I Deepfaked My Husband Into a Gay Porn Star

The first public humiliation came three weeks later at the quarterly company gala.

I stood in the corner of the ballroom, nursing a glass of champagne that had long gone flat, watching Ryan work the room with practiced charm. The Meridian Hotel's crystal chandeliers cast everything in golden light, but the warmth didn't reach me. I'd worn the emerald dress he'd once said made my eyes sparkle, hoping for some sign of the man I'd married.

Instead, I watched him guide Amber through the crowd like she was a prized possession.

Amber Chen, his twenty-six-year-old assistant, moved with the calculated grace of someone who knew exactly what she represented. Her black cocktail dress hugged curves that hadn't carried children or endured ten years of marriage. When she laughed at something Ryan whispered in her ear, the sound carried across the room like breaking glass.

"Sophie!" Margaret from accounting appeared beside me, her smile strained. "You look... well."

The pause said everything. I'd lost fifteen pounds since discovering the website, and my clothes hung loose despite the alterations. Sleep had become a luxury I couldn't afford, not when every time I closed my eyes, I saw those images of my digital doppelganger.

"Thank you," I managed, taking another sip of the bitter champagne.

Margaret's eyes darted toward Ryan and Amber, who were now posing for photos with potential investors. "I'm sure this is just... business networking."

Business networking. As if that explained why Ryan's hand rested possessively on Amber's lower back, or why she kept touching his arm while they talked. As if it justified the way he'd introduced her to the board members earlier: "This is Amber, my invaluable right hand. She handles all my... special projects."

The emphasis on 'special' had made several people smirk knowingly.

"Excuse me," I murmured to Margaret, needing air.

I made it to the hotel's marble bathroom before the tears started. Gripping the gold-plated sink, I stared at my reflection in the ornate mirror. The woman looking back seemed like a stranger—hollow-eyed, fragile, a ghost of who I used to be.

The bathroom door opened, and Amber walked in, her heels clicking against the marble with military precision.

"Oh," she said, not sounding surprised at all. "Sophie."

We stood there for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension. Up close, I could see she was even younger than I'd thought, her skin flawless under the soft lighting.

"Enjoying the party?" she asked, pulling out a tube of lipstick and applying it with practiced ease.

The casual cruelty of the question hit me like a slap. "Are you?"

Amber's smile was sharp as her stilettos. "Immensely. Ryan's been telling everyone about his new projects. Such innovative work he's doing in AI development."

My blood turned to ice. She knew. Of course she knew.

"He's quite the visionary," she continued, capping her lipstick. "Always finding ways to... optimize outdated systems."

The message was clear: I was the outdated system.

"Does it ever bother you?" I asked quietly. "Being someone's upgrade?"

For just a moment, something flickered across her face—uncertainty, maybe even fear. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

"Better an upgrade than obsolete," she said, brushing past me toward the door. "Ryan's waiting for me. We have investors to charm."

Alone again, I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and opened our joint banking app. The screen showed what I'd been dreading: another transfer. Five hundred thousand dollars, moved to an account I didn't recognize. When I clicked for details, the description read "Meridian Holdings - Business Restructuring."

Meridian Holdings. I'd never heard of it.

I scrolled through the transaction history, my heart sinking with each entry. Over the past month, Ryan had systematically moved nearly two million dollars—money from the sale of my grandmother's house, my inheritance, our shared investments—into various offshore accounts. All labeled as "business restructuring" or "asset optimization."

He was erasing me financially, piece by piece.

The bathroom door opened again, and I quickly closed the app. A group of women entered, their chatter about the party filling the space. I slipped out, my mind reeling.

Back in the ballroom, I found Ryan at the center of a circle of admirers, Amber at his side like a beautiful accessory. As I approached, I caught the tail end of his conversation with a tech journalist.

"...the future of human-AI interaction," he was saying. "We're moving beyond simple chatbots into truly responsive, emotionally intelligent companions. The applications are limitless."

"And your wife supports this research?" the journalist asked, noticing me.

Ryan's arm slipped around my waist, his grip tight enough to bruise. "Sophie? Oh, she's been invaluable to the development process. Haven't you, darling?"

The words were honey over poison. I felt Amber's eyes on me, waiting to see if I'd break.

"Actually," Ryan continued, his voice carrying across the nearby conversations, "I should introduce you properly. This is Sophie, my current wife."

Current wife.

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Several people shifted uncomfortably, while others barely suppressed smiles. The journalist's eyebrows rose, and I saw him make a note on his phone.

"Current?" I whispered, my voice barely audible.

Ryan's smile never wavered. "Well, you know how quickly technology evolves these days. What works today might be obsolete tomorrow."

Amber laughed, a sound like silver bells announcing an execution. "Ryan's always thinking ahead. It's what makes him such a successful innovator."

The circle of people began to disperse, sensing the tension. I stood frozen in place, Ryan's arm still around me like a shackle.

"Smile, Sophie," he murmured in my ear. "People are watching."

But I couldn't smile. I couldn't move. All I could think about was the money disappearing from our accounts, the surveillance cameras he'd installed "for security," and the way he'd just publicly announced that our marriage had an expiration date.

As the evening wound down, I excused myself early, claiming a headache. Ryan didn't object—he was too busy planning the after-party with Amber and his inner circle.

Driving home through the empty streets, I finally understood what was happening. This wasn't just an affair or a midlife crisis. Ryan was systematically dismantling our life together, preparing for a future where I didn't exist.

And everyone—Amber, the investors, even our friends—was watching it happen in real time.

The question was: what was I going to do about it?