Stella Shadid’s house is not visible from the street. It’s at the top of a twisty road where all the homes have gates and hedges. The ocean sparkles turquoise in the distance.

As we approach the gate, I turn to Thomas. “Don’t embarrass me.”

“Libra sun and Mercury; Virgo moon, rising, and Venus.”

“Good,” I say.

I open my DM with Stella. At the gate, I write.

One sec, she writes back.

The black gate slides open slowly. Thomas and I inhale simultaneously. He drives through the gate and up the short driveway. The house is a minimalist rectangle, all white and glass. Stella emerges wearing an oversized denim shirt with black crosses on it, buttoned only at the top, and a white bikini bottom pulled up over superhuman hips. Her cheekbones could cut marble. Her eyes are a reptilian green, her skin a sparkly bronze. She is surely missing at least one rib. I jab Thomas’s arm so he stops staring.

She gestures for us to park behind a Ferrari. I am nervous Thomas is going to hit the car and lose her trust, but he does okay.

Stella approaches the window. “Sorry, I was in the pool,” she says, looking down at her mostly exposed, made-in-a-lab figure. Her voice doesn’t sound real either. It has a breathy, singsong pitch, like it was programmed by Apple to be a “sexy girl.”

“All good,” Thomas says, and I jab him again.

Thomas gets out of the car, and I follow. Soon, we are face-to-face with Stella. On hot concrete. In front of a white glass box house.

“So which one of you is Exalted?” Stella asks.

I raise my hand and feel a little dizzy.

Stella squeals, then walks over to me, tiptoeing sort of, as though she has difficulty walking. I think of that viral article from a few years ago that said Barbie was anatomically impossible and wouldn’t be able to walk in real life.

Stella wraps me in a cold, reptilian hug. Her arms are around my body, but we are not touching. I feel like I am in a metal cage or interacting with AI. Then she plants a big kiss on my cheek. “I looove you,” she says. Then she kisses my other cheek. “Sorry, I’m European.”

“Very Libra with all the apologies,” I say.

She giggles. “I know,” she says. “I always go out of my way to make sure I’m not offending anyone.”

“This is Thomas,” I said. “My associate.”

“Hi, Thomas,” she says. She doesn’t hug him or kiss him. “Let’s go inside.”

We follow Stella and her weird walk, a sort of unsteady glide, into the white glass box house. The inside is stark. No clutter. Very little art. Modern furniture and geometric shapes. It is sort of Thomas’s taste, like if his trust fund was thirty-two times its size.

“Your house is incredible,” Thomas says, seemingly reading my mind.