Leaked Data

The smell of burnt espresso filled the kitchen. I ignored it, staring out the window at the fog rolling off the San Francisco Bay. For the first time in years, I hadn’t looked at a medical journal before my second cup of coffee. My mind was still stuck in the soft light of the fundraiser, replaying the way Jasper’s hand had felt on the small of my back.

I reached for my phone on the granite counter. It was vibrating steadily, humming against the stone like an angry insect.

*Thirty-two missed calls.*

My heart gave a sharp, uncomfortable thud. Most were from Marisa. A few were from unknown numbers. I tapped the screen, and a link from Marisa’s last text sat there, shimmering with the headline of a popular local tabloid.

*“The Doctor and the Data: Influencer Jasper Cole’s Secret Rating App Leaked.”*

I clicked it. My breathing went shallow.

The article featured a video—a screen recording of a sleek, black interface. It looked professional, like something a venture capital firm would use to track stocks. But the rows weren’t companies. They were names. Names of women. Dates. Locations.

I scrolled down, my fingers trembling so hard I nearly dropped the phone. The text below the video was a play-by-play. "Sources confirm the 'The Pursuit' host has been logging every romantic encounter for years. But his latest target is his most ambitious yet."

There was a screenshot. My name was at the top of a folder titled *Project Elena*.

"No," I whispered. The word felt small in the quiet apartment.

I tapped the screenshot to enlarge it. The data was meticulous. It was cold.

*Target: Dr. Elena Reyes. Occupation: Neurosurgeon (High value/High difficulty).*

*Initial Rating: 3 – Enigmatic. Notes: Walls are thick. Career-obsessed. Standard flirtation fails. Needs a more intellectual angle. Must pivot to 'vulnerability' to bypass her defenses.*

I leaned against the counter, the cold stone soaking through my thin silk robe. I felt a sudden, violent wave of nausea. Every conversation we’d had—the late nights at the community center, the debate at the gala, the moments in the dark during the blackout—it wasn’t a connection. It was a strategy.

I scrolled further. The updates got more recent.

*Update: Blackout encounter successful. Shared 'trauma' stories to build false intimacy. She’s leaning in. Rating adjusted to 4.5. The 'Reluctant Partner' persona is working. Almost there.*

*Latest Entry: Charity Ball. She challenged me publicly. Perfect. It builds the narrative of us as a 'power couple' for the brand. Current Status: Unreachable, but cracking. Final score pending.*

I stared at the words *'Shared trauma stories to build false intimacy.'*

He had told me about his father. He had looked me in the eye and talked about the hole his parents left in his life, and I had felt my own walls crumble. I had shared things about my parents’ sacrifices that I hadn't even told Marisa. I had let him touch me because I thought he was as broken as I was.

He wasn’t broken. He was just taking notes.

I stood up, the chair screeching against the floorboards. I needed to move. I needed to do something with the heat rising in my chest. I grabbed my coffee mug—the one he’d used two mornings ago when he’d stopped by with "apology bagels"—and hurled it into the sink.

The ceramic shattered. A jagged white shard bounced onto the floor.

"You idiot," I choked out, grabbing the edge of the sink.

I looked back at the phone. There were more entries. He had rated my clothes. He had rated my "potential for long-term brand synergy." He had treated my life, my hard-earned career, and my actual soul like a series of data points to be optimized for a podcast audience.

My phone buzzed again. Jasper’s face appeared on the screen. A handsome, smiling photo I’d taken of him just three days ago at the park.

The sight of it made my skin crawl. I didn't answer. I watched the phone vibrate until it went to voicemail. Then it started again. And again.

I walked to the living room, my eyes landing on the stack of research papers for the community health project. We were supposed to meet in two hours to finalize the proposal. We were supposed to be partners.

I grabbed the top folder and ripped it in half. The sound of tearing paper was the only thing that felt good. I tore another. And another. I didn't stop until the floor was covered in white scraps, a blizzard of my own ruined expectations.

I wasn't a doctor to him. I wasn't even a person. I was a "Project." I was a "5 – Unreachable."

I picked up the phone one last time. I didn't block him yet. I wanted to see the last thing he wrote. I scrolled to the very bottom of the leaked gallery. There was a final note, written only twelve hours ago.

*Project Elena: The mask is heavy today. If I win this, what’s left?*

"Liars don't get to be poetic," I snapped.

I hit the block button. I deleted his contact. Then, I sat on the floor amidst the ruins of my paperwork and the smell of burnt coffee, and I finally let the first tear fall. Not because I missed him, but because I had let a man who saw me as a number make me feel like I was finally seen.

The penthouse smelled like expensive cologne and impending disaster. Jasper stood in the center of his living room, his bare feet sinking into the plush charcoal rug. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air, but the view of the Golden Gate Bridge felt like a postcard from a life that had ended ten minutes ago.

On the mahogany coffee table, his phone was screaming. Not ringing—screaming. Notifications strobed across the screen in a rhythmic, violent pulse.

*@ThePursuitPod: Jasper, tell me the rating for the girl in the red dress is a joke.*
*@SanFranDaily: Leaked: The Spreadsheet Behind the Smile.*
*@LilaP: You never change, do you?*

"Shut up," Jasper hissed, though whether he was talking to the phone or the voice in his head, he didn't know.

The door to the penthouse slammed open. Devon marched in, his face a mask of controlled fury. He was already dressed in a sharp navy suit, but his tie was pulled loose, hanging like a noose around his neck.

"Tell me it’s a hack," Devon barked. He didn't say hello. He didn't look at the view. He walked straight to the bar and poured himself a finger of bourbon. At nine in the morning. "Tell me some disgruntled IT kid at the firm made it all up."

Jasper didn't move. He felt heavy, his limbs filled with lead. "It’s the app, Devon. The private server. Someone mirrored the drive."

Devon downed the drink in one go. The glass hit the marble counter with a sharp *clack*. "The private server? Jasper, the 'Project Elena' folder is trending on Twitter. Do you have any idea what this does to the brand? To the podcast? We have three sponsors calling to pull out. They’re using words like 'misogynistic' and 'predatory.'"

"I need to call her," Jasper whispered. He finally reached for the phone. His hands, usually so steady when he was filming a segment or charm-offensive-ing a room, were shaking.

"Call who? Elena?" Devon laughed, a dry, harsh sound. "The woman is a neurosurgeon, Jasper. She deals with tumors for a living. You think she’s going to let a virus like you back in her operating room? You’re radioactive."

"It wasn't... it's not what it looks like," Jasper said, his voice cracking. He scrolled past a hundred vitriolic texts, searching for her name.

"It looks exactly like what it is!" Devon shouted, stepping into Jasper’s personal space. "It’s the Game. It’s what we do. You’re the one who told me love is just a data set waiting to be optimized. You’re the one who came up with the rating system! You can’t be mad when the scoreboard goes public."

Jasper looked at his best friend. For the first time, the sleek, cynical world they had built together felt like a tomb. "I wrote things in there, Devon. Recent things. I was trying to stop. I wrote that the mask was getting heavy."

Devon grabbed Jasper by the shoulders, shaking him. "Nobody cares about your poetic soul, Jasper! They care that you rated Dr. Reyes a '3' on her personality because she wouldn't sleep with you on the first date. They care that you called her a 'high-value target.' This isn't a PR crisis. It’s an execution."

Jasper shoved him off. "I don't care about the podcast! I care about Elena."

"Then you’re a fool," Devon spat. "She’s already gone. Save the brand. We release a statement. We say it was a social experiment. We say we were 'exposing the cold nature of modern dating.' We spin it."

"I’m not spinning her," Jasper said.

He tapped Elena’s contact. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

*Ring.*

"Pick up," he muttered, pacing the length of the rug. "Please, Elena, just pick up so I can tell you..."

*The mailbox you are trying to reach is full. Goodbye.*

He hung up and redialed immediately. He didn't even know what he would say. Sorry? Sorry for treating your heart like a KPI? Sorry for making you a 'Project'? Every word felt like ash in his mouth.

"She’s not going to answer," Devon said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous hiss. "And if you keep calling, you look like a stalker. Look at the screen, Jasper."

Devon pointed to the television on the wall. A local news crawl was already running. *Social Media Mogul's 'Dating App' Sparks Outrage.* They were showing a photo of Jasper and Elena at the gala. They looked happy. He looked like he was adoring her. She looked like she was finally trusting him.

Jasper felt a physical pain in his chest. He tapped out a text, his thumbs flying.

*Elena, please. The notes... they started before I knew you. They don't reflect how I feel now. Please let me explain. I’ll come over. I’m coming over now.*

He hit send.

The little blue bubble appeared.

*Delivered.*

He stared at it, waiting for the three grey dots of a reply. One minute passed. Two. The silence in the penthouse was suffocating, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and Devon’s heavy breathing.

Suddenly, the 'Delivered' status vanished.

Jasper frowned, tapping the screen. He sent another message.

*Elena?*

The bubble didn't turn blue. It stayed green.

He tried to call again. One half-ring, then a flat, dead tone.

"She blocked me," Jasper said. The words came out as a hollow wheeze. He looked at Devon, his eyes wide and vacant. "She blocked my number."

Devon let out a long, slow breath. He walked over and placed a hand on Jasper’s shoulder, this time without the anger. "It’s over, Jas. You played the game too well. You won the data, but you lost the girl."

Jasper looked down at his phone. The screen reflected his own face—the polished, perfect influencer. But the glass was cracked from where he’d gripped it too hard. He felt like he was looking at a stranger.

He walked to the window and looked down at the street, twenty stories below. He could see the blurred shape of a black car idling near the curb. Probably a paparazzo.

He had nowhere to go. No one to call. For the first time in his life, Jasper Cole was exactly what he had always feared being:

Completely, perfectly alone.