Over the next two weeks, Garrett escalated.

Desperate to shatter "my" mask of calm, he deployed every humiliation he could think of.

One morning, Vivian took a single sip of the seafood risotto "I'd" spent two hours making and wrinkled her nose. "Garrett, this is too hot. And it tastes off. Is Serena trying to mess with me?"

Garrett's face darkened. He swept his arm across the table, sending the steaming bowl crashing to the floor.

Porcelain shattered. Scalding liquid splashed across "my" shins, the skin flushing red instantly.

"Serena, you can't even make a simple dish? Are you useless? Do it again!" He was shouting, eyes locked on "my" face, hunting for any flicker of pain or anger.

But he was destined for disappointment.

"I" didn't so much as flinch—as if the burned skin belonged to someone else entirely.

"I" simply knelt, pulled out a cloth, and carefully wiped the mess from the floor.

"I'm sorry, honey. I didn't get the temperature right disturbed Vivian. I'll make something lighter right away. Please give me a moment."

"I" looked up with that same immaculate smile, then rose and walked calmly into the kitchen.

Garrett watched "me" disappear without the slightest tremor of emotion, and something in his chest clenched like a waterlogged sponge. He was suffocating.

That weekend, he invited a group of his trust-fund friends over for dinner, determined to break "me" once and for all.

In front of everyone, he seated Vivian in the hostess chair and directed "me" to open wine, pour drinks—even peel shrimp for Vivian.

Vivian, drunk on her own power, deliberately spat shrimp shells onto the tablecloth and "accidentally" knocked over a glass of red wine. Dark liquid bloomed across "my" white couture dress.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry! I really didn't mean to!" Vivian covered her mouth, eyes glittering with provocation.

The trust-fund crowd exchanged glances, waiting for the once-proud Whitmore heiress to finally crack.

Garrett sipped his wine and watched "me" coldly, like a hunter waiting for a cornered rabbit to bite.

But "I" simply picked up a napkin and elegantly blotted the wine from the table.

"It's nothing, Vivian. It's just a dress. I'm glad you're not startled."

"I" smiled warmly, then turned to Garrett. "Honey, let me go change so I don't spoil the mood."

Ten minutes later, "I" reappeared in a fresh outfit, carrying a perfectly arranged fruit platter.

The living room went dead silent. The expressions on those smirking faces had shifted from contempt to disbelief. This wasn't grace. This was an absolute absence of self-respect.

Even Garrett's knuckles had gone white around his wine glass.

Every punch he threw landed on empty air. The impotence of it was driving him insane.

He even used their third wedding anniversary to twist the knife. He took the diamond necklace he'd originally bought for "me"—a piece called "Enchantress"—and clasped it around Vivian's neck right in front of "me."

"I" didn't object. Instead, "I" helpfully adjusted the clasp at the back of Vivian's neck and offered a compliment: "You have wonderful taste, honey. The cut really complements Vivian's skin tone. It suits her much better than it would suit me."

"Serena, are you out of your mind?"

The final straw came when Vivian, testing the absolute limit, deliberately knocked over and shattered an antique vase—the one "my" mother had left "me." The only thing that truly mattered.

Garrett stared at the porcelain shards scattered across the floor. Something inside him snapped. He lunged forward and clamped his hands around "my" throat, eyes blazing red, like an animal that had lost all reason.

"Say something! That was your mother's! Why aren't you angry? Why aren't you crying? Do you not care about me or this marriage at all?"

"My" feet left the ground. "My" face paled from the lack of oxygen. But those lips—still curved in that smile, precise to the millimeter.

"I'm not angry, honey. The vase was broken and can't be fixed. As long as you're happy, that's all that matters."

"My" voice distorted slightly from the pressure on "my" vocal cords, but the tone remained tender—tender enough to make his skin crawl.

Garrett released "me" as if he'd been electrocuted, stumbling back two steps, staring at "me" like I was something inhuman.

"You're insane... you're absolutely insane!" He gasped for air, ripped off his tie. "Divorce! Serena, I want a divorce! I can't stand another second of you!"

He was sure that the word "divorce" would finally crack the facade. That "I" would crumble, cling to his legs, beg him to stay.

After all, everyone knew—Serena Whitmore loved Garrett Ashford with every last shred of dignity she had.

And yet.

"I" calmly straightened "my" rumpled collar, smoothed "my" hair, and walked to the study.

Less than a minute later, "I" emerged with a document, presenting it with both hands.

"Of course, honey. Here's the divorce agreement. I've already signed. Asset division follows the prenup exactly—I leave with nothing."

Garrett stared at the signature. "Serena Whitmore"—bold, fluid, without a moment's hesitation.

His pupils contracted violently. His heart seized as if crushed by an invisible fist.

"You... you already had this prepared?"

"Yes, honey. Whenever you're ready, so am I." "I" smiled.

In that moment, the fortress of ego and the sick need for control that Garrett had built over years was demolished by "my" absolute, terrifying serenity.

His eyes went red. He snatched the agreement and tore it to shreds, hurling the confetti into "my" face.

"You want a divorce? Not that easy! Serena, you'll never escape me! I'll wear you down in this house until the day you die!"

He stormed out like a gambler who'd just lost everything.

Meanwhile, in the Maldives, I watched Garrett's contorted face on the screen and stretched luxuriously.

"Honey, is this grape sweet?" The gorgeous mixed-race guy with the six-pack held out a peeled grape.

I bit into it, gave his abs an appreciative squeeze, and grinned like the cat who ate the canary. "Yes. And the really fun part is about to start."

I opened Unit 001's backend control panel.

Watching Garrett's pathetic little tantrum, I dragged the [Obedience] parameter from 100% straight down to 0%.

And activated [Hidden Sarcastic Mode].

Garrett, since you were so desperate to see my emotions—the show was just getting started.

The next morning, Garrett emerged from the guest room with dark circles under his eyes, still radiating the leftover fury of a night of heavy drinking.

He'd spent the night at a bar and fully expected to come home to "Serena" perched on the couch with red-rimmed eyes, waiting for him. Instead, the house was pitch dark. She hadn't even left a light on.

Irritated, he loosened his tie, walked to the dining room, and pulled out his chair with the ease of habit.

"Serena, where's my black coffee? And Vivian's stomach is sensitive—go make her some avocado smoothie."

Silence. A full ten seconds of it.

No soft "Of course, honey." No quiet clink of a coffee cup meeting the table.

Garrett frowned and looked up.

"I" was seated at the far end of the dining table, holding a steaming glass of milk, sipping it at a leisurely pace.

Hearing his orders, "I" didn't even lift an eyelid. Just let a few words fall out, flat and final:

"Want coffee? Pour it yourself. Want food? Make it yourself. I'm not your hired maid, and I'm certainly not a lapdog for Vivian."

Garrett's palm slammed the table. His eyes went wide with disbelief.

"Serena, did you take something? You used to love playing servant!"

"I" set down the milk, raised "my" head. The face that had always worn a flawless smile now held nothing but undisguised mockery.

"Garrett, do you have some kind of misunderstanding about the word 'love'? What I was doing before was giving you the disability-care treatment. Now that you're clearly able-bodied—and energetic enough to be rolling around with other women—I'm sure a high-difficulty task like pouring coffee is well within your capabilities."

The words landed like a slap across his face.

He froze.

Three years of marriage, and Serena had never once spoken to him like this. She was always meek, always yielding. Even when he screamed in her face, she'd just cry silently.

What had gotten into her? Was she possessed?

Right on cue, Vivian drifted out of the master bedroom wearing one of Garrett's shirts—collar pulled deliberately low, exposing a trail of marks on her neck.

"Garrett, what's going on? All this shouting first thing in the morning." Vivian draped herself against him, eyes sliding to "me" with their usual challenge. "Serena, Garrett was up so late taking care of me. Can't you show a little understanding?"

Before, the AI locked in "Graceful Devotion" mode would have quietly withdrawn.

But now—[Obedience 0%] plus [Sarcastic Mode 100%]—"I" was operating at full combat power.

"I" looked Vivian up and down. Then laughed.

"Vivian, isn't that the shirt Garrett wore to the pig farm inspection last month? He got a bit of manure on it. I washed it three times and still couldn't get the smell out. Looks like it fits you perfectly, though. Really matches the vibe."

Vivian's face turned to stone. She ducked her head and sniffed the shirt in panic, a flash of alarm crossing her eyes.

"You—how dare you!" she shrieked, eyes instantly glistening, turning to Garrett with wounded doe eyes. "Garrett, look at what she's saying to me..."

Garrett erupted, jabbing his finger in "my" face. "Serena, apologize to Vivian right now! Who do you think you are, talking like that?"

"I" rose gracefully and walked right up to him, looking down with the calm authority of a queen.

"Who am I? I'm your legal spouse. Your lawfully wedded wife. And she—"

"I" extended one finger and pointed it, without mercy, at Vivian.

"—is a homewrecker who knew exactly what she was doing when she walked through that door. Garrett, is your skull filled with seawater? You've got a perfectly good life and you're out picking up someone else's trash like it's treasure?"

"Shut up!" Garrett was seeing red. His hand flew up—aiming a vicious slap at "my" face.

Crack!

The sound echoed through the dining room.

But the one who got hit wasn't "me."

In the fraction of a second before his hand connected, "I" caught his wrist with a reaction speed no human could match.

Then—one clean, ringing slap across Garrett Ashford's face.

His head snapped to the side. A thin line of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.

He was stunned. Completely stunned.

Vivian screamed and clapped both hands over her mouth.

"Garrett, I've been holding back for a very long time."

"I" shook "my" hand off as if disgusted by his skin, voice cold as a blade dipped in poison.

"Before, I put up with you because I felt like it. Now I don't feel like it anymore, and you're not even worth the air you breathe."

"You... you hit me?!" Garrett clutched his face, eyes blazing.

"I hit you. Need me to pick a better day for it next time?" "I" smirked. "What—you can parade your mistress around the house, but I can't defend myself? Garrett, do you honestly think every woman on earth exists to orbit you? Take a good look in the mirror. Strip away the Ashford name, and what exactly do you have to show for yourself?"

"That business acumen you're so proud of? You managed to lose $300 million on a simple acquisition—and your father-in-law had to step in and clean up the mess."

"Or maybe it's your fragile ego? Every time someone humiliates you out there, you come home and throw a tantrum at your wife. You call yourself a man?"

"I" didn't miss. Every word found its mark—ripping open Garrett's most guarded, most shameful wounds and leaving them exposed.

His face cycled through colors—fury to white, white to ashen gray.

His chest heaved. His pointing finger trembled.

"Get out... get out of this house!" he screamed, voice cracking.

"I" gave him one last, contemptuous look, then turned toward the bedroom.

"Relax, you don't need to throw me out. Staying another second in this toxic dump makes me nauseous."

Five minutes later, "I" walked out dragging a suitcase.

"Garrett, I've drafted a new divorce agreement and sent it to your email. This time, I'm not just filing for divorce—I'm suing for damages on grounds of marital infidelity. Better get your legal team ready. I'll see you in court."

"I" walked out the front door without a backward glance.

SLAM.

The door cut off Garrett's furious howling and the sound of things being smashed to pieces.