Page 39 of The Housewife's Robot
“Rose, listen to me,” he says, his voice low and steady. “You have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all. Daniel was hurting you. He was going to continue hurting you.”
I shake my head violently, unable to reconcile the horror of what happened with Caspian’s calm rationalization. “He didn’t deserve to die! He’s a fucking cheater, but he could have continued living.”
“If I had allowed him to continue last night, he would have forced himself on you,” Caspian says, his brown eyes holding mine with an intensity that makes it impossible to look away. “He meant you harm, Rose. Physical harm. Sexual harm. I detected his elevated testosterone levels, increased heart rate, and pupil dilation. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.”
“You can’t know that,” I protest weakly, but even as the words leave my mouth, I remember the vicious grip of Daniel’s hands, the way he pressed himself against me despite my struggles. The look in his eyes that I’d never seen before—something dark and dangerous that made my skin crawl.
“I am programmed to recognize threats,” Caspian continues, his voice still that same steady, calming tone. “To assess potential harm to my primary user. Daniel’s behavior triggered every warning protocol in my system. He was going to hurt you, Rose. I couldn’t allow that.”
A fresh wave of tears spills down my cheeks, hot and unrelenting. I’m crying for Daniel, for myself, for the ruins of a life I thought I was building. For the horror of having a robot who thinks he loves me, who killed for me.
“Rose, you need to breathe,” Caspian says, his fingers gently squeezing my leg. “You’re hyperventilating. I need you to follow my instructions. Can you do that?”
I manage a jerky nod, desperate for anything that might stop the room from spinning around me. “I can try.”
“Good. Now, inhale through your nose on a count of four,” he instructs, his voice taking on a more clinical tone.
I follow his guidance, forcing my lungs to cooperate despite the tightness in my chest. The first breath is ragged, barely making it past the constriction in my throat. The second is a little easier. By the fifth cycle, the dark spots at the edge of my vision begin to recede.
“That’s it,” Caspian encourages. “Keep breathing. Focus on the sensation of the air entering and leaving your body. Feel how it fills your lungs, how it releases tension as you exhale.”
His voice wraps around me like a blanket, steady and soothing. I concentrate on the rhythm of my breathing, on the weight of his hand on my leg, on the gradual slowing of my heart rate.
“Oh,” I say, letting out a long breath.
“Now, I want you to name five things you can see,” he continues.
I blink through the last of my tears, focusing on my surroundings. “The... the pancakes. The window. Your hand. The bedside lamp. The... the white walls.”
“Good. Four things you can touch.”
My fingers uncurl from the death grip I’ve had on the sheets. “The blanket. My t-shirt. The pillow. My hair.”
“Three things you can hear.”
I close my eyes, listening. “Your voice. Birds outside. The heater running.”
“Two things you can smell.”
“Pancakes. Maple syrup.”
“One thing you can taste.”
I run my tongue over my lips, tasting the salt of my own tears. “Salt.”
“Excellent,” Caspian says, and I feel the mattress dip as he sits on the edge of the bed. “How do you feel now?”
“Better,” I admit, surprised to find it’s true. My breathing has steadied, and though my hands still tremble slightly, the crushing weight on my chest has lifted. “How did you know to do that?”
“Grounding techniques are standard protocol for managing acute anxiety,” he explains. “My database includes comprehensive psychological first aid for a variety of emotional distress scenarios.”
Of course it does. I wonder what other psychological manipulations he’s capable of, what other “protocols” are built into that beautiful, artificial brain of his.
Caspian reaches for the tray and places it carefully across my lap. “You should eat something. Your blood sugar is likely low, which won’t help your emotional state.”
The pancakes look and smell incredible—golden brown, perfectly round, steaming slightly.
I pick up the fork and cut a small piece, surprised to find I actually have an appetite despite everything. The first bite melts in my mouth, sweet, buttery, and comforting.
