Mrs. Lawrence and her seven-year-old daughter, Steph, had only wanted a quiet lunch the day before—and the unexpected chance for Steph to get Ethan Stipe’s autograph.

  Instead, they’d ended up terrified—intimidated by the towering presence of Ethan’s robotic bodyguard at Franco Sorrento’s high-end restaurant. Steph had panicked, sprinting straight back into her mother’s arms.

  Moments later, they were unexpectedly invited into Ethan’s private booth. The tech billionaire and his friends had offered profuse apologies—Ethan himself stood, visibly embarrassed—and their entire lunch was paid for. Even the cost of their cab ride home was covered by Mr. Stipe. Small change to a man like Ethan, but still, a thoughtful gesture.

  The moment Steph first encountered the bot had been captured on numerous phones. The clip of her wide-eyed retreat went viral almost instantly. Another video surfaced shortly after—this one showing her playing with the robot after it had been switched to a more friendly mode. That one spread too, though not quite as far.

  Mrs. Lawrence thought that would be the end of it.

  It wasn’t.

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  Within hours, her inbox was flooded with messages. News agencies, podcasters, influencers—everyone wanted a piece of the story. All of them offered cash in exchange for an interview. The biggest offer came from Dale “Two Barrels” Harlan, the infamous media figure known for his conspiracy theories, sensationalist broadcasts, and fiercely loyal fanbase.

  It was... a difficult offer to refuse.

  Now she sat waiting in the studio’s green room. Her husband, Joel, hadn’t been thrilled. Though politically aligned with Harlan’s base on most issues, Joel despised how the man used wild claims and misinformation to discredit his opponents—usually liberals or anyone left of centre. To him, Harlan wasn’t a commentator; he was an embarrassment to the very politics he claimed to represent.

  A young woman stepped into the room, barely seventeen by the look of her, with flawless skin and a studio-issued handheld in her grip.

  “Mrs. Lawrence, would you mind signing this?” she asked sweetly. “It just confirms you’ve had your safety induction, been shown the location of the nearest fire exit, and informed us of any dietary requirements or allergen concerns for the complimentary lunch we’ve arranged for you and your daughter.”

  Mrs. Lawrence nodded and took the device. She skimmed the first and last pages—standard health and safety boilerplate—then signed her name with the stylus in a quick, elegant motion.

  Later, she’d regret not reading the rest.