The receptionist at StarClone Inc. barely looked up. “And which version of Ms. Monroe would you like today?”

Jake hesitated, scanning the options on the sleek holographic menu. Classic Blonde Bombshell? Gentlemen Prefer Blondes Edition? The Misunderstood Artist?

“Uh… I guess Classic?” He felt ridiculous saying it. But then again, this was normal now. Everybody rented a clone for something—parties, brand deals, even fake relationships.

The receptionist tapped her screen. “One ‘Classic Marilyn’ coming up.”

A soft ding echoed, and a glass door slid open. She stepped out—Marilyn Monroe in the flesh, wrapped in a white halter dress, eyes twinkling.

“Hello, darling,” she cooed, looping an arm through Jake’s.

His stomach flipped.

The clone’s fingers, warm and real, trailed along his sleeve. “Now tell me, sugar,” she purred, tilting her head, “am I here for business… or pleasure?”

Jake swallowed. “Uh, actually—an ad campaign.”

Marilyn pouted. “Shame. I do love a little mischief.”

The receptionist smirked. “She’ll be yours for the next 24 hours. Just don’t get too attached.”

Jake forced a laugh, leading Marilyn toward the exit.

But as they walked, she suddenly squeezed his hand. Tight.

“Wait,” she whispered, voice trembling. “Am I real?”

Jake froze.

The receptionist’s voice rang out behind them, cool and detached.

“They always ask that.”