Chapter 2Sorry Daddy You Have Expired

At thirty-two, when you hear a synthetic voice ringing inside your temporal lobe, your first logical instinct is to wonder if you need an MRI or a lower dose of caffeine.

Then the prompt pinged again, sharp and tactile behind my eyes.

[Tutorial Notification: Substantive favoritism verified.]

[Initiate exchange?]

I didn't blink. Yes, I answered in the silence of my thoughts.

[Exchange complete.]

[Acquired: 1x Mercedes-Maybach S-Class Sedan registered under the target.]

A metallic click echoed across the quartz island.

The heavy key fob to Nathan’s pride and joy—a custom-ordered midnight-black Maybach he treated with more reverence than our wedding vows—slid an inch forward on the counter as if pulled by a magnet.

Simultaneously, Nathan’s phone buzzed with an automated alert from the Department of Motor Vehicles and his digital insurance portal.

He tapped the banner, stared at it, and froze. Ten seconds passed. Then fifteen.

"Lauren?" He looked up, his expression thoroughly dismantled. "Did you log into my DMV account?"

"Nope."

"The registration on the Maybach just flipped. Title, insurance, secondary lien release... it’s all in your name."

I scooped the heavy fob off the counter, tossing it lightly in my palm before catching it with a snap. "Cars have feelings, Nathan. Maybe she realized riding with you was a dead-end gig and decided to trade up."

He reached across the island to grab it. "Give me the keys. Don't play games. I’ve got an eight-thirty investor breakfast in Menlo Park."

I slipped the fob deep into the pocket of my jeans. "Then you better ask Peaches to code you a pumpkin carriage before midnight."

His jaw clenched until the tendons stood out like piano wire. "I don't have time for your manic episodes."

"Good thing I’ve got plenty of time for mine."

I grabbed Sam’s jacket off the back of the chair, boxed up half the birthday cake, and took my son by the hand. Nathan didn't follow us into the garage. He was already leaning against the counter, muttering soft, soothing reassurances into his headset because Peaches’s bedtime routine was falling behind schedule.

As we pulled down the driveway, the Maybach’s twin-turbo engine humming like silk, Sam looked at me through the rearview mirror from his booster seat.

"Mom? Is this car really yours now?"

"Looks that way, kiddo."

"Is Dad gonna be mad?"

"Furious."

"What are we gonna do?"

I caught his gaze in the mirror and winked. "Let him stay mad. What are we supposed to do, buy him a pacifier?"

Sam let out a sudden, ragged snort of laughter. He had a missing front tooth, and the gap whistled when he grinned.

"Mom, you’re kind of being a villain today."

"Own it, baby," I said. "Never apologize for taking what’s yours."

That night, we slept at my old premarital condo downtown. Two bedrooms, sixty-five floors up, overlooking the waterfront. It was four blocks from Sam’s elementary school. For seven years, Nathan had refused to set foot in it, claiming the layout was "too pedestrian" for someone in his tax bracket.

I thought it was magnificent. At least here, the master bedroom wasn't haunted by the glow of a six-inch screen and a thirty-something CEO cooing Daddy loves you to a bundle of algorithms.

By seven the next morning, Nathan had called seventeen times.

I picked up on the eighteenth.

"Bring the car back," he barked, his voice ragged around the edges.

"Try using your manners."

"What?"

"When an adult needs a favor, they use words like please, or Lauren, or if you're feeling formal, Ms. Mercer. Let's try it again."

A dead silence hung over the line for three whole seconds. "Lauren, you are pushing your luck."

"Oh, I haven't even started pushing," I said, taking a slow sip of my coffee. "You've got about five minutes before I take the Maybach to CarMax."

He hung up.

Ten minutes later, a calendar invite flashed across my phone:

[Today, 3:00 PM. Studio HQ. Bring Sam for the VIP Alpha Playtest. Limited slots. Don't be late.]

When Sam saw the notification, his face lit up so fast he nearly knocked over his glass of orange juice.

Nathan ran Luminary Interactive. In the early days, when the studio was just six desks in a drafty warehouse, I had been the one pacing hotel lobbies with an infant strapped to my chest while Nathan pitched angel investors. I had personally tested over two thousand physical and digital play-mechanics to help him build the parent-child interface that eventually became DreamHaven.

When the game blew up and the term sheets rolled in, Nathan’s interviews told a different story. He became the "visionary auteur," the solo tech prodigy whose sheer creative genius had captured the emotional zeitgeist.

I hadn't fought him on the narrative back then.

I didn't think I needed to. I thought we were a team; I thought his wins were our wins.

Turns out, if you make yourself a doormat, people will wipe their muddy boots on you and then complain that you aren't soft enough.

At two-fifty that afternoon, I walked Sam into Luminary’s glass-and-steel headquarters.

The receptionist held up a manicured hand before we could hit the turnstiles. "Mr. Mercer is on Stage A recording promo reels with the avatar. Closed set."

Through the floor-to-ceiling glass partition, a massive holographic volume dominated the studio floor. Nathan was standing under the softboxes in a crisp linen shirt, laughing on cue while a mocap rendering of Peaches sat perched on his shoulder, her digital curls bouncing in 120 frames per second.

Sam stood on his tiptoes outside the glass, clutching his paper VIP badge so hard the laminate creased.

At three-thirty, the studio doors opened. The line of invited tech-influencer kids was ushered inside. A production assistant handed the final VR headset to an eleven-year-old YouTuber.

Nathan finally walked out into the lobby, unbuttoning his collar.

"Hey, buddy," he said, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. "We’re gonna have to do this another time. Peaches’s engagement metrics just spiked on Twitch, and marketing needs me on the live desk to capitalize on the surge."

Sam didn't cry.

He didn't stomp his feet or whine. He just slowly folded the creased VIP badge into quarters and slid it into the pocket of his hoodie.

In my mind, the bell chimed with absolute clarity.

[Substantive favoritism verified.]

[Initiate exchange?]

Confirm.

The interface stalled for five long, suspended seconds.

[Exchange successful.]

[Acquired: 37% of Luminary Interactive Voting Rights.]

In Nathan’s hands, the master iPad running the production control panel went completely, irrevocably black.