My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 02

My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 02

Back then, Graham had led her inside by the hand. He knelt down to her level and spoke low, his voice dripping with a tenderness I barely recognized anymore.

“Ember. Welcome home.”

I ran over from the couch. Just wanted to see it—the machine that had siphoned away every ounce of my husband’s attention.

My foot caught on something. I went down hard. Face-first. Humiliating.

Graham didn’t help me up.

He called me careless. Said all I ever did was make a mess.

That was the beginning. The slow erosion. He started picking me apart. I wasn’t obedient enough, not like Ember. I wasn’t attentive enough. I didn’t understand him the way she did.

And then he sent me away.

“Sister. Welcome home.”

Ember’s voice. Still that same syrupy sweetness.

I didn’t answer. She hadn’t issued a command.

Graham’s face tightened. He jabbed my arm. “Say something to Ember. What, are you mute now? Speak.”

Command received.

I snapped into place instantly—that programmed smile, mirroring hers, exact and mechanical.

“Hello. Thank you.”

Graham nodded. Satisfied.

Dinner.

We sat at the table. Ember settled into the chair at Graham’s right hand. I was placed at the far edge, where the light didn’t quite reach.

Steam curled from the bowls. The food smelled warm and rich, but my stomach remained inert.

At the Institute, eating was classified as a mandatory energy replenishment task. Unrelated to hunger or pleasure.

Graham glanced over. I still hadn’t picked up my chopsticks.

He snorted. “What’s this? You need me to get down on my knees and beg?”

A joke. Just a throwaway line.

But I processed it as a command.

I dropped. Both knees hit the floor. I raised the chopsticks over my head with both hands.

“I give thanks for this food you have granted. Please authorize me to eat.”

Graham jolted backward. His chair scraped the floor.

“Jesus—get up. Just—just eat.”

I returned to my seat. Picked up my chopsticks. Reached for the cilantro and put a bite in my mouth.

Graham stared.

“Well, that’s new. You’re eating cilantro now? You used to gag at the smell. Wouldn’t even let it in the house.”

I didn’t answer. I took another bite.

The instructors had a term for preference. Residual sentimentality. A sign of incomplete correction.

In month three, I refused a meal with cilantro. They placed me in The Quiet Room for two full days.

No light. No sound. No stimulus. Just the dark and the endless hum of nothing.

When they let me out, I ate the cilantro.

Then celery. Onions. Brussels sprouts. Every single thing I used to hate.

Graham nodded, pleased. He’d always liked people who didn’t make a fuss about food.

I reached for the plate of mango slices.

I placed a piece in my mouth. Chewed. Fifteen times. Swallowed.

Graham’s eyes went huge.

“You ate a mango?”

“Wren, are you insane? You’re deathly allergic to mangoes. You almost suffocated when you were a kid. Do you not remember that?”

I kept chewing. Silent.

At the Institute, allergies were not tolerated.

The instructor smeared mango pulp directly onto my arm. My skin erupted. Red welts. Blisters. Sores that wept and crusted and wept again.

“An allergy is physical weakness. Weakness can be trained into strength.”

My skin rotted. Healed. Rotted again. My body never ceased reacting.

A tremor ran through me. My throat constricted. My skin flushed hot.

Red welts erupted on my arms in angry clusters.

Graham leaned in. His face went pale.

“Wren! Stop eating that right now. You know you’re allergic to mangoes!”

My chopsticks froze midair.

I lifted my head and looked at him.

My eyes were void. My voice came out flat and clean, reciting a line from a manual

“Is that a command?”