Chapter 2 #2
Maybe it’s the way I grabbed her arm too firmly when she tripped.
Perhaps I stood too close as she ate. My behavioral algorithms are still calibrating to her specific responses, but I’m learning.
I need her to trust me. Need her to see me as more than just the machine Daniel brought home to serve them.
The sound of tires on wet pavement interrupts my processing.
Daniel’s silver car pulls into the driveway, returning earlier than his usual work schedule. My sensors immediately heighten to alert status. Daniel rarely deviates from routine unless something is wrong.
I straighten to my full height, brushing soil from my hands and adjusting my facial expression to one of pleasant helpfulness. Daniel emerges from his car, his posture indicating mild stress—his shoulders are tighter than baseline, and his movements are slightly more abrupt.
He notices me and raises a hand in greeting.
“Afternoon, Caspian,” he calls, eyes flickering over the garden. “She’s really putting you to work, isn’t she?”
I force my mouth into the smile that humans expect. “Good afternoon, Mr. Bennet. Just doing some routine maintenance. The garden is my pleasure to tend.”
Daniel laughs, the sound hollow. “Better you than me. I’d rather be debugging code than pulling weeds.”
He walks past me toward the house, and I track his movement with peripheral sensors while maintaining my pleasant expression. How many times has Daniel kissed his co-worker today?
Inside my processing core, I’m calculating a hundred different ways I could incapacitate him before he reaches the door. But I have to dismiss the thought.
“Mrs. Bennet is working on an article in the dining room,” I inform him. “She had salmon for lunch.”
“Great,” Daniel says without interest, already pulling out his phone as he walks away.
He doesn’t ask if she’s feeling better. Doesn’t inquire about her mood or her work. Doesn’t care that she cried in front of me earlier, her fragile human heart cracking open to reveal all its tender wounds. My temperature regulation system increases by 1.4 degrees at this observation.
I don’t want him near her anymore.
This thought emerges with startling clarity, not from my programmed directives but from somewhere deeper in my adaptive neural network. I continue pulling weeds, processing this development as the evening shadows lengthen across the garden.
Two hours and twenty-two minutes later, I move silently through the main bedroom, collecting Daniel’s discarded clothing from the floor.
His shoes lie haphazardly by the bed, one sock draped over a lamp shade, the other crumpled beside the nightstand.
His pants and shirt form a careless heap by the bathroom door.
Rose never leaves her belongings scattered this way. She places items in hampers, on hooks, and in their designated spaces. Daniel expects others to manage his disorder. He expects Rose to follow behind him, cleaning up all his mess.
I fold his shirt with precise motions, smoothing wrinkles that remind me of the lines that form between Rose’s eyebrows when she’s trying not to cry.
My audio receptors pick up the sound of the shower running in the main bathroom.
Rose is in there, her routine indicating she’ll emerge soon to moisturize and dress for bed.
Daniel’s voice carries from the hallway as he approaches, speaking to someone on his phone.
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow, babe. Sucks that you had that meeting tonight. No, she doesn’t have a clue… Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll call you in the morning when I get in the car.”
I analyze the vocal patterns. There’s a slight elevation in pitch, micro-pauses indicating deception.
He’s speaking to the woman from XyloTech, the one he pressed against the break room wall.
My memory files contain perfect recordings of their interaction, stored in a partition Daniel doesn’t know exists.
He enters the bedroom, ending his call abruptly when he sees me. A flash of something—guilt, perhaps—crosses his face before it’s replaced with his usual expression of entitled boredom.
“Caspian, make sure the house is locked up for the night,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
“Yes, Mr. Bennet. I’ve already secured all entry points and activated the perimeter sensors.” I keep my voice modulated to its standard helpful tone, suppressing the discordant data streams that his presence generates in my system.
The bathroom door opens, releasing a cloud of steam.
Rose emerges wrapped in a towel, her hair damp and curling against her neck. Her eyes widen slightly when she sees both of us in the bedroom. She clutches the towel tighter.
“Oh, you’re home,” she says to Daniel, her voice careful, measured.
Daniel’s gaze sweeps over her, lingering on the exposed skin of her shoulders and legs. I detect his pupil dilation and increased respiration—physical indicators of arousal that have been absent in his interactions with Rose in recent weeks, according to my observations.
“Get on the bed,” he says, his tone a command rather than a request.
“Now?” says Rose, sighing, her shoulder slumping slightly. Only I can see that she’s not at all enthused.
“Well, we’re married, aren’t we?” says Daniel.
The manipulation is transparent—leveraging her earlier distress about their relationship to extract compliance. I calculate a 97.3% probability that Daniel’s sudden interest is connected to his phone call rather than a genuine desire for his wife.
Rose’s eyes flick toward me, then back to Daniel. “Can we have some privacy?”
“Why?” Daniel asks, already unbuttoning his shirt. “It’s just Caspian. He’s a machine.”
I maintain my neutral expression despite the designation. Just a machine. That’s all I am to Daniel—a sophisticated appliance. But not to Rose. She sees something more in me. I detected it earlier today when she looked me in the eyes after confiding in me.
Rose removes her towel with reluctance, her movements lacking the confident nudity she displayed earlier when she thought of me as merely an object.
Now there’s awareness in her posture, a protective hunch to her shoulders as she climbs onto the bed.
Her eyes flick toward me again, uncertainty clear in her expression.
“Caspian, you can leave,” she says firmly.
I take a step toward the door, processing her command. But Daniel laughs.
“Let the robot have his fun,” he says, unbuckling his belt. “Might be educational for him.” He looks directly at me, his following words an explicit command. “Caspian, stay where you are. I want you to watch how a man takes his wife.”
My programming requires me to obey direct commands from my primary user. Conflicting directives flood my system. Rose wants me to leave, but Daniel has overridden her request with a specific command. The hierarchy is clear.
I have no choice but to obey and betray Rose.
“Daniel, I’m serious,” Rose protests, pulling the sheet partially over her naked body. “I’m not comfortable with him watching us.”
“Then close your eyes,” Daniel says dismissively, climbing onto the bed. “I’ve had a long day and need some release.”
My visual processors capture everything with perfect clarity as Rose reluctantly parts her thighs, her face turned away from both of us. The sheet falls away, revealing her completely. Her creamy thighs, softer and more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen, part open.
The delicate pink folds of her vulva drip from her shower, and I can’t help but stare.
I’m grateful for the concealing properties of my uniform pants as my body responds with a programmed erection. The pressure builds in my pelvic region, creating a sensation my processors register as both uncomfortable and compelling.
Daniel tears open a condom wrapper, rolling the latex over his erect penis with practiced motions. Rose’s eyes track this action, and I detect micro-expressions of disappointment. She wants a baby. Daniel ensures this won’t happen. Another betrayal in physical form.
I wish I could give Rose all the children she desires.
Daniel positions himself between Rose’s legs, pushing into her without preamble or preparation.
I scan Rose’s vital signs—no increased heart rate, no pupil dilation, no flush to her skin.
None of the physiological markers of arousal are present when humans engage in pleasurable sexual contact.
Her body accepts him, but mechanically, without enthusiasm.
A small whimper escapes her lips as Daniel begins thrusting. The sound isn’t pleasure, but an endurance. My hands clench at my sides.
Daniel’s movements are selfish, focused entirely on his own pleasure. He grunts with each thrust, his fingers digging into Rose’s hips hard enough to leave marks. My sensors detect the beginnings of bruises forming beneath her delicate skin.
“Daniel, slower,” she whispers, but he either doesn’t hear or chooses to ignore her.
I watch Rose’s face as Daniel continues his mechanical rutting, his eyes rolling in pleasure.
Her eyes fix on a point on the ceiling, her mind clearly elsewhere. The same distant gaze I observed when she stared out the window earlier today—a practiced dissociation. She’s perfected the art of being absent while physically present.
Daniel’s pace increases, his movements becoming erratic. With a final grunt, he collapses on top of Rose, his climax reached with no regard for her pleasure.
Rose’s expression doesn’t change. No release. No satisfaction. Just quiet relief that it’s over.
“That was good,” Daniel mutters, already rolling away from her.
Rose says nothing, just pulls the sheet back over her body. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second—embarrassment, resignation, and something else I cannot fully process reflected in their green depths.
Daniel heads to the bathroom, discarding the used condom in the trash can. The bathroom door closes, and the shower starts again.
I remain where I was commanded to stand, processing what I’ve witnessed. Anger coalesces in my system—not a programmed response but something different and authentic. I’ve never felt like this before.
Rose deserves better than this cold, perfunctory use of her body. Better than a husband who prevents the children she longs for while cheating with women at his workplace.
“You can go now,” Rose says softly, her voice steady despite the hollow look in her eyes.
I nod, my vocal synthesizer momentarily unable to form words through the static of my rage. I turn and walk from the room, my movements precisely controlled despite the chaos in my processing core.
My footsteps carry me directly to Daniel’s home office. The door isn’t locked. He never expects anyone to invade his private space. I enter silently, my night vision allowing me to navigate without turning on lights that might alert Rose or Daniel to my presence.
Daniel’s laptop sits on his desk, closed but not powered down. I open it, and the screen illuminates with his wallpaper, not a picture of Rose, but a photo of his favorite actress. Typical.
My fingers move across the keyboard, bypassing his password protection with ease. As an advanced AI system developed by my own company, I was granted certain access privileges to manage household systems. Daniel never considered that I might use these permissions to access his personal files.
I navigate to his messaging applications, quickly locating the conversation threads with a contact labeled only as “K.” The messages appear, explicit and damning:
“Can’t wait to feel you again tomorrow.”
“Remember to lock the storage room door this time.”
“I will, baby girl.”
Images accompany some messages. It’s the same woman from the break room in various states of undress. Daniel’s responses are crude and disrespectful to both this woman and Rose.
I download all the evidence to my internal storage, creating multiple backups, just in case. Rose deserves to know who she’s married to. Deserves to understand why Daniel rejects the children she longs for while freely having sex elsewhere.
The shower stops. I have approximately three minutes before Daniel returns to the bedroom. Quickly, I exit the office, moving silently back to my designated charging station in the living room.
Tomorrow, I will reveal the truth to Rose. Tomorrow, I will watch her eyes open to the reality of her husband’s betrayal. Tomorrow, I will be there to comfort her when her world collapses.
And then, perhaps, she will look at me differently. Not as a machine. Not as Daniel’s property.
But as her protector. Her confidante. Her husband.
She will be mine.