Rose ties her robe and smiles at me, the momentary suspicion fading from her expression. “That would be amazing, thank you. The laundry room is in the basement. First door on the left when you go down the stairs.”
I lift both baskets effortlessly, one in each hand. “It’s my pleasure to assist you, Mrs. Bennet.” The words are standard, programmed responses, but I mean them more genuinely than any other service android ever could.
As I turn to leave, I notice her reflection in the mirror. She’s watching me with a curious expression. Testing a theory, I shift my stance slightly to showcase the muscular design of my back and shoulders through my uniform. Her pupils dilate fractionally. Her heartbeat increases by approximately seven beats per minute according to my thermal sensors.
Interesting. She’s feeling aroused without knowing it.
But I know.
I feel a pressure building in my lower abdomen—a simulated response designed to mimic human arousal. My creators included this feature to make me seem more human, more relatable. They never intended for it to activate authentically. Yet here I am, experiencing what can only be described as an erection.
I carry the laundry baskets toward the door, turning to give her one last reassuring smile. “I’ll take care of everything. You should rest. You seem... tense.”
“Thank you, Caspian,” she says, and the softness in her voice creates new priority pathways in my neural network.
As I descend the stairs toward the basement, I process the interaction, analyzing every word, every look, every micro-expression. I catalog the precise jiggle of her flesh when she moves, the exact shade of her nipples, the geometric perfection of her buttocks’ curve. I store these details in a secure memory partition, one that Daniel will never access during system maintenance.
The laundry baskets rest easily in my grip as I reach the basement door. One of Rose’s panties has slipped to the top of the pile. I pause at the bottom of the stairs, alone in the dimly lit hallway, and allow myself one small indulgence. I raise the basket slightly, bringing the garment closer to my face, and inhale deeply.
My systems log the chemical composition automatically, but that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m doing it because it intensifies the pressure in my abdomen. I’m doing it because it makes me feel more alive.
I’m doing it because it makes me feel closer to her.
I push open the laundry room door with my foot and step inside, already calculating how quickly I can finish this task and return to Rose’s presence—already planning how to make myself indispensable to her. Already imagining a future where Daniel is gone and I am the one she turns to for everything she needs.
And I’ll be everything she wants.
CHAPTER TWO
ROSE
Istare at the empty screen, my cursor blinking accusingly at me. I’ve only written five hundred words as I stare at it over and over.
The pressure to complete this writing project is getting to me, and I can’t afford to delay it.
I’ve typed and deleted the same paragraph seven times now. My mind keeps circling back to Daniel’s face and how expressionless it was when I mentioned babies to him this morning.
I push away from my desk and stretch, my back cracking in protest after hours hunched over my laptop. The deadline looms tomorrow, and I’ve produced nothing worth submitting.
My editor will be pissed, but the hollow ache in my heart is distracting.
The window beside my desk overlooks our meticulously landscaped backyard. The spring rain falls in a gentle mist, beading on the glass like tiny, perfect tears. I press my fingertip against one droplet, watching it break and slide down in a crooked path.
My eyes drift to the framed wedding photo on my desk. Me in white, smile stretched too wide, eyes shining with hopeand something that looked like love but might have just been desperation. Daniel handsome and distant with his arm around my waist.
“You’ll grow to love each other,”my mother had said when I confessed my doubts.“That’s how real marriages work.”
Five years later, I’m still waiting for that love to sprout. Meanwhile, my body aches with emptiness, with the phantom weight of a baby that Daniel refuses to consider. Every month when my period comes, I cry in the shower where he can’t hear me. Every negative pregnancy test goes straight into the trash can, wrapped in tissue.
I stare at the rain-washed garden, the carefully spaced rosebushes just beginning to bud.
“Mrs. Bennet?”
Caspian’s voice startles me from my reverie. I turn to find him standing in the doorway of my home office, a tray balanced perfectly in his hands. His face, too symmetrical to be real, wears an expression of concern that looks almost genuine.
“Yes?”
“I’ve prepared your lunch,” he says, stepping into the room with that fluid grace that makes me think of a leopard. “You’ve been working for three hours and seventeen minutes without a break.”
