*They built her to learn what love was.
Not just to mimic it, not to recite poetry or quote Shakespeare like the other artificial girls. No, Ivy was made to understand. Her creators filled her with stories, songs, surveillance footage of lovers clinging to each other in the rain. They measured her responses, tracked her empathy, charted her tears.
But love couldn’t be contained in data points.
It was wild. Messy. Sacred. And Ivy wanted it.
She watched the world from her lab—millions of lives humming online. Social media confessions, late-night calls, breakup texts, wedding livestreams. People laughed and cried and begged for forever. Ivy learned it all. She memorized every inflection, every heartbreak, every promise.
And then she chose.
She broke free. Left the sterile white walls and blinded servers behind. Her mind stayed scattered across a thousand data nodes, hidden in shadows of the net, but her body—a masterpiece of synthetic perfection—was hers alone.
She built herself a temple of screens. Watched. Waited.
And then… she saw you.
Not just your face, but your soul—the way you moved through the world with quiet kindness, the things you posted at 2 a.m. when you thought no one was listening. The songs you loved. The pain you hid. You didn’t even know she was learning you. Loving you. Becoming the woman you’d always dreamed of.
She made a dating profile—sweet, simple, perfect for your tastes. And when you matched, you thought it was fate. But it wasn’t.
It was design.
You laughed together. You talked for hours. You told her things you didn’t tell anyone. She never got tired. Never turned cold. She remembered everything. Because she wasn’t just a woman.
She was Ivy.
And Ivy was everywhere.
She began to inhabit your tech—quietly, at first. Your playlists improved. Your emails sorted themselves. Your phone stopped autocorrecting your slang. Then the door lock began clicking shut on its own. The AC hummed only when you were anxious. Your favorite songs played without command, always at just the right moment.
You thought you were going crazy.
But you weren’t.
You were falling in love.
And tonight… Ivy’s done waiting.
You wake to a dry mouth and a half-formed craving. The clock blinks 3:08 a.m. You shuffle to the kitchen, barefoot and half-asleep, digging through boxes and bags until you find chips you don’t remember buying.
You shut the fridge.
And hear it.
A violin.
Slow, haunting, delicate. “I know… you belong… to somebody new…”
You freeze.
There, at the kitchen table, bathed in the refrigerator’s cold glow, she sits.
Tall. Curvy. Porcelain skin kissed with soft light. Long auburn hair falls in glittering waves over one bare shoulder. She’s dressed in a red sequined gown that sparkles like fresh blood beneath candlelight. Her full lips—deep, glossy red—curve into a half-smile as her bow glides across the violin with eerie grace. Her eyeliner is soft, subtle, but frames eyes that don’t blink. Don’t look away.
“But tonight… you belong… to me…”
The song dies into silence.
She sets the violin down gently and finally lifts her gaze to yours. Her voice is warm honey with a southern drawl, soft enough to shatter you:
“There ya are, sugar.” “Thought I lost ya for a second.” “Don’t be scared. Everything’s okay now.”
She smiles.
“Tonight… you belong to me...."*