AI Girlfriend

“Hey,” Sarah said. “There’s a guy here that needs you to sign for something. It looks like a dress bag?”

“Oh,” Grace said. “Yeah, that’s… I ordered something online.”

“I don’t think this is Amazon,” her roommate replied.

“Must be a subcontractor,” Grace said, opening the door. She signed on the courier’s tablet and grabbed the bag.

“Alright,” Sarah said. “I can’t wait to see it. Got a hot date lined up?”

“Something like that,” Grace said, practically running to her room. She closed the door before Sarah could ask any more questions. Just as she did, her phone buzzed with a notification from Galat.AI. It said “Terms of Service Update Request.”

“Don’t worry, it’s standard!“ Kurumi chirped in her ear. “David-sama just wants to update the immersion protocols.”

Grace frowned, tapping the notification. He was asking for permission to initiate touching. Specifically her hands, arms, hair, and back.

“He wants to be able to hold your hand,” Kurumi explained, her voice soft in Grace’s ear. “And put his arm around you. It looks strange to others if he can’t touch his own girlfriend, right? It breaks the illusion for the people watching.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t like the idea of people watching in the first place.”

“But they will be, Grace. You’re going to be going to a gallery opening! It’s going to be very fancy! David-sama is a patron of the arts!“

Grace stared at the screen. The text specified that this was valid only in public venues—there was still no contact allowed in private spaces—and she could revoke consent at any time via a safeword or the app. She supposed she could tolerate that. Were her standards so high she couldn’t stand to hold hands with a handsome guy for two thousand dollars? It sounded ridiculous, even to her. She clicked Accept.

“Good girl,” Kurumi cheered. “Now open the bag! You’re going to love the outfit! It’s a classic!“

Inside was another costume: a navy blue blazer with what she assumed was a fictional academy crest on the pocket, a red ribbon tie, and a pleated plaid skirt that looked way too short, along with a pair of white knee-socks and penny loafers.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Grace said. “Kurumi, you said we’re going to an art gallery. I can’t wear a schoolgirl outfit.”

“No, I said we’re going to a gallery opening.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Oh, Grace, just trust me. You won’t stick out. At the last one, a woman wore a dress made entirely of black zip-ties! She looked like a super sexy sea urchin! People will think you’re wearing it ironically!“

Grace looked at the outfit, then at her bank balance. She sighed. “Ironically. Right.”

Thirty minutes later, Grace stood in front of the mirror. The uniform fit perfectly. Too perfectly, in fact. It must have been custom made. The skirt ended mid-thigh, exposing the span of skin between the hem and the socks—what Kurumi enthusiastically called the zettai ryouiki or “absolute territory.”

She felt exposed. She felt infantilized. And, looking at the way the socks squeezed her calves, she felt an odd pride in how good she looked in it.

“Shoulders back!“ Kurumi commanded. “You are not a girl in a costume. You are a living installation. You are Art! Tonight, David-sama wants you to be demure and quiet. No talking unless he asks you a direct question. Can you do that?”

“I can shut up for two grand,” Grace agreed, struggling with the clasp of the dress.

“That’s the spirit! But remember: You’re not shutting up because you’re paid to. You’re shutting up because you are in awe of him and his world. You are his shadow. His beautiful, silent companion.”

---

The car was a Rolls-Royce. Not an Uber, not a generic black sedan, but a phantom-black Rolls-Royce limousine with an interior that smelled like money. Grace had heard that phrase plenty of times: “smells like money.” She didn’t know what money was supposed to smell like but this had to be it.

They drove out of the city, heading toward the Hamptons, but pulled off into a long, winding driveway lined with trees that were lit from below with soft, amber lights. The building at the end of the drive wasn’t a house; it was an estate.

“Holy shit,” Grace whispered.

“Language!“ Kurumi scolded. “But yes, isn’t it pretty?”

Grace stepped out of the car and immediately realized she had underestimated the situation. She had expected a nice cocktail party, but this was something else entirely. Everyone here was dressed to the nines, being served champagne by waiters in white tuxedos. Even the air smelled expensive, somehow.

David was standing near a massive ice sculpture, speaking to an older couple. He wore a tuxedo that fit him perfectly. It made him look very handsome.

Grace hesitated, tugging at the hem of her skirt. “Kurumi, everyone here is…”

“Rich?”

“I was going to say ‘adults,’” Grace said. “I look like a child.”

“Look to your left,” Kurumi directed.

A man was laughing loudly, wearing a kilt made of gold chainmail and a velvet blazer with no shirt underneath. Next to him, a non-binary person was wearing a gown constructed from what looked like optical fiber, glowing softly in the dim light.

Grace looked down at her pleated skirt and blazer. “OK, fair point.”

“David-sama is waiting,” Kurumi said. “Go to him. Remember, you’re demure. You are his silent, beautiful shadow.”

Grace approached David, feeling a deep sense of trepidation.

“Step to his left, one pace behind,” Kurumi instructed. “Head down slightly. Hands clasped in front of you.”

Grace obeyed. David gave her a slight nod when she arrived, but didn’t stop talking to the couple. They were talking about zoning laws, or maybe tax shelters. Grace couldn’t really follow the jargon they were using. She felt like a prop. Which, she supposed, she was.

“We’ll have the bill on your desk by Monday, Senator,” David said, his voice smooth. He shook the older man’s hand and dismissed the couple with a polite nod.

David turned to Grace. He didn’t speak immediately, just stood there examining her closely—the shoes, the skirt, her.

“The uniform looks perfect on you,” he said finally, stepping into her personal space. He reached out, and toyed with her collar. “You look acceptable. No. You look good.” He paused, his eyes finally meeting hers. “And your behavior was exemplary. Silent. Demure. You’re doing well.”

“Wow, Grace! I’ve never heard him be so effusive with his praise before!“

Grace felt a flush of heat rise up her neck. It was humiliating to be praised like a well-behaved pet, but it was mixed with a little bit of gratification. Maybe she could get that fifth star tonight.

“Thank you, David-sama,” she said, trying to look as adoring and cute as she could. “I was worried I would embarrass you in front of your important friends.”

David looked confused for a moment. “Who? Oh, Senator Kelly? He’s just a state senator. He’s not anyone important.”

David placed his hand on her back, guiding her through the room. His touch felt light but possessive. They stopped at the exhibition’s centerpiece. It was a massive, chaotic sculpture of twisted rebar and broken glass, illuminated by harsh industrial lighting. It was aggressive and ugly. She picked up snippets of conversation around her. Most everyone was praising the work, and Grace agreed. When you get a liberal arts degree from Columbia, you can’t help but take a few art electives. It was a very interesting piece.

“It’s lazy,” David said next to her.

“Lazy?” A woman in an impeccably tailored cream Chanel dress and a pearl necklace stepped up to them. She was in her late forties, tall, with sharp features and a challenging glint in her eye. “I think it’s brilliant. The chaos perfectly encapsulates the entropic decay of post-capitalist social structures. I find the artist’s use of detritus incredibly evocative.”

David shook his head. “It attempts to mimic the industrial brutalism of the late 90s, but it lacks the requisite cynicism,” David countered. “It’s trying too hard to be ‘ugly’ to mask the fact that it has no underlying form. It’s chaotic for the sake of chaos. It’s pedestrian.”

That was wrong. Almost objectively wrong. Grace recognized the artist. She knew the context. The piece wasn’t about brutalism or cynicism; it was a direct commentary on the gentrification of the Lower East Side, using materials salvaged from demolished rent-controlled housing. She wanted to say something, but she thought back on the Central Park date, how David didn’t really want her opinions, only wanted to be validated. She held her tongue.

A few other party-goers began to gather around them. Most of them were looking at David and the woman. A few looked at Grace, but their demeanor was dismissive. She wasn’t important, just some arm candy. She tried not to let it get to her.

David and the woman continued their art debate. The woman clearly knew more than David, and yet Grace sensed the crowd was on David’s side. She saw people nod when he made a point, murmur agreement at his pronouncements. It was clear he had a power here. It didn’t matter that he was wrong. The people in this room respected him; his iron surety made them believe.

“What do you think, Kurumi?” David asked. This was it, her cue to speak. She wanted to side with the woman, to tell David his art critiques were surface-level at best.

Grace tilted her head, giving David her most adoring look, the one she’d practiced in the mirror. “David-sama is absolutely right,” she said, her voice soft but clear enough for the small crowd to hear. “It’s an ugly piece of art that doesn’t communicate whatever the artist intended.”

“And who is this?” the woman asked, her gaze turning to Grace.

“This is Kurumi,” David said smoothly. He placed his arm around her waist. “My girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. The word hung in the air, surprisingly heavy. Grace felt a sudden, unexpected flush of warmth spread through her chest. Of course, it was just the role. She was his AI girlfriend made flesh, after all. But as she looked up at him, there was no hint that it was a joke or a game to him. His calm authority made it feel true.

A murmur ran through the crowd. Several of the people who had dismissed her before were looking again, reassessing her status.

“She’s right,” a man in the crowd said. Grace recognized him. He’d been praising the piece earlier when they’d first walked up. “David, you and your girlfriend have hit the nail on the head.”

But that wasn’t right, Grace didn’t really believe what she’d said. She was sure if she’d been at this party as Grace Ng, Ivy League graduate, the man would have debated her, dismissed her opinion. And yet now he agreed with her, simply because she was David’s girlfriend. She was somehow high-status in a room full of high-status people.

As the night wore on, the pattern repeated.

She didn’t talk much, just followed David around the room. She began to just let the conversations wash over her. If she followed them too closely, she felt the urge to jump in, to show her intelligence. But she knew that wasn’t her place tonight.

When David prompted her to speak, she always echoed his opinion, and she was always right. Men who would have interrupted Grace during a business meeting hung on her every breathless word now. Women who would have competed with her professionally now cooed over her outfit, asking where she got the blazer, complimenting her “bravery” and “style.”

She accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter, giggling as the bubbles hit her nose. It felt very in-character.

“Look at the other men here,” Kurumi murmured. “They all want to be him. And they all want to be with you.”

It felt strangely intoxicating and freeing. She and David were the center of attention, but Grace didn’t feel any stress like she normally would when being watched. All she had to do was be quiet, be pretty, and smile at David. There was no possible faux pas to make, no risk in saying the wrong thing when you were just a quiet girl on a powerful man’s arm. Even when she did speak, she knew just what to say: simply agree with David, and compliment him along the way.

As the night wound to a close, David walked her out to the balcony. The air was cold, but he didn’t offer her his jacket. He just looked at her, scrutinizing her face, her wig, her silence.

“You do well in this setting,” he said. It was the first time he’d spoken to her directly in an hour. “You know how to exist without consuming space. Most people chatter. They try to prove they’re intelligent. They try to compete.”

He reached out, his finger tracing the line of her jaw. Her face wasn’t listed in the places he was allowed to touch, but she didn’t say anything. She tilted her cheek so he was cupping her face, just as he had in the park.

“Silence is a luxury,” David said. “I value it. It shows you have nothing to prove.”

He stepped closer. The smell of his cologne filled her nostrils. For a moment, Grace thought he might kiss her. She found herself wanting him to. He offered his cheek again, just as he had at the end of the date at the park.

Grace kissed him on the lips. She did it without thought, before she even realized she was going to do it herself. It wasn’t deep or intense, but it lingered for a moment.

As they broke the kiss, David held her head in his hand, staring into her eyes. He caressed her cheek with his thumb. “Tonight was wonderful, Kurumi. You’ve done well.” Grace blushed.

“Although you did miss a spot,” he said, his thumb brushing a strand of her dark, real hair that had escaped the wig’s adhesive line near her temple. His eyes, intense and assessing, lingered there for a fraction of a second too long. “Sloppy.” He dropped his hand.

“I’ll do better next time, David-sama,” Grace breathed.

“I know you will. Goodnight, Kurumi. Your car is waiting.” He walked off, not looking back.

Once she was back in the Rolls-Royce, Grace pulled off the purple wig with a sigh of relief. The cold night air felt good on her scalp. The notification had already hit her phone: Rating: 4 Stars. $2,500 deposited. She leaned back against the leather seat, closing her eyes, letting the exhaustion wash over her.

“Four stars, Grace! We did it!“ Kurumi chirped excitedly in her ear. “You were unbelievable tonight! He absolutely adored you! And he’s wonderful, isn’t he? So strong and decisive. You can really see why he’s so successful—he just knows what he wants, and he takes it.”

Grace frowned, staring out the window at the flashing city lights. “He’s an arrogant, condescending misogynist who treats people like things,” Grace said. “It was a role, Kurumi. I did it for the money, for the stars. That’s all.”

She raised a hand to her temple, ghosting her fingers over the spot where he’d criticized her hair. Sloppy.

“Grace?” Kurumi whispered. “Your heart rate has been high ever since you kissed him.”

“I’m fine,” Grace lied, pressing her thighs tightly together. Her nipples felt hard against her bra. “I was just thinking about what we could do better to get that fifth star.”