The Brother in the Wheelchair

My name is Maren Ruan-Pace.

Day one of the closed beta, AURA explained who I was inside the product. The dark obsessive fiancée. Vicious. Without dignity. The script said I lost him by the third quarter, lost my father's firm by the fourth, and froze to death on a bench in Pioneer Square on New Year's Eve.

AURA, chirpy: *Maren! Complete the relationship arc with the male lead. Earn his love. You'll log out the second the meter hits one hundred.*

I believed her.

Session 1, I ran the soft and accommodating route. I covered for him on a deposition. I took the blame for a deal he tanked. I stood on the steps of the Olympic Club, six hours, in October rain, holding a written apology Sloane had drafted for me. He loved me by the end of the quarter. He took me up to the penthouse stairwell on New Year's morning and put me down them with the heel of his hand on my sternum.

He said, *Wren, you know all my soft places. I can't leave any soft place out in the world.*

Session 2, I ran cold and remote. Make him chase. He chased. He loved me by April. He sat down across from me at his kitchen island and watched me drink the wine he had poured. He said, *I can't let you leave me*, and waited.

Session 3, I ran the wild route — I matched his temper, lied to his face, drove him crazy. He loved me by August. He locked me in the wine cellar of the Bainbridge house and walked away. I heard him outside the door, voice broken like a person trying not to cry.

He said, *Wren, you only belong to me if you die in my hands.*

I have died ninety-nine times.

AURA pinged every time: *Session complete!*

She never logged me out.