My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 08

My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 08

I still waited for commands. It had become instinct.

But Graham never gave me another one.

“Wren? You want to go walk in the park today?”

“Wren? Should we watch one of those movies you used to love?”

He’d set a book in front of me,one of my old favorites, and ask, “Want to give this a try?”

At first, I just stared at him. I didn’t know how to respond. The machinery was gone, and I had

nothing to replace it with.

He never pushed.

He just waited. Patient. Steady. He asked again and again. Kept talking. Never stopped

showing up.

Eventually, I started nodding. Shaking my head. Tiny movements.

Then came words. “Okay.” “No.”

It took him an entire year. Piece by piece, he sat with me and reassembled the shattered

pieces of Wren Holloway.

On my birthday, balloons filled the house. A three-tier cake sat on the table, the top tier iced

with neat letters,Be yourself. Always. Be happy.

Candles lit. Graham stood across from me, nothing but warmth in his eyes.

“Happy birthday, Wren,” he said, soft.

I stared at the flickering flames. Then at the light dancing in his eyes.

My throat tightened. Tears slid down my cheeks.

Happy tears. For the first time in years.

I closed my eyes and made a wish.

Let me just be Wren. From now on. Every day.

Not Perfect Wife Unit 007. Not someone’s obedient accessory. Just me.

We got divorced not long after.

Graham didn’t fight it. He signed over the Holloway Residence, the cars, and half of

everything he owned. The only thing he said was,

“Wren, I’m sorry. I’ll owe you for the rest of my life. If you ever need me, I’ll be there.”

I took the money and found a few of the other girls who made it out of the Institute.

Together, we built The Wren Foundation. A nonprofit recovery center for victims pulled out of

places like The Everly Institute. Coercive retraining facilities. Behavioral correction centers

with prettier names

Some of the women who came to us couldn’t speak. Some couldn’t cry. Some couldn’t feel

anger anymore. They arrived hollow. No light behind their eyes.

I sat in front of them and gave no commands. No activation phrases. No orders.

I just waited.

Waited for them to speak. Waited for them to walk out of the dark on their own terms.

Waited for them to remember who they were.

One day, they brought me a girl. Maybe twenty years old.

Two years inside another facility. Another name on another intake form.

She sat in the chair with her hands flat on her knees. Spine ramrod straight. Perfect posture.

Absolute stillness.

Her mother was crying beside her. Saying her name over and over.

The girl didn’t blink.

I walked over, knelt down, and met her empty gaze.

“Hi. My name is Wren.”

“I’m not here to give you instructions. I’m just here to tell you this-you’re not a machine. You’re a human being.”

“You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you again.”

Something flickered. Her eyelids moved. Slow. So slow, like her body had forgotten how.

Then her face crumpled.

One tear. Two. Then a flood.

Her hand shot out, trembling, and grabbed the hem of my shirt. Her voice came from

somewhere deep underground, barely a whisper.

“Help me.”

I wrapped my hands around her cold fingers and squeezed.

“I will.”

Sunlight poured through the window. Golden light spilled across the floor, warm and steady.

For so many years, I believed I’d never claw my way out of the dark.

But I’m standing in the light now.

And I’m giving them the one thing I once needed most.

I finally found my way back to myself.