MAISIE
The champagne flute feels cool and delicate in my hand, a tiny anchor in the swirling sea of the New York Tech Gala.
We're at The Glasshouse in Brooklyn, and the place is all exposed brick, soaring ceilings, and money. So much money.
I can feel the eyes on me—the calculating stares from the old-money men in their bespoke Brioni suits, the bolder, hungrier glances from the new-money boys who built their fortunes in Silicon Valley hoodies and now wear Tom Ford tuxedos like a costume.
Lena sidles up to me, her elbow nudging my ribs. "Incoming. Three o'clock. Silver fox with the tragic pocket square is mentally undressing you. And the venture bro behind him just fully checked out your ass."
I take a slow sip of my Moët, not even bothering to look. "Let them look, Lena. It's a free country."
And why shouldn't they? I know what I look like. This emerald-green Reformation dress hugs every single one of my curves in exactly the right places, and the slit up the thigh is a calculated risk that's paying off spectacularly. My red hair is down in loose waves, and honestly? I feel like a damn supermodel.
"Yeah, well, just remember," Lena chirps, her voice a cheerful whisper, "you might be a genius with a blowtorch and a circuit board, but you still think EBITDA is a type of pasta."
I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "It's not my fault finance is boring. I build things. You and the spreadsheets can handle the rest."
Before she can retort, the event coordinator gives me a small nod from the side of the stage. My cue.
"Showtime," I murmur, handing my champagne flute to Lena. "Wish me luck."
"Break a leg, boss. Go sell them the future."
I smooth down my dress and walk onto the stage, the heels of my Christian Louboutins clicking with purpose on the polished concrete.
The lights are bright, but I've never been shy in front of a crowd.
"Good evening," I say, my voice clear and confident, echoing slightly in the microphone. The crowd's murmur dies down. "I'm Maisie Rory, CEO of Rory Robotics. For the past five years, since I was seventeen, I've been obsessed with one question: How can technology not just connect us to the digital world, but better serve us in the physical one?"
I click the presenter in my hand. The massive screen behind me lights up with sleek, animated graphics.
"You've all heard of smart assistants. You ask them to play a song, tell you the weather. It's… fine. But it's passive. It's a voice in a void." I pause, letting the words hang. "What if your assistant wasn't just a voice? What if it had eyes to see the mess in your living room? Hands to pick up your child's toys? The presence to actually, physically help?"
I click again. A stunning, photorealistic render of a humanoid robot appears. It's elegant, streamlined, with a smooth white finish and soft blue ambient lighting.
"Meet Roy," I say, a genuine smile touching my lips. "Roy is not a speaker. Roy is a partner. Built on a proprietary AI architecture, Roy doesn't just respond to commands; he learns, anticipates, and interacts with your environment."
I walk across the stage, commanding the room. "Imagine this: You're cooking dinner, your hands are covered in flour, and a recipe calls for a conversion from cups to grams. Instead of fumbling with your phone, you just say, 'Roy, convert two cups of flour to grams.' Roy, who has been observing your kitchen setup, will not only tell you the answer—he'll project the converted measurement directly onto your countertop using his built-in laser projection system."
I can see intrigued nods in the audience.
"But that's the simple stuff," I continue, my passion fueling my words. "Roy's physical form, powered by actuators smoother and quieter than anything from Boston Dynamics, allows him to perform tasks. He can sort your mail, water your plants based on real-time soil moisture data, and even provide steadying physical support for an elderly relative. His AI doesn't just process language; it processes context. He understands that when you say, 'I've lost my keys,' the context of you frantically patting your pockets and heading for the door means he should immediately activate his scanning suite to locate the Bluetooth tracker on your keychain."
I finish my walk back to the center of the stage, looking out at the captivated faces.
"Roy is the next step. He's the bridge between the digital and the physical. He's not just a smarter Alexa. He's a new member of your family. A helpful one who doesn't eat your leftovers."
A wave of laughter ripples through the crowd. I'm about to launch into my final point about our upcoming limited production run when a voice, cold as ice and sharp as a razor, cuts through the warm atmosphere from the front row.
"A fascinating vision, Ms. Rory. Truly."
Every head turns. Mine included.
He's standing there, having risen from his seat. He's in a flawlessly tailored Kiton suit that probably costs more than my first prototype.
His posture is rigid, his expression one of detached amusement that doesn't reach his cold, calculating eyes.
Shinki Soma.
"But it does beg a rather significant question," he continues, his voice projecting effortlessly without a microphone. "Beyond the parlor tricks and the domestic convenience… what is your scalable, defensible business model? Or are you simply building a very expensive, glorified nanny?"
You fucking fucker.
The words scream through my mind, a silent, furious mantra. I've always known Shinki Soma was scum—a vulture in a five-thousand-dollar suit.
I've spent months actively avoiding the bastard at these things. But this? Publicly trying to humiliate me during my own keynote? This is a new low, even for him.
A cold, sharp smile fixes itself on my face. I won't let him see me sweat.
"I appreciate the question, Mr. Soma," I say, my voice dripping with a patronizing sweetness that would give a hummingbird diabetes. "It's one we often get from those new to the physical robotics space. The 'nanny' comparison is a common starting point." I pause, letting the subtle insult—you're a newbie—sink in for the rest of the audience.
"The defensible model lies in the proprietary, patent-pending actuator technology and the AI's contextual learning matrix, which we're already licensing to three major automotive companies. The home assistant is merely the consumer-facing entry point to a much larger industrial ecosystem. But I understand how that broader vision can be missed if you're only looking at the surface."
I don't give him a chance to retort. I turn back to the crowd, my smile widening as if he's just given me the perfect segue. "Which perfectly leads to my final point about market penetration…"
I power through the rest of my speech, the words coming out smooth and confident, but my blood is boiling beneath the surface. The second I'm done, I offer a quick "Thank you!" and practically march off the stage, the applause feeling like a mockery.
Lena meets me at the edge of the stage, her eyes wide. "Holy shit, Maisie. Are you okay? I could feel your rage from over here. It was like standing next to a radiator."
I don't answer. I just snatch my half-full champagne flute from her hand and drain it in one go. Then I grab the full one she's holding for herself and down that one, too. The bubbles sting my throat, a welcome distraction.
"That smug, arrogant, condescending prick," I hiss, leaning close to her so no one else can hear. "Who the hell does he think he is? 'Glorified nanny'? I'll show him a glorified nanny. I'll build a robot that specifically goes to his apartment and throws out all his overpriced, tasteless ties."
I'm breathing heavily, my hands clenched into fists. My gaze cuts across the room, hunting for him. I find him instantly.
He's standing by a high-top table, swirling a glass of amber whiskey, already surrounded by a few sycophants. And he's looking right at me.
Our eyes lock.
His face is a mask of utter calm, no trace of emotion. It's the same expression I imagine he wears when reading a quarterly report or ordering an execution—cold, analytical, like he's assessing a business proposal he hasn't decided to acquire or burn to the ground yet.
The sheer, unshakeable placidity of it makes me see red. I roll my eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't detach and roll across the floor.
I turn my back to him, grabbing two fresh glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.
"Smug prick," I mutter to Lena, handing her one of the glasses. "This calls for emergency reinforcements. And then you're helping me plot his downfall."