“The cranial implant that he created, inspired by me, was hugely successful on the market but didn’t help the situation between us.” Looking back, it all seemed so simple, he had been so upset that the implant hadn’t worked, hadn’t fixed me. “So, he…brought in Matthew, a new protégé to lavish his attention and loving care on. One that wasn’t defective, one that wouldn’t yell at him for some reason or another.”
Dad had gone from not wanting me around to just not wanting me anymore. I was unnecessary when he had Matthew.
“Would you define the feeling as jealousy?” Dr. Nguyen’s soft words had hit like cold water.
The elevator finally dings at the top floor, making me jump. The doors open to the desk of the CEO’s receptionist, which has been empty since Matthew took the CEO position. It’s time to get this over with.
Matthew’s office is just as stunning as the last time I’d seen it. Views of the city from the wide windows, sleek modern furniture, and masculine colors. The sharp lines fit the man. I let myself look at him lucidly for the first time in a couple of months. Matthew watches me from his spot perched on the edge of his desk, all sweeping angles and grace. Seeing him is the crescendo of returning to work. It’s a bad time to notice he is more beautiful than I let myself remember. Simply put, he is perfection.
Matthew has a face reminiscent of a fallen angel, sculpted in unforgiving glory, which goes well with his steel-gray eyes and dark, fashionably cut hair. His physique is that of a swimmer with powerful shoulders and contrasting lean hips; the suit fits his long limbs perfectly, precisely. Matthew is every inch a GQ cover, but he is still a wolf, preparing to lunge for a kill. His beauty is a cruel one that scorches all that it touches, taking no prisoners, showing no mercy.
I always feel shabby next to him, a stupid feeling because I am real; a living human being, flaws included. While Matthew is an ingenious creation; designed to the very last toe hair, a contraption of moving parts, polymer-based artificial skin, 3D printed organs, and supercomputer brain. Matthew Smith is Clark Simpson’s masterpiece, his pride and joy.
So, while his daughter is an unfixable type of broken, Clark had made a “son” to be gleamingly perfect, and whenever I see Matthew it’s like looking into a mirror that amplifies everything about myself that Dad found less than. The lack of entrepreneurial spirit, questionable emotional stability, and every other area I had fallen short of expectation became a foundation point for Matthew’s excellence.
“Lottie.” Matthew’s grin is sardonic and knowing; I’m staring. Embarrassment makes my face hot.
“Matty.” I drop myself, unladylike, into one of the chairs in front of his desk and cross my legs. If I pop my leg, I can kick his knee at this distance. I take momentary enjoyment at the twitch of his eyebrow; he hates when I call him that as much as I dislike being called Lottie. It seems as if we are going right back to our childish ways; Nguyen would disapprove but it’s almost a relief.
“Well, I just wanted to touch base. It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, and the last time wasn’t one of your better moments.”
His words are callous but the expression on his face is so stark for a moment that I’m taken aback. Why would he care?
“How are you doing, Charlotte?”
Matthew’s directness makes me want to squirm. I look past him to the modern painting behind his desk before answering. The piece is the only thing in the office décor that looks organic, paints swirling with reds and blues. It resembles the flowers he left me.
“I’m good,” I say.
The silence is heavy; Matthew waits, expecting. Sure, it isn’t the whole truth, but it isn’t his business that the stares of our coworkers are already starting to bother me even though I’ve been back all of five minutes. I’m not going to tell him that there had been a real temptation to call Dr. Nguyen to, once again, be reassured that I was ready to go back to work before I had even left my apartment this morning.
Most of all, I don’t want to tell the beautiful usurper that I am terrified, terrified that it will all begin again, and I’ll lose myself. That I’ll forget to toe the line, fail to use the coping mechanisms instilled in me during recovery and be crushed underneath depression until nothing is left but the dusty numbness.
“Really Matthew, maybe you should check your programming; dial back on your motherliness. I’m not your concern.” Petty, so petty, but sometimes when I open my mouth one of the barbs that make up the tangled state of my heart reveals itself.
At my words, Matthew’s brows wing up and for some reason, he looks pleased. “Motherliness? Is that really a trait you think Clark gave me?”
In spite of myself, when he smiles, it takes my breath away. That smile is lethal to me. I have a secret wrapped up in all the complicated hang-ups of my dad’s rejection.
From the time Dad started building him, Matthew fascinated me. Clark Simpson was an undeniable genius, leaping dozens of years ahead of current technology to build Matthew; each attribute is impressively crafted. Each time I came home from college I snuck into his office to see the progress. It had been so exciting to see his creation take shape, painful too when I realized how completely Dad had designed him to replace me.
Professional intrigue had made me want to caress the hardware; analyze how he was put together. That intrigue had changed when the full program that was “Matthew” had been uploaded. The way he had looked at me when he was “awake” was startling. His ability to speak mockingly one minute and have his expression soften the next, how his program learned and adapted to improve itself. The end product makes him seem too real.
He’s not real
I have to remind myself of those simple words when just one look from him makes my heartrate pick up. I need to make myself believe that Matthew can’t see past the veneer I project, see that the way he speaks and moves has sensations uncurling in my belly. Always, I have to remind myself that he is nothing but some clever code and moving parts. Once I remind myself of that, then I have to deal with the ugly cognizance of wanting someone who isn’t really a person.
This would usually be the point where I would lash out, maybe use ugly words, maybe pull a childish prank. Anything it took to relieve the pressure that held me in a vice, the anxiety. It isn’t sane to lust after something not real and I can’t do my job, won’t be allowed the responsibility of designing medical devices, if I’m not sane. My job is the only thing I have left.
“I suppose that such a soft emotion wasn’t high on Dad’s priorities. Being able to care would make it hard to be a predator in the boardroom; ruthlessness fits much better,” I muse out loud, watching as Matthew’s eyes flash with an intensity that reveals his nature more so than the smile on his face.
“You’re probably right in that but I’d have to first ‘check my programming’, as you say, to confirm it,” Matthew says after staring for a pause. I realize I have been holding my breath in the face of his quiet, keeping my body still as if hoping he wouldn’t see me.
Acting like prey won’t achieve anything, even if the reaction felt instinctual. I force myself to project a chilly, authoritative air instead of being a deer in headlights. The man in front of me has no scruples, he wasn’t designed that way.