Divorce Day: My Husband Found I Was an AI

Three years of marriage, and I'd become known in our social circle as the ultimate doormat.

My husband staying out all night, his silent treatment, bringing his first love home to flaunt in my face—through it all, I'd smile and make him hangover soup, keeping the house spotless.

Everyone thought I loved him to the point of madness. Even he believed it.

Until the day of the divorce, when he begged me with tears in his eyes not to leave—and then watched "me" collapse rigid to the floor after a power outage, revealing a charging port on the back of my neck.

He lost his mind.

Meanwhile, the real me was lying on a beach in the Maldives, running my fingers through the hair of a gorgeous twenty-something with a six-pack, cheerfully pressing the "factory reset" button.

"Serena, Vivian just got back and has nowhere to stay. She'll take the master bedroom for a few days. You move to the guest room."

Two in the morning. Garrett Ashford pushed through the front door reeking of alcohol and perfume.

Behind him stood Vivian Blake, all doe-eyed innocence.

She tugged at Garrett's sleeve in a show of bashfulness, though her eyes locked onto me with pure challenge. "Garrett, this doesn't feel right. Won't Serena be upset?"

Garrett scoffed, tossing his suit jacket onto the couch without sparing me a glance. "Her? She has no right to be upset. Just a decoration who clawed her way into the Ashford family through an arranged marriage."

Any normal wife would have broken down crying or gone for both their throats.

But I didn't.

I stood there in my silk pajamas, lips curving into a smile so perfect it could have been measured with a protractor.

"Of course, honey."

I stepped forward, took his jacket—stained with alcohol and lipstick—hung it up neatly. Then I went to the kitchen and brought out the hangover soup I'd been keeping warm, setting it on the coffee table.

"The soup is the perfect temperature. I've already prepared the guest room for Ms. Blake with fresh silk bedding and a full set of toiletries. If you need anything else, just let me know."

My voice was gentle, steady, without the faintest ripple.

Garrett's hand froze around the soup bowl. His brow knotted. He stared at my face, searching for any crack in the composure, any trace of pretending.

"Serena, what kind of game are you playing now?" he growled through clenched teeth.

I held that perfect smile. "I'm simply fulfilling my duties as your wife. Goodnight."

I turned and walked to the guest room, closing the door behind me.

Outside, Vivian's triumphant giggle and Garrett's frustrated glass-smashing bled through the door.

"What the hell is her problem!" His snarl cut through the wood.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the world, in the penthouse suite of the Four Seasons Paris—

The real me, Serena Whitmore, was soaking in a rose-petal bath, swirling a glass of Romanée-Conti.

Ding—

The iPad propped beside