I pressed the phone to my ear, counting every second. The client, a pharmaceutical exec with more money than sense, refused to give an inch on the NDA negotiations. I’d already e-mailed him three proposed alternatives. Now he just wanted to grind me down for the sport of it. I listened as he launched into his tirade about the “tyranny of process,” as if process wasn’t the only thing keeping him out of federal prison. I kept my voice civil and cut him off with a verbal smile that even I almost believed.

“We’ll make the redlines by end of day,” I said, my tongue flat and heavy. “You’ll have control over all IP and exclusivity terms. If I may be candid, the current offer is…” I paused, hunting for a word just sharp enough, “optimal.”

“Is it?” he said, stretching the syllables. I pictured him in some hideous Miami condo, his feet up, face shiny with expensive facial, eyes scanning TikToks while I did his dirty work.

He hung up with the half-laugh, half-snort of a man who thought he’d won.

I set the phone down and massaged my temples with both hands. I could feel the beginnings of a migraine at the base of my skull. No room for that. I had two more closings, a mentoring call, and the Partnership Committee’s dossier review. All before dinner, assuming I remembered to eat.

A tower of legal briefs teetered on the credenza behind me, uncomfortably close to the edge, daring gravity. The office was otherwise impeccable, a glass-and-chrome bunker fifteen floors up, outfitted in matte black and designer grey. Not a smudge or stray paper in sight. Everything arranged at precise ninety-degree angles. A fresh pad of Rhodia, my Montblanc, two highlighters (one blue, one gold) lined up parallel on the desk. This was order. This was how I survived.

But the files on the credenza, the yellowed post-its, the half-unfiled printouts: they encroached, multiplying whenever I turned away. I had lost control over the last two weeks. I could feel it every time I glanced up at the one personal touch in the room: my graduation photo, framed in sober silver, from Harvard Law’s convocation. In it, I stood alone in cap and gown, chin up, my smile a little too rehearsed. In the background: clusters of students with their families, arms thrown around each other. My own parents sent a text; my then-girlfriend, Angela, had already left Boston for Singapore. I was used to being alone, and usually preferred it that way.

I checked the time. My assistant, a clinically perky twenty-something named Jay, had already packed up for the night, his rainbow lanyard still hanging from the coat hook by my door. The office was silent, save for the distant hum of the HVAC and the occasional ping from my email.

I scrolled through my phone, half for the dopamine, half for the illusion of human contact. LinkedIn first—endorsements, partnership news, a comment from an old classmate about the “agony” of tax season. Then Instagram, where a partner’s daughter had posted a photo of her engagement ring (“he put a ring on it!!!”). I liked the photo out of professional obligation. Next, Facebook, where I was bombarded with wedding shots and soft-focus baby faces. Everyone radiating the manufactured joy of people who spent more time assembling their happiness than actually living it. I recognized some of the women—ex-rivals, old roommates, former lovers—each now reduced to hashtags and “blessed” captions.

A sponsored post broke the monotony: The Algorithm. “The last dating app you’ll ever need,” read the tagline, in bright, dumbed-down typeface. I rolled my eyes. The ad copy boasted “revolutionary neural compatibility,” “scientific matching,” and “zero superficiality.” I snorted, then scrolled past. I wasn’t in the mood for marketing. But two more swipes, and there it was again. This time, the slogan pulsed: “Stop searching. Start matching.”

I closed the app and reopened my inbox. Five new messages. Three of them flagged urgent. I handled the first with a one-line reply, the second with a PDF attachment and a “per my last email.” The third was a logistics question from Jay (“can you sign off on the docu-sign before tomorrow?”). I did so with a decisive tap, the thrill of closure microdosing my tired brain.

But my thumb hovered over the phone screen longer than necessary. The Algorithm ad, and its promise of effortless connection, dug in. I hadn’t dated in a year, not seriously. My last actual attempt, via a boutique matchmaking service, ended with me sharing appetizers with a hedge fund manager who spent the entire meal explaining tax sheltering. At the end of the night, he shook my hand and told me he admired my “drive.” Fucking drive. Every time someone told me I was “intense,” it made me want to throttle them. Men liked to tell me I was intimidating, then acted shocked when I didn’t want to play the needy, vulnerable role. I was thirty-three, a junior partner at the firm, and—if you believed the LinkedIn metrics—in the top percentile of “women making moves in law.” I had the apartment, the dry-clean-only wardrobe, the gym routine, the wines with unpronounceable labels. I did not have the luxury of patience, or time for “fun first dates.” I wanted compatibility, not another ego in search of a cheerleader.

I let the phone dangle in my hand, staring at the ceiling tiles, exhaling through my nose. “The last dating app you’ll ever need.” It was desperate, sure. But wasn’t I?

A string of rationalizations constructed itself in my head. I’d had three months of seventy-hour weeks. I’d contributed more billable hours than anyone in the office. I deserved a reward. Or at least a diversion.

I thumbed the App Store, found The Algorithm, and downloaded it in under a minute. The icon was a stylized heart, squared off like a circuit board. I hesitated for a moment. Was I actually going to do this? Then I opened the app.

The first question was an ethics consent form. Standard data mining, with the usual lies about privacy. I accepted, then started building my profile. Photo selection first. I scrolled through the camera roll for something both flattering and professional. There was the headshot from last year’s partners’ retreat: navy blazer, hair in a tight pixie cut, a hint of lipstick. I picked that one, then added another from a half-marathon last spring, the only one where I wasn’t red-faced and sweating. For good measure, I threw in a photo of myself at the Musée d’Orsay, standing before a Van Gogh, chin in hand. Worldly, approachable, not just a corporate drone.

Then, the bio. I drafted and erased a half-dozen variations before settling on:

“Corporate litigator. Chronic overachiever. Aficionado of Bordeaux, mid-century architecture, and the Oxford comma. I run. I read. I negotiate. Looking for someone who values substance over small talk. If you can keep up, drinks are on me.”

I reread it, searching for weaknesses, then hit save. The next series of questions probed interests—cuisine, music, political leanings, travel. I answered each with the same algorithmic precision I used in legal briefs. The final section was labeled “Intimacy & Desires,” with a subheading: “Your answers are confidential, but help us match you better.” I scanned the options, noting how blunt they were compared to the rest of the survey.

What are you seeking? (Check all that apply.)

• Emotional intimacy
• Casual sex
• Long-term commitment
• Exploration

I checked the first and third, hesitated, then left the rest blank. The next prompt wanted me to rate my sexual adventurousness on a scale of 1 to 10. I slid it to 5, then moved it down to 4. That felt more accurate. The app asked about kinks, hard limits, expectations in bed. I found myself skimming, then skipping, the prompts. Why did it matter, at this stage? Wasn’t that supposed to come later, in the bedroom, not on an intake form?

I finished the profile and set the phone face down on the desk, feeling both exposed and ridiculous. “What the fuck am I doing?” I muttered, but the sound of my own voice was oddly comforting. For a moment, I just sat, eyes closed, letting the throb behind my forehead settle.

The cleaning crew’s vacuum hummed from the hallway. I took it as my cue to call it a night.

The elevator reflected my own face back at me, a little too pale under the LEDs, eyes rimmed dark. I reached my apartment, an upper-floor penthouse overlooking the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows, concrete and glass, cold and spotless. I shed my blazer and shoes in the entryway, poured myself a glass of Rioja, and collapsed onto the Mies van der Rohe knockoff I called a sofa. The skyline flickered, the city’s noise sealed off by triple-paned glass.

I checked The Algorithm again, expecting the waiting room—some polite “we’re searching for your match” message. Instead, the interface presented a lineup of faces, each more forgettable than the last. Bankers, consultants, “serial entrepreneurs.” I recognized two from industry events. I swiped left on both.

A notification appeared, bright red: “Steve Mitchell wants to connect with you!”

I clicked his profile, prepared to be unimpressed. The photo was a study in calculated carelessness. Messy hair, black t-shirt under a ripped denim jacket, five o’clock shadow trimmed to the millimeter. One sleeve was pushed up, just enough to reveal an intricate tattoo, a geometric mandala, dark and hypnotic. His bio was two sentences: “Incurable optimist. Fluent in sarcasm. Let’s skip the small talk and get straight to the real shit.” He was a software engineer, or said he was. His hobbies included “subverting expectations” and “late-night street tacos.”

He was the exact opposite of every man I’d dated since law school. The sort I would have dismissed as unserious, or worse, emotionally juvenile. But there was something in the smirk, the deadpan self-deprecation, that made me hesitate. I should have swiped left.

Instead, I clicked “view message.”

Hey gorgeous, bet those uptight suits you wear would look better on my floor. Wanna skip the small talk and get straight to the fun part?

I recoiled, the heat rising up my cheeks in a mix of anger and mortification. Who led with a line like that? My fingers flew over the screen, typing a reply as brisk as a cease-and-desist:

I’m not interested in that kind of interaction. Please don’t contact me again.

I slammed my thumb on the “Reject Match” button and watched his face dissolve into a puff of pixels. Good riddance.

But not five seconds later, a new notification pinged:

Steve Mitchell has used Super Match to connect with you!

The banner was gold, with a little animation of a crown. Below, text: “Steve Mitchell thinks you’re his perfect match. Super Match unlocks priority messaging. Say hi!”

I stared at the notification, incredulous. “What is this, Tinder for sociopaths?” I muttered, but I opened it anyway.

The message was short, just a winking emoji and the phrase: “Persistent, aren’t I?”

I rolled my eyes and was about to delete the app entirely when the phone flickered, screen freezing mid-blink. The image of Steve’s profile photo fragmented, shifting from color to negative to a brief, pixelated blur, before the app returned to normal. I shook the phone, convinced it was a glitch.

On a whim, I checked my own profile to make sure I hadn’t accidentally published anything embarrassing. Everything looked as I’d left it, except for one line in my bio that caught my eye, highlighted in blue:

Always ready to go in the sack.

I stared at it, confused. Had I typed that? I had no memory of it. I reread the entire bio, searching for evidence of a hack or an edit. But the phrasing was mine, the cadence unmistakable. It just…made sense. I must have written it earlier and forgotten.

I shrugged, dismissed the app, and poured myself another glass of wine.

That night, I drifted off to sleep with a dull ache behind my left eye. I woke up twice to the sound of phantom phone pings, but each time, the screen was blank. By the third time, my dreams had taken on a fevered intensity: a series of flashes and sensations, bodies pressed together, hands gripping my hair, teeth grazing my neck. It was all faceless, but the pleasure was real. I felt myself arch and gasp, desperate for something I couldn’t name. When I finally woke, tangled in the sheets, my heart was racing and my thighs were slick with sweat. Or something else.

I lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming. I thought about Steve Mitchell’s stupid tattoo, and his even stupider opening line, and the way my own fingers trembled as I typed the reply. I chalked it up to stress, to the app, to whatever cosmic joke was being played at my expense.

I promised myself I’d delete The Algorithm in the morning. But even as I thought it, I knew I was lying.