Chapter 2

The android's movements and her expressions were all convincing, but she still radiated a synthetic vibe.

When I grabbed her, though, my fingers tangled in her hair, but they also found the seams of her metal costume. And between those seams, I felt human skin.

The temperature, the feel of her skin, and the way her body flexed when I lifted her were too real. No robot should ever move or feel like that.

I was convinced she was doing more than just picking up a pen.

In fact, for a split second when I had burst in, I swear I saw his Adam's apple bob. His face was still flushed with a lingering pleasure he hadn't had a chance to wipe away."

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to clear the chaotic slideshow in my head, and dialed my best friend.

Her company literally specialized in bionic silicone.

She burst out laughing. "Sweetie, I think you're spiraling. Silicone these days is practically indistinguishable from real skin. It can even sweat! Our android girlfriends are selling like crazy.

"And Samuel was just relaxing. You heard a noise and barged in, so your imagination ran away with you."

But the unease gnawing at me wouldn't go away.

After we hung up, I tossed and turned, forcing myself to think about all the times Samuel had been my hero.

I knew he loved me.

Years ago, we were on vacation when an earthquake hit. I was in the shower at our little guesthouse while he was out buying me local snacks.

While everyone else was stampeding for safety, Samuel, who was already clear, sprinted back into the crumbling, labyrinthine guesthouse without a second thought, screaming my name.

As the world shook and dust filled the air, he found me in the chaos, scooped me up, and ran.

A falling crossbeam came crashing down, but he threw himself in front of me, shielding me with his own body. He was in the hospital for three months.

The memory brought a fresh wave of pain, a dull ache spreading through my belly.

But then I pictured the android again. I took a deep breath, my resolve hardening.

I believe that in a marriage, the loose threads and the moments that feel wrong were never nothing.

There was no way in hell I would ever accept my husband disguising his mistress as a robot and bringing her into our home.

Unwilling to give up, I went back into his study.

I searched every possible hiding place, and I found nothing.

But a person couldn't just vanish into thin air.

After a moment, I made a decision. I changed my clothes and walked out the door.

Unannounced, I went straight to the office.

It had been so long since I had been to the office that the receptionist, a new face, didn't even recognize me.

The whole place was filled with strangers.

As I walked past the main open-plan area, I stopped short. I backtracked a few steps, my eyes drawn to a glass-walled private office.

Inside, a woman had her legs casually propped up on the desk, looking completely relaxed as she touched up her makeup in a compact mirror.

It was those impossibly long and fair legs that stopped me cold.

My watch read 10:30 a.m. In other words, everyone else in the building was supposed to be working now.

I hesitated for a second and knocked lightly on the glass door.

"Come in," she said. Instead of looking up, she just drawled out the words lazily, shifting her crossed ankles.

My fists clenched at my sides. Her brazen confidence told me everything I needed to know: she had special privileges here.

And the only person who could grant them was Samuel.

I pushed the door open and stood before her. "I wasn't aware the company provided private makeup studios for employees. And even if we did, isn't it a little early for a break?"

The woman, busy with her mascara wand, finally glanced up.

For just a second, her eyes locked onto my face. Then she went right back to looking bored.

She had seen me before. She knew exactly who I was.

"Who are you? What's a pregnant lady doing in my office? If you're here to catch your man cheating, take it to HR. Not my problem."

I let out a sharp laugh with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Done playing games, I asked her directly, "What's your name, and what department are you in?"

She gave her reflection a satisfied smile and slowly reached for a pair of black stockings, beginning to pull them on before rising to her feet.

She had to be at least five-foot-six, with a figure that was all dangerous curves. Dressed up as a sultry robot, she would be flawless.

I stared at her, my suspicions hardening into certainty.

She smoothed down her dress, swaggering towards me with an arrogant tilt of her hips.

"You play the part well. I'll give you that," she sneered. "But if you don't cut the crazy, I'll have security escort you out."

Just then, the HR manager, Henry Harris, burst in, breathless.

"This is Emily Carter," he gasped, "the Chairman's daughter. And Mr. Reed's wife."

The woman froze. Then, with exaggerated realization, she turned to me. "Oh! I had no idea who this incredibly rude person was."

"My apologies, Mrs. Reed," she said, batting her eyelashes with an innocence that was utterly unconvincing.

My anger flared.

I slammed my purse on her desk, ready to tell her to get the hell out, when she suddenly flinched. She backed away, her eyes instantly welling with tears.

"Ms. Carter, what did I do to upset you? You just stormed in here, and I..."

"What's all the commotion? What's going on here?"