Chapter 4Sorry Daddy You Have Expired

Nathan decided to double down.

He scheduled a massive, globally streamed town hall titled: Can Virtual Kinship Heal Real-World Regrets?

Translation: he was taking Peaches on an apology tour to salvage his reputation.

After I gutted his budget, he bypassed the board entirely, liquidating five million dollars of his personal liquid assets to self-fund the campaign, hiring three celebrity parenting influencers to endorse the platform.

The broadcast was scheduled for a Saturday morning.

The exact same Saturday morning Sam had his school district's annual Field Day.

Sam had told Nathan about it two weeks prior. Nathan had agreed instantly, clapping him on the shoulder: Dad wouldn't miss it for the world.

Sam had drawn a red circle on the fridge calendar for fourteen consecutive days.

When Saturday arrived, Sam put on his yellow jersey with the number seven taped to his chest. The main event was the three-legged race.

All around the grassy field, fathers and mothers were kneeling in the turf, tying their ankles to their kids with red nylon straps. Sam stood alone by the chalk line, looking toward the parking lot gate.

His homeroom teacher walked over, checking her clipboard. "Is your dad coming, Sam?"

Sam looked at the gate one more time. "He's almost here."

At nine-thirty, the whistle blew. Nathan wasn't there.

At ten, the awards were handed out.

My phone buzzed with a six-second audio message.

Lauren, the tech check moved up an hour. Live stream is locked. You're already there, so just run the race with him. It's the same thing.

I listened to it, then handed the phone to Sam. "What should we do with this?"

"Delete it," Sam said, untying the red strap from our ankles. "He always says 'next time' anyway."

I didn't offer any platitudes. "Next time" is an adult’s favorite sedative, but kids know when they’re being poisoned.

Sam and I took third place.

The prize was a bright green plastic water bottle with a neon-orange screw cap. Sam loved it instantly; he held it against his chest like an Olympic medal.

On the drive home, we stopped at an outdoor retail plaza to grab lunch. High above the courtyard, the massive LED billboard was broadcasting Nathan’s live town hall.

Nathan was sitting on a minimalist white stage in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit. Beside him, rendered in life-sized volumetric light, was Peaches.

The moderator smiled warmly. "Nathan, why this relentless dedication to developing an AI child?"

Nathan leaned into the microphone, his expression painted with synthetic warmth. "Real-world parenting is full of friction. Misunderstandings, exhaustion, emotional volatility. A virtual child offers unconditional grace. It allows adults to heal the parts of themselves that reality bruised."

The moderator glanced at her notes. "You have a son in real life, correct?"

Nathan’s fingers twitched against the microphone. "I do."

"Why isn't he here today?"

"He’s very introverted," Nathan said smoothly. "Public events overwhelm him. I prefer to protect his privacy."

Down in the plaza, Sam stood under the shadow of the giant screen, clutching his cheap green plastic bottle.

Introverted?

At four, Sam had grabbed the mic from a street musician at Pike Place Market to sing the chorus of Yellow Submarine. At five, he had eaten a raw lemon wedge on a dare from the condo doorman without flinching.

Sam wasn't introverted.

He just knew his father didn't want him around when the cameras were rolling.

The chime rang in my skull, louder and colder than before.

[Target has publicly denied the child’s authentic emotional reality to preserve a synthetic family dynamic.]

[Severity Level: Critical.]

[Advanced Exchange Protocol unlocked.]

Three options flashed across my vision in luminescent script:

[1. Seize 50% of the target's personal net worth.]

[2. Terminate the target's executive titles and operational standing at Luminary Interactive.]

[3. Seize the target's status as Legal Spouse.]

I stared at the third option.

The system provided an instant footnote: This is not a divorce decree. Upon execution, the legal and social reality of the marriage will be retroactively scrubbed and re-indexed. The target and Host will revert to independent legal entities. Marital assets will be automatically redistributed according to authentic historical contributions.

No divorce attorneys billing four hundred dollars an hour.

No three-year custody battles in a windowless family court.

Clean. Surgical. Final.

Before my finger could mentally press the prompt, my phone rang.

It was Nathan.

"Lauren," he said, breathing fast. "I need you to bring Sam to the broadcast studio right now."

"Why?"

"Peaches’s behavioral AI is running into an uncanny-valley wall on the live feedback loop. We need an AB comparative test with an actual child to demonstrate the emotional contrast."

I turned the speakerphone on.

Sam stood right beside me, listening.

"What kind of test, Nathan?"

"Just put Sam on stage with Peaches for five minutes. Have the moderator ask them both basic questions. The team is running a script to highlight how emotionally stable, obedient, and non-reactive a synthetic child is compared to a biological one."

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving behind a cold, crystalline stillness.

He had ditched his son’s race, lied about him on national television, and now wanted to drag him onto a stage as an emotional prop to prove that a collection of code was a superior daughter.

"Nathan," I said, "are you hearing the words coming out of your mouth?"

"It’s for the platform, Lauren! It’s ten minutes! I’ll buy him whatever he wants afterward!"

I looked down at my son.

Sam tightened his grip on his green plastic bottle, leaned toward the phone, and said, "Dad. I won third place today."

In the background of the call, a stage manager barked: Two minutes to segment return! Mr. Mercer, we need the kid on the mark!

"We'll talk about your race later, Sam," Nathan snapped. "Lauren, get in the car."

I looked at the floating prompt in my mind.

I selected Option Three.

[Execution is irrevocable.]

[Confirm seizure of Legal Spouse status?]

Confirm.

On the colossal LED billboard above the plaza, Nathan was still adjusting his lapel mic when his left hand twitched.

The platinum wedding band on his ring finger simply... evaporated.

One second it was there, catching the studio light; the next, his finger was bare, smooth, and unmarked.

Nathan froze. He stared down at his empty hand in sheer, unadulterated horror.

On screen, the moderator picked up an updated tablet, her voice cracking over the live broadcast feed.

"Wait... Mr. Mercer? Our public registry feed just refreshed... It says here you're unmarried?"