My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 03

My Husband Turned Me Into Wife Unit 007 Chapter 03

Graham froze.

I was already struggling to breathe.

Ember’s voice floated through the room, sweet and serene.

“The patient is presenting with a moderate mango allergy response. Respiratory distress at Level 2.

Skin edema and erythema covering approximately twenty-five percent of the body.

Immediate antihistamine intervention is advised.”

Graham snapped out of it. He scrambled, hands shaking, rifling through cabinets until he found the allergy meds.

He forced them into my mouth and watched me swallow.

My breathing steadied.

The dining room went dead silent.

He stared at me, his voice cracking with something between disbelief and panic.

“What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You used to cry. You used to scream at me. You used to throw things. You’re not supposed to be like—like her.”

I said nothing. He hadn’t issued a command to speak.

“Can you just act normal?”

His voice pitched higher, fraying at the edges.

“Stop copying everything Ember does! I wanted a wife who wasn’t a headache, not some—some emotionless machine!”

I met his eyes. I saw the anger there. The frustration. The desperate, scrambling discomfort of a man who’d gotten exactly what he asked for.

“Please define ‘normal,'” I said.

The blood drained from Graham’s face.

He grabbed his phone and called the Institute.

The person on the other end was calm. Reassuring. This was standard, they said.

A natural phase of deep behavioral correction. Give it a few days and things would settle.

“Unit 007 is our most successful graduate. She outperforms every AI on the market in terms of obedience. You have nothing to worry about.”

Graham hung up and exhaled.

So I became the most efficient tool in the house.

He told me to clean. I scrubbed every surface until it gleamed. Better than Ember ever did.

He told me to prep his formalwear. I pressed his suits until there wasn’t a single crease.

He stumbled home drunk at two in the morning. I handed him a glass of electrolyte water with aspirin, heated to precisely the right temperature.

Graham laughed about it on the phone with his friends.

He said the new Wren was better than any AI companion on the market.

Then came the night he forgot to give me the deactivation command.

Everyone went to bed. I sat on the living room couch. I sat there from the moment the house went dark until the sun bled through the windows.

Graham came downstairs in the morning and found me in the exact same position.

Identical posture. Absolute stillness.

His mug hit the floor and shattered.

The woman in the white coat arrived not long after.

She introduced herself as Dr. Simone Cross. Her voice was soft, deliberate. A psychologist.

“Wren. Hello.”

I didn’t respond.

Graham hovered at the edge of the room, wringing his hands.

“You have to give her a command. She won’t talk unless you do it the right way.”

Dr. Cross shot him a look. Her brow furrowed. She turned back to me and spoke in an imperative sentence.

“Tell me your name.”

“Unit 007.”

Her pen stopped moving across the paper. “And your given name?”

“Wren. But that designation is obsolete. Per Institute policy, all graduates are required to use their assigned unit number as their formal identifier.”

Dr. Cross went completely still. Graham’s expression curdled into something ugly.

They disappeared into the study. I caught fragments through the door. Words I could no longer fully parse.

“PTSD… severe depersonalization… this is going to take years…”

After that, the house shifted.

Graham handled me differently. Cautious. Almost afraid.

Then came our wedding anniversary. The same date that, three years ago, he’d shoved me into a car and delivered me to the Institute.

He made a hard decision. Ember had to go.

So this was her last anniversary with us.

Balloons filled the living room. A two-tier cake sat on the table.

Ember glided toward me, gentle as ever. “Sister. Happy anniversary.”

My eyes flickered. Somewhere deep inside my skull, a wire stretched too tight for three years​ finally snapped.