Page 66 of The Substitute Fiancée

“We’re over-optimizing,” I had confided that night. “Profiles that fall outside the norm are slowly disappearing. They don’t fit into the boxes.”

She had smiled, leaning against the couch, a glass of wine in hand.

“That’s the price of efficiency, Alexander. You can’t please everyone. The investors are satisfied—that’s what matters.”

“It’s not just about numbers,” I had argued.

“Why question something that works?”

At the time, I thought she simply hadn’t listened to me.

Today, I’m no longer so sure. She had listened. Closely.

There’s no proof linking her to the rumors. But the timing, the precision of the terms used, certain phrasings—they’re eerily close to what I confided in her that night.

And above all, I remember her icy stare at the Speakeasy, when she swore she’d get her revenge. A promise, not a threat.

The doubt is there. Persistent.

Around two p.m., Nina walks in without knocking, as she always does when she decides I’ve crossed the line of reasonable behavior. She drops a takeout container on my desk with an exaggerated sigh.

“Take a break. Starving yourself won’t solve the problem any faster.”

I know she’s right. I eat distractedly, eyes glued to my screen. I want to call Sam, to talk to her, but I’m afraid of dragging her down with my foul mood, and some conversations don’t belong on the phone. I saw her messages. I’ll call her tonight. Or better yet, I’ll go see her if I can get away.

Meetings stack up all afternoon. Legal. Data. Communications. Everyone speaks in turn, cautiously, as if the slightest word could make things worse.

“Technically, we’re compliant,” legal concludes.

“Morally, it’s murkier,” someone else replies.

By the end of the day, we still don’t have a satisfying solution. Just a fragile consensus: we need to regain control of the narrative before it controls us.

I end up approving a first statement—short, measured.

“Like any large-scale data processing system, our algorithms may exhibit biases. We are actively working to identify, measure, and correct them.”

It’s defensible. It’s not reassuring. And everyone knows it.

Days pass without me touching ground. I collapse from exhaustion onto my bed and sink into a restless sleep. I haven’t seen Sam in days.

*

It’s seven p.m. on the third day, and I’m still at my desk when Nina pokes her head through the door.

“I’m heading out. You have a visitor.”

Surprised, I look up.

Sam is standing in the doorway, hesitant.

I get up immediately, my heart leaping in my chest.

“Thank you, Tina. Have a good evening.”

As soon as the door closes, I pull Sam into my arms and kiss her full on the mouth. A hungry, desperate kiss. God, how I missed her. I hadn’t realized how much—until she was standing right in front of me.

She laughs softly against my lips.