Aivra

CHAPTER TWELVE - Aivra 

Nova POV

The past week of my life has been hectic, unexpected, and far too eventful for someone who survives on tea and fictional worlds.

For starters, Aaron Smith, formerly the terror of the HR department and personal assistant to the CEO was quietly demoted to assistant HR director. 

The position of personal assistant was left vacant and juicy, dangled in front of everyone like some kind of golden apple.

But no. It didn’t land in anyone’s lap.

Sandra got Suspended on indefinite probation. Which, translated, means nobody has had to hear the echo of her stilettos or her shrill tone for days. 

The atmosphere in Alpha Corp has been almost… peaceful.

So naturally, the question is: who is the lucky new personal assistant to Mr. Grant Calloway?

Answer: not me.

Not anyone with a pulse, actually.

The role went to a brand-new AI prototype.

Apparently, Grant owns a sprawling empire of companies across different sectors like Hydra heads sprouting from one smugly perfect body and one of his tech firms cooked up an android. And now he’s testing it himself before unleashing it on the market.

The AI’s name is Aivra.

And lucky me, I’ve been promoted (if you can call it that) from team lunch picker to robot babysitter.

Aivra looks like something straight out of a movie. A titanium torso disguised under tailored blazers, sleek slacks hugging metallic legs, manicured silicone fingers tapping at keyboards. If you squint, she passes as a young corporate woman, also the auburn bob wig helps but stare too long, and it’s uncanny. Her glassy green eyes never quite blink right.

Sometimes I catch her tilting her head at me, like she’s silently judging my existence. Which is ridiculous. She’s a robot. But then again, she already remembers everyone’s schedules better than I do, so maybe she has earned the right to judge.

And yes, she wears better clothes than me. Aivra gets Armani. I get oversized sweaters and pajama bottoms, I actually do find comfortable.

My task was to supervise her “daily activities” and report everything back to Grant. Basically: making sure Siri-on-legs don't start World War III. Which leaves me with way too much free time to sip endless cups of tea and drown in Erotic fictional universes.

This morning, I’m hiding behind my latest obsession: a paranormal thriller where the heroine has both a death wish and a vampire problem. Every page is a rabbit hole I can’t crawl back out of.

“One more chapter,” 

I mutter, sipping lukewarm Earl Grey. The sigh that follows could win an Olympic medal for dramatic despair. I’ve said one more chapter five times now. My cup is empty. My brain is buzzing.

Meanwhile, Aivra’s mechanical voice chirps beside me, every syllable clipped and precise:

“Your schedule for the meeting.”

I parrot her automatically, not looking up.

“Your schedule for the meeting,” I drone back, flipping to another page.

She repeats.

I repeat.

We sound like some broken duet until I sigh, tugging my glasses higher on my nose. 

“Acknowledged. Next task for the day…”

I list off half-heartedly while my book devours my attention. My tea mug sits abandoned, cold. My mind is with fictional vampires, not titanium androids.

“That should be all—” I start, and freeze.

Because suddenly, I feel it.

The weight of another presence.

Heavy and cutting through the air like ice water.

I look up.

And there he is.

Grant Calloway, leaning against the doorframe, broad shoulders blocking out half the light, eyes sharper than any blade. His face is carved from the usual stone of disdain, and I know instantly that I’m caught.

His gaze flicks from the open book in my lap to the steaming robot at my side.

“Are you here to intern,” 

He says slowly, each word like a hammer on metal, “or to read your filthy literary obsessions?”

Damn it.

I should have dropped the book an hour ago. Should have focused on Aivra, on notes, on… literally anything else. But no. I chose vampires fucking over survival. 

 See where that landed me.

“I’m sorry, Mr—”

“You’re always sorry.” 

He cuts in, his voice colder than the office AC.

“I need better than sorry.”

The sting of his glare burns. My chest tightens.

“Get useful or get lost. This is not a charity organization.”

My breath falters.

Those words. They don’t belong to him. Not originally. They’ve lived in my head for fifteen years, like old scars that refuse to fade.

**Fifteen Years Ago**

My godmother was doped out on the couch again. The apartment stank of ash and sour liquor. I hadn’t eaten since the day before, half a bowl of stale cereal drowned in tap water. My stomach twisted so hard I couldn’t stand straight.

The world tilted as I stumbled outside, clutching my ribs. Across the street, the grocery store lights flickered on.

Mr. Sun, elderly, gentle, kind had always helped me in ways that didn’t feel like pity. He never made my hunger shameful. He’d smile, pat my messy head, and say: “Nova, I need you to try something for me.”

Like today. He handed me cup noodles, steaming from the kettle. “Tell me if this tastes good enough to stock,” he said, even though we both knew it wasn’t about the noodles.

He let me sit in the back room, slurping like a starved animal. He went back to mind the store. For a while, I almost felt normal.

Until his son stormed in.

The booming voice of Mr. Sun Junior cut through the walls:

“Why did you leave the shop unattended? What were you doing?”

I panicked. Wolfed down the last noodles, ready to slip out before he found me.

But fate, as always, was cruel.

I opened the door and stumbled right into him.

His eyes raked me—ragged clothes, messy hair, guilty face.

“What were you doing? Stealing?”

“I don’t steal,” I whispered, clutching my stomach.

He sneered. “But you beg. Get out.”

“I don’t beg,” I said again, but softer this time, as he shoved me out into the street.

His voice followed, crueler than hunger.

“This is not a charity organization, Papa. They get useful or they get lost.”

I cried all the way home. That was the last time I ever stepped foot in the Sun’s store. That was the day I promised myself I’d never be anyone’s charity case again. Not if it killed me.

And now, fifteen years later, Grant Calloway has ripped that scar wide open.

Tears burn hot, spilling despite my will. His cold eyes don’t waver. No sympathy. No softness. Just a wall.

“Or do you need any more freebies?” His voice slices, taunting.

I choke on my breath, heart hammering.

Something in his tone twists the knife deeper. Like he knows.

Like he’s seen it before.

My tears blur everything except his face.

And then it hits me..

How the hell does he know?