"Aphrodite," I repeated. "The Aphrodite?"
"The original." He gave me a look. "Though she prefers not to be reduced to mythology."
The display shifted. A stylized emblem bloomed at its center—interwoven roses and a blade, balanced in symmetry.
"She developed SCAL to correct an imbalance," Mavrik continued. "Love, as mortals experience it, is inefficient. Chaotic. Wasteful. Too often squandered on incompatible pairings."
"People aren't algorithms."
"No," he agreed pleasantly. "They are worse."
He swiped the air again.
Graphs appeared. Data webs. Compatibility metrics layered in fractal complexity.
"The system selects individuals marked by potential," he said. "Premium users gain access to refined matching protocols. Each pairing must meet or exceed an eighty percent compatibility threshold."
"Eighty percent based on what?"
"Shared interests. Behavioral patterns. Professional trajectories. Psychological frameworks. Emotional resilience markers. Habits." He gave a small, deliberate pause. "Both admirable and unsavory."
"So you match bad people with each other too?"
His smile sharpened. "The system does not discriminate between good and evil. To Aphrodite, even those you would condemn are entitled to experience love—or to be loved. Compatibility is the only metric that matters."
That should have unsettled me more than it did.
"Only premium users get this divine matchmaking service?" I asked.
"Of course. Precision requires sacrifice."
The screen shifted again.
Four symbols appeared, each distinct.
"There are four primary departments within Aphrodite's domain overseeing the SCAL initiative," Mavrik said.
He gestured to the first symbol—a stylized quill crossed with scales.
"Department of Fateful Alignment. They handle initial pairings."
The second—a key entwined with a heart.
"Department of Emotional Calibration. They monitor relational trajectory."
The third—a clock overlaid with a thread.
"Department of Temporal Adjustment. They intervene when timing obstructs optimal development."
My throat tightened slightly. "Intervene how?"
He ignored the question and moved on.
The fourth symbol was more abstract. A fractured mirror encircled by laurel.
"Department of Remembrance."
The word lingered between us.
"That's where the 'price' comes in, isn't it?" I said quietly.
His gaze slid back to me, assessing.
"SCAL premium services are not bound by monetary exchange," he said. "Memories are far more valuable. They are concentrated emotional energy. Narrative fuel. Identity anchors."
"And you what… erase them? But why memories?"
"They are traded." He tilted his head. "Permanently."
A thin line of cold traced my spine.
"You still haven't told me why memories," I pressed. "Why not something else? Why not money? Why not luck? Why not… I don't know, lifespan?"
His smile turned almost indulgent.
"You don't need to know," he said softly. "The mechanism behind the currency is irrelevant to your success within the program."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one you'll receive."
Silence stretched.
The floating display flickered faintly, waiting for his next command.
"And what," I asked carefully, "is the real purpose of SDDP?"
He brightened.
"Success-Driven Dating Protocol. A structured framework engineered to optimize romantic outcomes." He swiped again, and bullet points appeared in elegant script. "Milestone checkpoints. Performance indicators. Strategic vulnerability deployment. Measured emotional investment."
"You've turned dating into a quarterly review."
He laughed. "You say that as though romance hasn't always been transactional. We've simply made the metrics visible."
"And if I follow the protocol?"
"Love becomes measurable. Repeatable." His gaze sharpened. "Almost predictable."
There was something profoundly disturbing about that word.
Predictable.
"And if I don't?"
"Then you remain as you were before you clicked Premium."
The implication hovered, unsaid.
Alone.
Mavrik clapped once, softly.
"Enough theory. You didn't trade pieces of your past for a lecture."
The display shifted again.
Four rectangular profiles materialized side by side.
"SCAL has matched you with four potential candidates," he said.
"Four?" The word slipped out before I could catch it.
"Efficiency demands options."
The first profile expanded, sliding forward into prominence.
A photograph filled the screen.
Blonde hair, precisely styled. Blue eyes the color of glacial ice. Sharp bone structure, immaculate skin. He wore a tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than my car. A skyline gleamed behind him—glass towers and ambition.
His expression held the faintest hint of impatience. Or superiority.
A title appeared beneath the image in clean serif font.
Mr. Billionaire CEO
I stared at it.
"You're joking."
Mavrik folded his hands behind his back. "Do I look like I joke about compatibility metrics?"
"He looks like he schedules empathy."
"He schedules everything," Mavrik corrected. "Including sleep."
I narrowed my eyes at the screen.
"He looks arrogant."
"He is," Mavrik said mildly. "But so are you."
I shot him a look.
The data panel beside the photo began populating with details—age, industry, philanthropic ventures, personality markers. Ambitious. Decisive. Strategically generous. Low tolerance for incompetence.
"What about the compatibility score?" I asked.
"Eighty-two percent."
My stomach did something inconvenient.
"On what basis?"
"Shared drive. High cognitive alignment. Similar conflict-resolution patterns. Comparable thresholds for risk." He glanced at me. "You both dislike losing."
"That's not romantic."
"On the contrary," he said softly. "For some people, it's intoxicating."
I studied the man on the screen. There was wealth there, yes—but also discipline. Precision. The kind of control that didn't bend easily.
The itch beneath my ribs flared again.
"What about the other three?" I asked.
Mavrik's smile returned, slow and knowing.
"One at a time, Arisa. We don't overwhelm the heroine before the first act."
"I'm not a heroine."
"Everyone is," he said. "In their own catastrophe."
The screen dimmed slightly, leaving Mr. Billionaire CEO suspended between us like an invitation.
"Your first blind date has already been scheduled," Mavrik continued. "Details will appear in your SCAL app at nine a.m."
"You scheduled it without asking me."
"You surrendered twenty years of selective memory capacity without blinking."
That landed.
He stepped back toward the space where the portal had opened earlier. Light began to gather faintly around him again, less violent this time. Controlled.
"Be ready," he said. "Premium users don't drift. They commit."
"Mavrik, what if I decide that I don't like him?"
"Then you evaluate. Adjust. Proceed to the next candidate. SDDP is iterative."
"What about the memories?" I asked quietly.
He paused.
"What about them?"
"Are you certain I won't miss what I choose to erase?"
His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable.
"You won't remember enough to."
The light swallowed him before I could decide whether that was comforting or horrifying.
Silence reclaimed the room.
The clock ticked. The city moved. My apartment felt smaller somehow, as though it had shifted a few inches off its axis.
I looked down at my phone.
The SCAL app pulsed softly in my palm.
Mr. Billionaire CEO.
Eighty-two percent.
I let out a slow breath.
Midnight briefings. Goddess-sanctioned algorithms. Love measured in percentages.
And somewhere inside me, beneath the logic and the caution and the stubborn pride—
anticipation.
Not gentle.
Not safe.
But bright enough to rival holy light.