My Husband Forced Me to Build Weapons for His Mistress

My fingers danced across the haptic interface, a blur of movement that felt less like engineering and more like breathing. The drone prototype hovering in the center of the lab hummed—a low, predatory sound that vibrated in my chest. *Taylor Dynamics Mark IV.* My baby. My curse.

The biometric sensors flashed a soft, welcoming blue as they synced with my pulse. I didn't just build these machines; I bled into them. Every algorithm in Xander’s arsenal was woven with my genetic code, a digital nervous system that answered only to the Taylor bloodline. Or so I told myself to sleep at night.

The elevator chime shattered the concentration. It wasn't the soft ping of a guest arrival; it was the heavy, authoritative tone of the master override.

I didn't turn immediately. I let the drone land, the carbon fiber legs clicking against the steel table. When I finally spun the chair around, the air in the penthouse felt thinner, sucked out by the sheer magnitude of the ego walking through the double doors.

Xander Coleman looked like a god of war dressed in Italian silk. The suit was charcoal, tailored to hide the holster at his ribs but accentuate the width of his shoulders—shoulders I used to rest my head on. But tonight, he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me, toward the sprawling glass wall that overlooked a rainy Manhattan.

And he wasn't alone.

A woman stepped out from behind him. She was luminous, all soft curves and camera-ready poise, wearing a dress that cost more than my first lab. Jasmine Ellis. I recognized the celebrity chef from the tabloids, the Senator’s darling daughter. What I didn't recognize was the diamond on her finger. It caught the recessed lighting, throwing fractured rainbows across my pristine white floor.

"Xander?" My voice was steady, but my stomach coiled into a cold, hard knot. "We have security protocols. No guests in the lab."

Xander didn't flinch. He walked to the liquor cabinet, pouring a scotch with deliberate, terrifying slowness. "Jasmine isn't a guest, Olive. She's the future."

Jasmine offered a tight, practiced smile that didn't reach her eyes. She looked at the drone with distaste, then at me with something worse: pity.

"I think I'll wait in the living area, Xander," she said, her voice like spun sugar. "It smells like... ozone in here."

"Go," he commanded. Not a request.

As the doors slid shut behind her, the silence stretched, taut as a piano wire. Xander turned, swirling the amber liquid. "The Senator finally agreed to the defense contract. The biggest in history. But it comes with conditions. He needs a son-in-law who fits the dynasty. A power couple the public can adore."

I stood up. My knees felt like water, but I locked them. "We are married, Xander. You have a wife."

He closed the distance between us in two long strides. The smell of him—expensive scotch and gun oil—assaulted my senses. He reached out, not to touch my face, but to grab my left hand. His grip was bruising.

"I have a mechanic," he corrected, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "I need a partner."

With a violent jerk, he stripped my wedding band from my finger. The friction burned my skin. He didn't look at the ring; he tossed it toward the waste bin in the corner. It hit the metal rim with a hollow *clink*.

"You're the Technical Advisor now," he said, wiping his hand on his jacket as if my touch had soiled him. "You'll move your things to the staff quarters on the lower level. Jasmine takes the master suite."

The room spun. The betrayal wasn't just emotional; it was structural. He was dismantling my life with the same efficiency I used to strip down rifles. "I'm leaving," I whispered. "My father is sick in Seattle. I'm going to him."

I moved toward the door, my mind racing. *Pack a bag. Get to the airport. Get away from this monster.*

Xander moved faster. He was always faster. He intercepted me at the heavy oak desk, his hand snatching up the *Taylor-X* prototype pistol lying on the schematics.

He spun me around, slamming my back against the edge of the desk. The air left my lungs in a gasp. Before I could inhale, cold steel pressed against the hollow of my throat.

The gun hummed. The biometric grip glowed blue. It recognized my DNA. It knew its mother.

"Administrator Override: Coleman," Xander said clearly.

The blue light turned an angry, pulsing red. The safety disengaged with a mechanical *snick*.

My eyes locked with his. I saw no love there. No history. Only the flat, shark-like gaze of a man who had decided I was an obstacle.

"A jealous woman like you doesn't deserve to stand by my side," he sneered, pressing the muzzle harder until it choked me. "You think you can just walk out? You are the intellectual property of Taylor Dynamics. And I own Taylor Dynamics."

"Xander, please," I choked out, tears finally spilling hot and humiliating down my cheeks. "My father..."

"Your father is irrelevant. You stay where I put you." He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. "Step one foot outside that door, Olive, and I will erase you. Not just your life, but your legacy. I will burn every patent, every blueprint, until the name Taylor means nothing."

He shoved me away. I stumbled, catching myself on the drone display. He holstered the weapon—my weapon—and walked out without looking back.

**

Hours later, the 'staff quarters' felt more like a vault. The walls were reinforced concrete, the windows sealed with blast-proof laminate. There was a single screen on the wall, and Xander, in his infinite cruelty, had left it on.

It was a live feed of the gala downstairs.

Xander stood on the podium, raising a champagne flute. Jasmine was draped on his arm, looking every inch the queen. And there, glittering around her neck, was the Taylor heirloom sapphire. My mother's necklace.

A primal scream built in my throat, but I swallowed it down. Rage was useless without leverage. I sat at the small, sterile terminal in the corner. My fingers flew, seeking the backdoor to the mainframe. I would lock him out. I would crash the system. I would make him beg.

*Access Denied.*

I tried again. *Access Denied.*

A message scrolled across the screen in bold, mocking green text:

**USER STATUS: MAINTENANCE ONLY.**

I stared at the words until they blurred. I could fix the gears. I could oil the machine. But I could no longer steer it. I had built a throne for a tyrant, and now, I was just a ghost haunting the engine room.