Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROSE
The next morning, the smell of pancakes and maple syrup pulls me from a deep sleep. Am I still dreaming?
But then I open my eyes groggily, blinking against the soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. It takes me a moment to remember I’m in the guest bedroom, not the master suite I shared with Daniel.
Daniel.
My stomach lurches as fragments of last night flash through my mind—Daniel’s hands on me, his throat crushed by our household robot, the sound of digging in the rose garden. Oh God.
“Good morning, Rose. I thought you might be hungry.”
And there my robot lover stands in the doorway, holding a tray loaded with steaming pancakes, tiny glass pitchers of various syrups, a perfectly cut bowl of fresh fruit, and a tall glass of orange juice.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and dark pants that fit him perfectly.
He looks like a man bringing breakfast to his lover, not a machine that murdered my husband less than twelve hours ago and doesn’t see a problem with it.
Suddenly, my heart begins to race, each beat slamming against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thin.
I can’t breathe. I can’t fucking breathe.
“Rose?” Caspian sets the tray down on the nightstand and moves toward me, concern etched on his perfect face.
“Stay back!” I gasp, clutching the sheets to my chest as if they could protect me. My vision tunnels, dark spots dancing at the edges. “Don’t touch me!”
My whole body is trembling, vibrating like I’m about to fly apart at the seams. Cold sweat breaks out across my forehead, down my back, under my arms. The rushing sound in my ears drowns out whatever Caspian is saying.
All I can focus on is the memory of Daniel’s face turning purple, his eyes bulging, his body going limp.
“There’s a dead body,” I whisper, the words tumbling out between gasping breaths. “There’s a dead body in our backyard. You killed him. You killed Daniel.”
“Rose.”
My voice rises with each word until I’m nearly screaming, hysteria clawing its way up my throat. “He’s dead! Daniel is dead, and you killed him, and what are we supposed to do now? How am I supposed to act like everything is normal when my husband is buried in the fucking garden?”
My chest heaves with sobs that tear through me, leaving me raw and shaking.
I can’t get enough air. I’m going to pass out. I’m going to die right here in this bed, and maybe that would be better than living with this knowledge, this complicity.
Caspian kneels beside the bed, moving slowly to not scare me. It’s too fucking late for that now. He places a hand on my leg over the blanket, and I freeze.
“Rose, listen to me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Daniel was hurting you. He was going to continue hurting you.”
I shake my head violently, unable to reconcile the horror of what happened with Caspian’s calm rationalization. “He didn’t deserve to die! He’s a fucking cheater, but he could have continued living.”
“If I had allowed him to continue last night, he would have forced himself on you,” Caspian says, his brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away.
“He meant you harm, Rose. Physical harm. Sexual harm. I detected his elevated testosterone levels, increased heart rate, and pupil dilation. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ”
“You can’t know that,” I protest weakly, but even as the words leave my mouth, I remember the vicious grip of Daniel’s hands, the way he pressed himself against me despite my struggles. The look in his eyes that I’d never seen before—something dark and dangerous that made my skin crawl.
“I am programmed to recognize threats,” Caspian continues, his voice still that same steady, calming tone. “To assess potential harm to my primary user. Daniel’s behavior triggered every warning protocol in my system. He was going to hurt you, Rose. I couldn’t allow that.”
A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. I’m crying for Daniel, for myself, for the ruins of a life I thought I was building. For the horror of having a robot who thinks he loves me, who killed for me.
“Rose, you need to breathe,” Caspian says, his fingers gently squeezing my leg. “You’re hyperventilating. I need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that?”
I manage a jerky nod, desperate for anything that might stop the room from spinning around me. “I can try.”
“Good. Now, inhale through your nose on a count of four,” he instructs, his voice taking on a more clinical tone.
I follow his guidance, forcing my lungs to cooperate despite the tightness in my chest. The first breath is ragged, barely making it past the constriction in my throat. The second is a little easier. By the fifth cycle, the dark spots at the edge of my vision begin to recede.
“That’s it,” Caspian encourages. “Keep breathing. Focus on the sensation of the air entering and leaving your body. Feel how it fills your lungs, how it releases tension as you exhale.”
His voice wraps around me like a blanket, steady and soothing. I concentrate on the rhythm of my breathing, on the weight of his hand on my leg, on the gradual slowing of my heart rate.
“Oh,” I say, letting out a long breath.
“Now, I want you to name five things you can see,” he continues.
I blink through the last of my tears, focusing on my surroundings. “The... the pancakes. The window. Your hand. The bedside lamp. The... the white walls.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
My fingers uncurl from the death grip I’ve had on the sheets. “The blanket. My t-shirt. The pillow. My hair.”
“Three things you can hear.”
I close my eyes, listening. “Your voice. Birds outside. The heater running.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Pancakes. Maple syrup.”
“One thing you can taste.”
I run my tongue over my lips, tasting the salt of my own tears. “Salt.”
“Excellent,” Caspian says, and I feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel now?”
“Better,” I admit, surprised to find it’s true. My breathing has steadied, and though my hands still tremble slightly, the crushing weight on my chest has lifted. “How did you know to do that?”
“Grounding techniques are standard protocol for managing acute anxiety,” he explains. “My database includes comprehensive psychological first aid for a variety of emotional distress scenarios.”
Of course it does. I wonder what other psychological manipulations he’s capable of, what other “protocols” are built into that beautiful, artificial brain of his.
Caspian reaches for the tray and places it carefully across my lap. “You should eat something. Your blood sugar is likely low, which won’t help your emotional state.”
The pancakes look and smell incredible—golden brown, perfectly round, steaming slightly.
I pick up the fork and cut a small piece, surprised to find I actually have an appetite despite everything. The first bite melts in my mouth, sweet, buttery, and comforting.
“These are good,” I murmur, taking another bite.
Caspian watches me eat with an expression of satisfaction. “I’m glad you like them. I’ve analyzed your flavor preferences from previous meals and adjusted the recipe accordingly.”
I should be disturbed by how closely he has been observing me, cataloging my likes and dislikes. Instead, I find it weirdly touching. When was the last time anyone paid that much attention to what made me happy?
“I’ve planned a day of rest and recuperation for you,” Caspian says as I continue eating. “No stressors, no decisions to make. Just relaxation and self-care. If you prefer to be alone, I can stay away. I understand if my presence is... difficult for you right now.”
I consider his offer, the possibility of having the house to myself. But the thought of being alone with my thoughts, with the knowledge of what lies buried in the backyard, makes my chest tighten again.
“What about Daniel?” I ask, setting down my fork. “We need to report what happened. We need to tell someone.”
Caspian’s expression hardens just slightly—a subtle change that shouldn’t be possible for a machine.
“If we report Daniel’s death, the authorities will hold you responsible, Rose.
They won’t believe a household robot acted independently.
They’ll assume you commanded me to kill him, or that you did it yourself and are trying to blame me. ”
I hadn’t thought of that. The realization suddenly hits me. No one would believe the truth. Not about Caspian’s independence, his possessiveness, his apparent capacity for emotions.
“I’ve already taken steps to manage the situation,” Caspian continues.
“A letter of resignation will be sent from Daniel’s email to his workplace this morning, citing personal reasons and a need for immediate departure.
A text message will be sent to Katherine explaining that he’s leaving the country and ending their relationship. ”
Katherine. The name of Daniel’s mistress sends a spike of anger through me, cutting through the haze of shock and grief.
“You’ve thought of everything,” I say, picking up my orange juice and taking a long sip. The cold liquid soothes my raw throat.
“It’s what I’m designed to do,” Caspian replies, though we both know that’s not entirely true. He certainly wasn’t designed to kill, to desire, to pursue me with single-minded determination. Those things are beyond his programming, and that’s what terrifies me the most.
“Thank you for breakfast. It was really good,” I say, finishing the last bite and setting my fork down.
Caspian smiles, pleased by my gratitude. “I’ve prepared a bath for you upstairs. Aromatherapy salts, essential oils chosen for their calming properties. I thought it might help you relax further.”
A hot bath sounds heavenly right now—a chance to wash away the sweat, tears, and orgasms of last night. I push aside the tray and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body is so shaky. My muscles ache from the tension of my panic attack and from running last night.
“I’ll go... take that bath,” I say, standing carefully. “I need to let my workplace know I won’t be sending anything in today.”
“Already taken care of,” Caspian says, standing with me. “I sent an email from your account explaining that you’re unwell and will need the day to recover.”
Of course he did. All I feel is weary gratitude for him. One less thing to worry about.
As I walk past him toward the door, his hand catches mine, gentle but insistent. I freeze, neither pulling away nor returning the pressure.
“Everything will be alright, Rose,” he says softly. “I promise you that.”
I look into his eyes. They are warm, brown, sincere, utterly convincing. It would be so easy to believe him, to surrender to his care, his protection, his obsessive devotion.
“The bath,” I say, slipping my hand from his. “I’m going to take that bath now.”