My Husband Drugged Me for His Fake Robot Mistress

I told myself I was looking for our wedding photos. That was the excuse I practiced while Eithan showered. While he dressed. While he kissed my forehead—distracted, already thinking about the lab—and told me he'd be home late.

The moment his car pulled away, I went upstairs.

His laptop sat on the desk in his study. The same desk I'd bought him when we first got married. Solid oak. I'd had his initials engraved on a small brass plate on the corner. *E.S.* The letters caught the afternoon light coming through the window.

I opened the laptop. No password. He'd stopped locking it around me years ago. I was furniture by then. Wallpaper.

I opened the photos folder first. Scrolled through images of circuit boards and lab equipment. Graphs I didn't understand. Then I saw the folder labeled *Personal*.

My hand hovered. I could close this. Walk away. Keep pretending.

I clicked.

The first photos were ours. Our wedding. The tiny studio in Midtown where we'd gone because it was all we could afford. Me in a simple white dress. Him in a borrowed suit. Both of us smiling like we'd beaten the world.

I scrolled past them. And then I saw her.

Sariyah. Real Sariyah. Not standing stiff by a window. Laughing in these. Her head thrown back. Eithan's arm around her waist. A hotel room behind them. Sheets unmade.

I kept scrolling. Couldn't stop.

More photos. A restaurant I recognized—the one in SoHo we went to for anniversaries. Except it wasn't me across from him in the booth. It was her. Same flowers on the table. Same candlelight.

My throat closed.

I backed out of the folder. My hands were shaking so hard I almost knocked the laptop off the desk. I opened his email.

The thread was right there. Not even buried. Just sitting in his inbox like something ordinary.

Sariyah's name at the top. The subject line was blank.

I clicked.

The messages loaded slowly. Or maybe time just broke. I don't know.

*Last night was perfect*, she'd written. *I love that you don't make me pretend anymore. That bed is ours now, isn't it?*

Eithan's reply: *It always was. She doesn't even notice.*

I kept reading. Couldn't breathe but kept reading.

Messages about my schedule. About when I'd be out of the house. About the sleeping pills—how many, what dosage, how long they'd keep me under. Sariyah joked about lying next to me. About how close she could get before I'd stir.

I was going to be sick.

I scrolled faster. Deeper. Months of messages. A year. Two.

Then I saw it. Near the bottom.

Sariyah's message from four days ago: *I think I'm pregnant. I'm three weeks late. I'm scared. What do we do?*

Eithan's reply, sent while I was asleep in the guest room: *Don't worry. I'll handle Mya when the time is right. This might actually make things easier.*

I stared at the screen until the words stopped being words. Until they were just shapes. Black marks on white.

The robot wasn't a robot.

She was his mistress. Living in my house. Sleeping in my bed. Wearing the face I saw every morning across the breakfast table.

And she was carrying his child.

I closed the laptop carefully. My hands were steadier than they should have been. I put it back exactly where I'd found it. Exact angle. Exact distance from the edge of the desk.

Then I walked downstairs and sat in the kitchen.

I don't know how long I sat there. Long enough for the light to change. Long enough for the house to grow quiet in that specific way it does when you realize you're alone.

I should have screamed. Should have thrown something. Should have called my parents or Freeman or anyone.

But I didn't.

Because if I broke now—if I confronted him with nothing but anger and tears—he would do what he always did. He'd manage me. Calm me down. Convince me I'd misunderstood.

I needed proof. Real proof. The kind that couldn't be explained away.

And I needed him to think I suspected nothing.

So when Eithan came home that night, I smiled. I asked about his day. I listened to him talk about the lab's new funding proposal and nodded in all the right places.

Across the room, Sariyah stood by the window. Still. Perfect.

I looked at her and thought about every night I'd slept in the guest room. Every morning I'd woken up groggy and confused. Every time Eithan handed me my vitamins with a glass of water and watched me swallow.

She turned her head slightly. Met my eyes.

I smiled at her too.

"Eithan," I said, keeping my voice light. "I was reading about the GL-7 today. There was this article about humidity exposure—how it helps calibrate the respiratory sensors?"

He looked up from his tablet. "Where'd you see that?"

"Some tech blog." I shrugged. "It said steam works best. Something about mimicking human environments."

He frowned. Interested now. "I haven't run those diagnostics yet."

"We have that big bathroom upstairs," I said. "The one with the rainfall shower. I could set it up tonight if you want. Get the steam going."

Eithan looked at Sariyah. Then back at me. Something shifted in his expression. Like he was pleased.

"That's actually useful," he said. "Good thinking."

I felt my smile freeze on my face. Held it there.

Twenty minutes later, I had the master bathroom running. Hot water pounding the tiles. Steam rising thick and white. The mirror fogged over completely.

Eithan walked Sariyah in himself. She moved like she always did—smooth, controlled. But I saw it now. The tiny adjustments. The way her eyes tracked him when she thought I wasn't looking.

She was a woman. She'd always been a woman.

And I'd let her live in my house.

"I'll monitor from the bedroom," Eithan said, setting his tablet on the counter. "Run it for twenty minutes."

He stepped into the bathroom with her. Closed the door.

I stood in the hallway and listened to the water run. Listened to the low murmur of his voice through the door. Couldn't make out words. Didn't need to.

I walked to the medicine cabinet in the hallway bathroom. Pulled out the prenatal vitamins Dr. Wells had prescribed. The bottle was exactly where I'd left it.

I opened it.

The pills inside were white. Round. Small.

My prenatal vitamins were oval. Pale pink.

I stared at them for a long time. Then I pulled out my phone and took a picture. Then another. Close-up of the label. Close-up of the pills.

From the master bathroom, I heard water shut off. Heard the door open.

I closed the bottle. Put it back. Walked downstairs.

In the kitchen, I sat at the table and opened my phone. Pulled up my parents' contact. My father's lawyer. Freeman.

I didn't call anyone yet.

But I would.

Soon.