My heart flutters with excitement when I check my holojector for the billionth time. No sign of Stella, but that's to be expected. Her important meeting has probably run late, which is promising. If AlphaGalaxy decides to acquire AfterLife, it'll be a game changer.

I can already see the headlines: VR Giant Acquires Digital Heaven.

And Stella will be one of the key players.

Just be patient.

Rumbling with hunger, my stomach demands a savory morsel while a pot of sauce simmers on the stove. The scent of Italian herbs and spices permeates the kitchen. It's almost torturous. I've skipped breakfast and lunch in order to save room for our tenth anniversary dinner: conchiglie pasta with chorizo.

As a special treat, I've made it by hand. Food printing might be convenient, but nothing tastes better than crunching into golden-brown garlic bread or savoring the crisp texture and vibrant colors of real veggies in a garden salad. It's worth every holocoin. Actual ingredients have a flavor and freshness that extrusion can't quite replicate yet.

Decked out with our finest porcelain china, crystal water goblets, and a linen tablecloth, the mahogany table looks inviting. The dimmed lights give our dining room a gentle ambience while the flames of twin candlesticks dance to the rhythm of soothing music. I've even used our silver cutlery, which forms one straight line from the forks to the knives and spoons.

To mark the occasion, I've ditched comfy projector attire in favor of real clothing. It doesn't happen often. I'm wearing my cute little black dress, the one with the princess seams that fits snugly around the bodice and falls gently to my knees.

When I give a childlike twirl, the skirt flares out in a circle.

Classy and fun, Stella always says.

Clicking my tongue, I check my holojector once more. Not a peep. It's not my style to turn into a royal fusspot due to a bit of tardiness. Not when Stella's cushy job at AfterLife means she gets to create virtual reality--her true passion--while it gives me the freedom to do freelance work from the comfort of my own VR pod. Those perks are worth the odd late night.

Still, this is our special day. I'm a bit disappointed, and my stomach is gnawing at me.

Hope she gets home soon.

Dusk turns to darkness while I wait for Stella to arrive. She doesn't usually run this late without pinging me. Now it's been two hours and my worries have started to nag at me with greater ferocity.

What if it went so well that they invited her for dinner and drinks? What if she forgot about our anniversary? Sun above, what if she had an accident?

Stop. I exhale my worries. Stella's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine.

Shaking my head at my foolishness, I take a seat in one of the mahogany chairs and pour myself a small sample of sauvignon blanc. Real wine. Not a fake knock-off or gutless synthehol made by the replicator.

I swish the sip of wine across my tongue and swallow--delicious medicine for my nerves. Stella won't mind if I get a teensy little head start.

Only that 'little head start' turns into two glasses. Then a whole carafe.

Still no sign of her.

Thank goodness I've bought two bottles.

Now that dinner is ruined, I'm getting more and more antsy. Even though I'm way beyond tipsy from drinking on an empty stomach, it doesn't quell my fear.

It's no big deal.

If I had a meeting with an important publisher, I'd stay up all night to discuss a project. We can more than make up for it this weekend.

Wait, who am I kidding?

Despite her busy job, Stella's never missed a single important family dinner. Especially our anniversary. Most years, she has surprised me with a thoughtful gift, some little token to show her affection.

Sure, it's simply a random date to celebrate what we mean to one another. We show each other our love all the time. That's what matters.

That doesn't assuage the itch niggling at the back of my head. The one telling me something isn't right. This isn't just a late meeting.

Since I don't know if my gut feeling is justified, I don't ping her. Who wants to be that quartner? No one appreciates the nagging little whatsit who freaks out over nothing.

When the antique clock strikes ten, my impatience morphs into genuine concern.

Screw it! I ain't keeping up appearances anymore.

Something's wrong.

Every time I ping her, it goes straight to holomail. Stella turns her devices off during important meetings, but they never last this long. With a heavy sigh, I activate the audio on my digital assistant.

"Aila, has Stella Gotthard made any recent pings?"

They respond in a calm, friendly tone that sounds remarkably human. "Stella Gotthard hasn't interacted with her devices in the past four hours, six minutes, and fifty-three--"

"Have I missed any communications?"

"You have no missed holograms or audio-video feeds."

Anxious, I twist the black ring on my middle finger.

She's fine. Everything's fine.

For the past ten years, I've prided myself on never playing mean tricks like other couples do. Spying on their loved ones, checking their digital diaries, tracking their wristbands, and all that bullshit. I trust Stella completely. Repaying her love by breaking her trust would be a disgrace.

Until now, she's never given me a reason to doubt her.

But what if she's in trouble?

"Aila, locate Stella Gotthard."

"I'm afraid I can't find her."

Time to pull out the big guns. "Override all blocking software: authorization code Tara Walters, TW-AL-404."

"Accepted." They pause. "No blocking software detected."

My heart thuds against my ribs. "Aila, expand search."

"I can't detect the signature for Stella Gotthard."

What? That's impossible!

My back breaks out into a cold sweat. If Aila can't detect her signature--

I bolt upright, knocking over the heavy wooden chair with a loud bang. "Aila, have there been any accidents reported?"

"No, I can't find any within fifty miles."

"Any...crimes?" I swallow hard. "Suicides?"

"No crimes or suicides have been reported in the Greater Boston area."

Where is she? Why can't Aila find her?

My breathing quickens. At this point, I wouldn't even give a crap if she were cheating. The clichéd side-boink isn't a typical problem in our kind of relationship. It would bemuse me more than anything else.

I simply need to know she's okay.

The devil on my shoulder hisses that she'd better have a damned good reason for all this bullshit, while the angel begs for her safety to any deity willing to listen.

Shit, I'm not even religious.

If someone hurts her, I'll kill them.

When my holojector pings, it startles the living crap out of me. I knock over the last dregs of my wine glass while activating my wristband device.

"Incoming video feed from Stella Gotthard," says Aila in a calm tone. "Do you accept?"

"Yes, yes!" By this point, I'm totally polluted and click the wrong freaking digital button. "Accept, Aila!"

"To confirm, shall I--?"

"Accept, dammit!"

For some reason, the display doesn't show Stella. It points into the darkness, but she doesn't say a word. No greeting, no apology, nothing.

But that's not what worries me the most.

All I can hear is her panting while the blurred image jostles back and forth. If I didn't know any better, it looks like she's sprinting toward something.

Or away from it.

"Stella? What's going on?"

When she doesn't answer, I know she's in trouble.

"Talk to me!"

Her voice sounds shrill. "AlphaGalaxy lied to us!"

"What's happening? Why can't Aila find you?"

The camera plummets toward the ground as Stella falls with a grunt. She gives a panicked whimper as she picks herself up. "I overheard their plans!"

"Whose plans?"

Stella doesn't flip out over every little crap, which means this is about more than the possible acquisition. Whatever the hell set her off, it's bad.

"They own us, Tara."

Did they hack into AfterLife's mainframe? What does she mean?

"Promise me you won't go after them." Stella's fighting to catch her breath. "They'll kill you."

"Stella, you're scaring me." I slur my words as the picture turns fuzzy. "Tell me where you are. I can't see anything in the dark."

The camera swishes from side to side, so fast that it blurs the image. Squinting, I can't make out anything at first...until about half a dozen masked figures wearing black uniforms surround her. It's the attire of the Steeltoes, bought and paid for by AlphaGalaxy.

They draw nearer.

With guns.

My heart leaps into my throat. Without her location, I can't do jack crap. Can't ping the security drones. Can't inform the holocops.

Damn it, Stella!

"For flick's sake!" My body trembles with pure adrenaline. It's like watching a reality horror show, except the love of my life is in danger. "Where are you?"

A gunshot rings out before the camera plummets to the ground.

I shriek.

The attack hits me with the force of a bullet, as though they've shot me instead. I can't breathe. My lungs refuse to take in any air.

A masked woman picks up the camera, staring straight into it, her light-brown eyes glinting with victory. "Your lover's gone. Print one word, and you're next, Tara Walters."

___

Word count: 1,566
Total word count: 1,847/2,000

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