, living his life with his wife and two daughters, working as a lawyer, just like our father.

At least he emails every now and then when his busy life allows.

August is ten years older than me and was allowed to choose his path and study in the US, attending Harvard just like our father had.

The pressure intensified the older I got, and with him gone, I was alone at home.

Alone with them.

He noticed, of course, when he was home for a short while or when we talked—he always notices when something is off.

He tried to get me out of the house to spend time with him and his wife, my nieces, who are six and eight. Go out of the city and on hikes. But at the end of the day, I still had to go back home.

I think he's relieved that I'm out of there now, even if it means I haven't seen him in the two years I've been here.

August is the only one I miss, the only one I truly have.

He's my favorite person. But I'm not his, of course. His wife and his kids come first, which I understand.

I accepted this a long time ago.

I'm no one's first choice.

I'm nobody's favorite person.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls me out of my pity party, and I brace myself as my boss, Dr. Edward Langley—or Dr. Cockwomble, as I like to call him in my head—the epitome of a chauvinistic and narcissistic prick, makes his predictable entrance into my office.

Despite his good looks—sharp features, chiseled jawline, and piercing blue eyes—his demeanor quickly erased any initial attraction I could have felt. He's in his forties, with an athletic build and perfectly styled hair that gives him an air of arrogance.

He plants his ass on my desk, his usual spot when he wants to feel taller. I hate it, but I know the petty reason behind it—he's five-foot-nine, I'm five-ten, and it fucking bothers him.

Men like him always seem to have an issue with me standing tall, quite literally, above them. I can't help but relish the moments I do stand, looking down at him—there's a twisted sort of pleasure in it.

"So, Amelia, what are you working on?" His tone is casual, but there's an underlying impatience that sets my teeth on edge.

"I've been making steady progress on the integration features," I say, keeping my explanation vague.

He doesn't need to know that the only thing I did the last few days was research fish.

He interrupts, drumming his fingers on my desk. "You should have submitted a report on this last week."

I open my mouth, the words almost spilling out about the fish and how they'd sidetracked me, but I catch myself just in time. "I'm aware of the deadline," I reply, keeping my tone even.

He shifts, scanning my workspace as if assessing my competence at this very moment. "Well, now you'll be juggling two projects."

I straighten, my interest piqued despite my irritation. "Two?"

"The AI Department wants someone from our team to beta test their new operating system and see if it's compatible with our smart home devices." He smirks. "It's a sort of companion AI, empathetic, designed for lonely people… singles, like you." I glare at him, the words striking a nerve as he intended. "What? No man, no family, no kids, I thought you were the perfect candidate."

I grit my teeth. "And what devices do they want us to test it with? I can make sure we have all of them here and running."

"No, no…" he waves a hand dismissively, "… you do that in your free time at home. This weekend. They want to know how it interacts in the real environment. I know you have all our gadgets in use."

"But—"

"You'll manage. Let's be honest. It's not like you have a lot to do outside of work."

The pleasure of punching him is not worth losing your job over, Amelia.

His insinuation hangs heavily between us, and then he adds, almost as an afterthought, "If you don't want to test it alone, I can come over in the evenings, and we can do it together. Maybe drink a glass of wine while we're playing with Elysium's new toy."

That's the downside of the company-provided apartments. Almost everyone here lives in the same building as me, including him.

The offer sends a shiver of disgust down my spine. I know the way he looks at me—part heat, part jealousy, part disdain. He hates that a woman might just be better at his job than he is and would love nothing more than for me to submit to him.

It's never going to happen outside the work hierarchy.

"No, it's fine. I'll figure it out," I assert, my tone final.

"Good, I'm going to tell them you're in." He winks at me, finally standing, and as he walks away, satisfied with assigning me extra work, my mind races.

How deep does this AI dig?

Will they figure out what I have at home?

I should be able to keep it on the surface level if I block access to the AR interface. But it's probably just an advanced version of what I already deal with—voice commands, automated responses, maybe a little more nuanced interactions, more than likely nothing to worry about.

Deep breath.

Sitting back in my chair, I sigh. This is just what I need—a project that risks exposing what I do behind closed doors. But there's no turning back now.

"He's such a dick," Hendricks, the guy I share the office with, mumbles from the desk next to mine.

He's in his early forties, tall, blond, and lives next door to me with his pre-teen daughter. Hendricks is a single father, always pleasant but terribly shy, unlike his daughter, Willow, who is brimming with confidence and often comes knocking on my door whenever her father forgets to buy sweets again.

"He certainly is," I respond with a small smile, grateful for the quiet solidarity. "At least the project sounds intriguing."

Hendricks nods, not looking up from his screen. "True. And the AI department is decent to work with, I heard."

At the mention of the AI team, my mind drifts to three guys around my age who are the unofficial figureheads of the company. Oliver Harwood, Misha Niarchos, and Grey Donovan. Or, as I've heard the cafeteria staff call them—OMG.

They're undeniably attractive but in an I-could-debug-your-computer-with-my-eyes-closed kind of way .

Oliver is the brainiac behind the company's AI and the lead engineer. He stands out with his meticulously styled dark brown hair and round glasses that only accentuate his sculpted cheekbones. He's tall, maybe six foot, and dresses in tailored shirts and well-fitted trousers. His style is simple but fits him oh so well. Remove the glasses, and he could be mistaken for a fashion model—only he seems to be the last to realize that his looks are as top-tier as his coding skills.

The few times I've run into Oliver in the cafeteria, grabbing coffee, he has never offered more than a polite smile.

Misha is a stark contrast to Oliver. He's just a smidge shorter than me, but his presence commands attention. He is the quintessential people person—charming, with tanned skin and a head full of unruly black curls. His perpetual five o'clock shadow and the dark circles under his eyes give him a rugged, carefree look that's unexpectedly appealing. Like he just rolled out of bed and doesn't give a fuck, but his choice of clothing tells me that's not the case. It may be casual, like a T-shirt or hoodie and jeans, but they are all name-brand.

As the head of User Management and Data Analysis, he's a smart cookie and mostly focuses on the human side of AI interaction and experience. I've only spoken with him once over a call to discuss some new features for our smart home system. He was incredibly knowledgeable and helpful, though I'm sure he doesn't remember talking to me.

That leaves Grey Donovan— the Grey Donovan. He's a renowned white-hat hacker and the Lead Security Engineer. Even taller than Oliver, I'd say six foot three, he sports dark blond hair that falls just to his jawline and maintains a permanent scowl, paradoxically making him more attractive. His expression never changes, not even when he won the Visionary of the Year award.

His acceptance speech ?

A single nod.

Grey's style is a blend of casual and smart. He often wears collared shirts and a half-buttoned cardigan, with his beautiful old watch prominently displayed on top of the sleeve, contrasting with the smartwatches most others here wear.

Our encounters have only been brief glimpses in the hallway or cafeteria. But when I do see him, meticulously preparing his morning coffee with the precision of a bomb disposal expert, I can't help but stare. The guy is something else. His presence alone can quiet a room faster than a surprise audit, making every encounter memorably silent yet somehow loud.

I'm definitely not alone in my fascination. They are all unintentional celebrities among us.

Seeing all three of them—Oliver, Misha, and Grey—striding down the hallways, deeply engrossed in discussions about algorithms and code?

Yeah, I'm no better than those simping cafeteria women.

Now I'm realizing I'll actually have to talk to them. Beta testing usually means giving a report on how it went, right? Maybe I can get away with just submitting a detailed written report instead of a verbal one.

I should've fucking asked, but I was so mixed up with worry about my project and what the beta testing might reveal.

"Gonna be interesting to see what they've come up with this time," Hendricks remarks, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sigh. "The lords and saviors of Elysium."

There's a hint of bitterness in his tone, but let's be honest, it is a bit ridiculous how Elysium parades these guys around as paragons of innovation and the heralds of our corporate future.

"I'll keep you posted," I assure him .

Hendricks nods, and I interpret it as the dismissal it is. Returning to my screen, my thoughts stubbornly circle back to the AI guys. The prospect of collaborating with them, even indirectly, feels like a breath of fresh air compared to the stifling atmosphere my boss has created.

And Hendricks is right. It really is going to be interesting to see what they've been tinkering with.