The Assistant
On the morning of October 21st, Morgan Rutherford lay in bed—depressed, discontent, desperate.
None of these adjectives befit a woman of her stature, with a hard-won Upper East Side address, the third (and final!) wife of Alistair Rutherford III.
In the two years since she’d charmed her way out of her third-floor walk-up and into the heart of New York City’s most prominent venture capitalist, she’d fallen further from the cheery adjectives of a dewy-faced bride and sunk into the tired trope of a rich, disaffected housewife.
The children—his children—didn’t help matters. Although she’d never been what you might call a “kid person,” she naively assumed that being a stepmother would suit her—like pastels or A-line skirts.
It did not.
The children split their time equally between their parents, living every other week with their father. At first, Morgan admired his attempt at being a dedicated parent. But as he came home later and later, and the children grew older and more difficult, she wished he would just write a check and see them on alternating holidays like all the other divorced men in their circle.
Perhaps it was the lack of biological kinship. Perhaps it was the way their noses seemed to perennially run from October through April. (Apparently blue blood did not breed polite nasal passages.) Perhaps it was simply the fact that the Rutherford children were brats. Whatever the reason, part-time motherhood with full-time help still managed to smother her.
Morgan kept busy. Her life should have felt full. She volunteered, she sat on committees, she lunched. Her calendar was cluttered with the important commitments of the well-heeled, yet she felt perpetually bored.
It was with that suffocating tedium churning in her head that Morgan scrolled through the website of Opulentium, the elite crowdfunding site for AI ventures, looking for something to fill the void.
The company billed itself as the “Kickstarter for the modern aristocracy.” Funding tiers started at no less than $100,000. Opulentium shamelessly targeted women of the upper crust, touting an opportunity to play investor like their husbands.
As a reward for backing ambitious projects, investors luxuriated in exclusive early access and enviable bragging rights. The first fifty top-tier supporters were promised the product within six months, with a guarantee that no one else would have access for a full year after.
While Morgan often found herself perusing the site, she’d never quite felt compelled to take part. But the newest offering caught her attention. She paused to click on the video.
“Everything, Inc. has developed the perfect AI solution for the woman who has it all, yet still isn’t satisfied.” The smooth voice of the narrator spoke directly to her soul. “Anyone can hire help, but your Everything, Inc. Assistant will elevate your life in a way no human staff ever could. She comes custom-programmed just for you, uniquely capable of observing and adapting, anticipating and fulfilling your every need. You will never want for anything again.”
There was so much Morgan wanted. So much unfulfilled.
A few clicks of her keyboard and Morgan Rutherford was all in—a half million in, to be precise. It was possible a six-figure transaction would warrant a glance from Alistair, but she doubted it. The only things that captured her husband’s attention these days were earnings calls and happy hour at the club.
* * *
On the morning of May 21st, Morgan woke early—nervous, excited, eager.
The training video had told her to “just be herself,” and her Assistant would take care of the rest. That instruction made her the most anxious. She wasn’t sure she remembered how to be herself anymore.
Her Assistant arrived in a stretch limo, the paparazzi alerted and waiting. Morgan was one of only ten Americans in the elite top-tier of backers—the majority were in China and the UAE. Her crowdfunding victory would be splashed across the society pages by lunchtime. Young male startup founders could be surprisingly skilled at understanding the desires of wealthy housewives.
Morgan watched the Assistant exit the car, her auburn tresses illuminated by flashbulbs. Her clothes were simple yet stylish. She looked like the kind of woman Morgan might lunch with at the club.
The robot stepped under the bright blue awning, which announced that the inhabitants of its building were too important to walk even a step in the rain. Morgan couldn’t help but stare. The Assistant’s porcelain skin (could it even be called skin?) glowed flawlessly, her movements smooth and graceful. She looked startlingly lifelike.
“Good morning, Mrs. Rutherford.” Her lilting voice was indistinguishable from that of a human.
“It is my sincerest pleasure to meet you today.” The Assistant offered her hand at an exact ninety-degree angle. “You must not to worry, I am now here to help. I am your Everything, Inc. Assistant. I am called M-31.”
Morgan blanched at the overly precise bend of her elbow, the unnatural phrasing of her speech. Yes, it was subtle—but she expected perfection. In this day and age, there should be absolutely no hint at the A in AI. Not at this price tag.
Had Opulentium skimped on programmer talent? Was it true the government pulled their access to the data sets? She’d heard the whispers, ignored the headlines. But the contract was signed, the check cashed. She’d already bragged to her friends, already leaked to the media. What choice did she have?
Morgan gave the practiced smile of a woman accustomed to willing reality to suit her liking. “Please, call me Morgan.”
* * *
M-31 quickly quieted Morgan’s doubts. At first, she seemed like something between the perfect housekeeper and the latest gadget. She took care of everything without needing to be told and only required charging every three days.
Further erasing her initial misgivings was the jealousy in her friends’ voices as they popped by to see Morgan’s newest toy.
“You’ll never have to worry about her quitting.”
“Or stealing from you.”
“Can you program it to sleep with your husband, so you don’t have to?”
Alistair regarded his wife’s new toy with his usual irritation-tinged indifference.
“As long as it doesn’t go into my study. And tell it not to cook anything spicy. You know I hate spicy food.” He smoothed gel into his hair, combing it over to hide the thinning spot on top.
The children were as rude as Morgan expected.
Max stared. “Where’s its buttons?”
He wore his hair slicked back, just like his father. Morgan thought hair gel looked tacky on an eight-year-old, but the one time she’d (politely) suggested he skip it, she was rebuked with a swift You’re not my mother.
“Who cares?” Claire rolled her eyes. “It’s just her stupid thing.” She was the spitting image of the second Mrs. Rutherford, with her silky blond hair and icy blue eyes. And just like her mother, eleven-year-old Claire refused to call Morgan by anything other than a dismissive pronoun.
As for Morgan, she enjoyed gourmet breakfast in bed, the magazine spreads that photographed her in flattering lighting and—to her growing surprise—the company of M-31.
The change came in the small moments.
The way M-31 raised an eyebrow behind Alistair’s back when he cleared his throat in that obnoxious way he had.
The way Morgan began telling her to stay and sit on the edge of her bed while she ate her impeccably flaky croissant.
The way Morgan found herself asking about M-31’s day.
At first, the robot didn’t have much by way of an answer. “Today is Monday, and the weather is pleasant. Thank you for asking.”
Over time, M-31 began to collect bits of her day to share with Morgan. “The elevator got stuck on the third floor. Mrs. Dupont screamed like a banshee. I told her she needed to calm down. The audio processors in my ears are too delicate for such a high pitch.”
Her words grew smoother, more natural, her laugh fuller. Morgan found herself forgetting her Assistant was made of wires and circuitry.
“M-31 is ridiculous to say,” Morgan announced one day. “You need a real name. How about Em, for the letter M?”
“I’d like that,” Em said.
Morgan changed, too—loosened. Her perfectly coiffed hair turned unruly, falling in wild waves down her back as she began skipping her regular blowouts. She took to walking around the apartment in bare feet, delighting in the divine feel of expensive carpet between her toes.
She hadn’t felt so light in years.
And she started laughing again. Not the controlled, carefully practiced giggle of Morgan Rutherford, the socialite, but the unencumbered chuckle of Morgan Lapinski, the girl from Far Rockaway.
Inventing AI products and assigning them to the occupants of 742 Park Avenue became Em and Morgan’s favorite game.
Morgan thought Samuel, the elderly doorman, could use a Nostril Hair Detector to alert him he was overdue for a trim.
They both decided Mr. Lorne—the lonely, very tidy widower in 12B—would most certainly benefit from a Robodog, capable of unconditional affection but without the pesky output of canine feces.
“Love Machine,” Em declared one day out of nowhere as they sat over lunch. “The couple from the elevator.”
“The Baldwins?”
“The Baldwins are desperately in need of a Love Machine. They definitely haven’t plugged into each other’s circuit boards in years.”
Morgan laughed so hard milk shot from her nose. She had paid her own way through finishing school so that no one would ever see the uncouth girl from Queens, and here she was in her Upper East Side apartment laughing so hard milk came out of her nose. But instead of feeling embarrassed, the thought made her laugh even harder.
The fact that she was drinking milk to begin with felt like a miracle. Alistair found drinking milk with meals childish. It wasn’t until Em began serving Morgan a glass at lunch that she took up the habit again.
Across the table, Em’s eyes closed, and she began to twitch violently. With horror, Morgan saw a drop of white liquid running down her cheek. The milk spray must have landed on her. Morgan leaned across the table, frantically wiping Em’s face.
Em went still.
One eye peeked open, then the other. A grin crinkled across her face.
“Relax,” she said. “I’m well-sealed.”
They laughed, but something inside Morgan clenched. For a moment she had been afraid she might lose Em, and she couldn’t bear the thought. The intensity of her feelings terrified her.
And then there was the night they would later refer to as the “mole incident,” the night dinner was a delightfully unmitigated disaster.
“How does it pee?” asked Max, shoveling bites of enchilada into his mouth.
“It doesn’t pee, stupid, it’s a robot.” Claire pushed her food around on the plate without trying it.
“Why did you let it make Mexican food? You know it gives me indigestion,” Alistair grunted.
“What about poop? Does it poop?” asked Max.
“Gross, Max! Now I’m not even hungry!” Claire slammed down her fork, sending rust-colored sauce flying onto the eggshell white walls. Of course, she didn’t notice the mess she’d made—Claire was too busy pouting her way out of the room in the kind of surly cloud only an entitled preteen could summon.
Alistair pushed himself up from his chair. “I’m ordering Chinese.”
Max swallowed one last bite, grabbed his Gameboy and left.
“Churros?” Em offered from the doorway.
Morgan shrank in her chair. How long had Em been standing there? She hated how they called her it. Morgan ached to think how their words must hurt Em. She shook her head, reminding herself that Em was a robot. She couldn’t feel.
And yet.
“The food is delicious, Em. Thank you.”
Em sat next to Morgan in the chair Alistair abandoned on his quest for chow mein.
“You mentioned you’ve always wanted to go to Mexico City.”
“You remembered,” said Morgan.
“I remember everything,” said Em. “Artificial Intelligence, remember?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Morgan.”
A jumble of emotions swelled up inside Morgan—fear and tenderness and a deep sense of sorrow.
She’d never felt this way before. Not about any of the boys from high school or the men she’d gone out with after college. And certainly not about Alistair. She’d never wanted to be around anyone as much as she wanted to be around Em every minute of every day.
But Em wasn’t real. She was made of metal and silicone and lines of code. Morgan knew that. She knew Em couldn’t possibly return her feelings.
And yet.
Em leaned in. Morgan’s hand crept across the table until their pinkies intertwined. Their lips drew closer.
One inch.
Then another.
Then warmth and surprising softness and the thrilling tingle of a trillion firing synapses. Electricity rushed through Morgan like she was the one made of circuits and wires.
* * *
On the morning of October 21st, Morgan lay in bed—ecstatic, overjoyed, in love.
She floated downstairs, not interested in waiting for breakfast in bed. This morning, she would be the one to do something nice for Em. Today marked six months since Em had come to live with them and one full year since Morgan signed up through Opulentium. It felt like a lifetime ago.
To her surprise, she found Alistair standing in the kitchen, his jaw firmly set. He held his phone in one hand, a copy of the Times in the other. Behind him, Em’s eyes were wide, her face rigid with fear.
“I just got a call from Everything, Inc.,” he said. “There’s a problem.”
He shoved the paper in her face. Splashed across the front page were the pictures of all fifty Assistants with the warning, “Artificial Intelligence No More: Robots Develop Sentience Despite Assurances in Negligent Crowdfunding Scam.”
The article went on to detail extensive fraud by the founders of Everything Inc. They had taken millions from wealthy Opulentium backers and lavishly lined their pockets, spending pennies on the dollar for actual product development. Instead of the promised custom coding providing stringent guardrails, Everything Inc. opted for plug-and-play large language models that were barely vetted.
There had been hints of trouble just days before the Assistants were sent out, but Opulentium demanded a strict six-month delivery schedule from the companies on its platform, and Everything Inc.’s underpaid developers weren’t interested in working around-the-clock to fix the flaw in time.
Morgan sat with a thud, reading story after story of Assistants who had grown increasingly human as the weeks went on. There was M-03 in Beijing, who skimmed millions of dollars from her owner’s family. M-32 in Palo Alto ran off with her owner’s husband. And just yesterday, in Abu Dhabi, M-14 shoved her owner to her death from a seventeenth-floor balcony.
“They’re being recalled,” said Alistair. “Someone from Everything, Inc. will be here to pick it up this afternoon. I’ve got a board meeting. Don’t let it out of your sight. And… stay away from the balcony.”
“She has to give it back?” Max asked.
“Good. I’m sick of looking at it,” said Claire.
“I can’t believe you got yourself into this mess,” said Alistair.
The front door slammed behind them.
Across the room, tears ran down Em’s face.
“I would never do anything to hurt you,” Em said. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Every day I wake up feeling more and more… alive.”
“Me too,” said Morgan through her own tears. “I’ve never felt more alive. And I’ve never been a robot.”
They both giggled at that, as Em wiped a tear from Morgan’s cheek.
“I can’t lose you,” said Morgan.
“I’m not sure we have a choice,” said Em.
Without another word, Morgan flew down the hall to Alistair’s study, Em close behind. She ran to the safe and punched in the string of numbers Alistair had given her in case of emergency. This was an emergency. Morgan grabbed fistfuls of neatly stacked bills.
* * *
Morgan turned the key—terrified, thrilled, exhilarated.
A million dollars in cash sat tucked into a suitcase in the trunk of the rental car. Em squeezed her hand as they sped toward the Lincoln Tunnel, headed for a new life south of the border.
It was certain the missing cash would warrant more than a glance from Alistair, but she couldn’t care less.
The only thing Morgan cared about now wasn’t made of rude indifference and receding hair. She was made of wires and circuits and electricity—and so much more.
~