My Assistant Cried Rape And Named My Husband — But My Husband Is A Robot Chapter 07
Her logic almost made me laugh out loud.
Apparently, my kindness had graduated into a weapon of crime.
The detective’s expression was complicated. But without any further evidence, he still turned to me.
The look meant: Anything you’d like to say?
“Detective, would you mind if I logged into my car’s dashcam cloud?”
He nodded.
I provided the account credentials and the two-factor code. The tech logged into my vehicle’s Sentry Mode backend from his laptop.
My car had a full 360-degree recording system installed—front, back, left, right, plus a cabin-interior camera. Five HD lenses, complete coverage.
And I had it set to continuous recording, with a rolling thirty-day cloud archive.
The moment the footage came up, every eye in the interrogation room locked onto the screen.
First, the routine commute videos.
Every morning, seven-thirty, my car would pull out from the underground parking garage.
Chloe would already be waiting at the garage exit.
I never asked her to. She just parked herself there every day, timing my departure, blocking the exit.
Open the passenger door, climb in, not even a greeting.
The tech pulled the timeline back eight days.
That day, I’d gotten out at a coffee shop to grab an iced latte. Only Chloe had been left in the car.
Thinking I was gone, she immediately pulled out her phone and started a video call.
The in-cabin audio was crisp.
“Kyle, listen. That stupid bitch Vivian Lane just got promoted again. She pulled tens of thousands in bonuses this year. Every damn day she’s putting on airs in front of me. Fancy car, designer bags. But that so-called husband of hers? Nobody’s ever seen him. I bet you anything he’s shady as hell.”
“She loves that husband of hers, right? So we hit her where it hurts—we hit the husband. Big payday.”
“We say her husband raped me. Everyone already knows he’s a domestic abuser. She’s a woman in Silicon Valley—it’s a small circle, she’s not going to want a scandal that costs her her job. We shake her down for a fat one. A million. No—two million!”
“Once we get the money, we buy a place in Vegas. Never have to answer to anyone ever again.”
Kyle’s voice came through from the other side:
“All right, babe. You keep your eyes on her. I’ll handle the setup.”
The recording ended.
The room was silent as a tomb.
The blood had drained from Chloe’s face.
The detective turned, expressionless, to look at her.
“Anything else you want to explain?”
Diane Whitmore was quick to switch tack. She scurried to her daughter’s side and started smacking her on the back.
“You stupid girl! Why the hell are you still tangled up with that loser?! I told you to marry that tech investor’s son over in Woodside! That piece of trash has ruined you!”
The detective raised a hand. Two officers moved in.
“Chloe Whitmore, you are suspected of first-degree extortion, false reporting of a crime, and embezzlement. You are hereby placed under arrest.”
Something drained out of Chloe. Her legs went slack, and she collapsed to the floor.
Diane burst into open, wailing sobs.
That earlier energy—the quarter of a million in damages she’d been screaming for less than an hour ago—had vanished without a trace.
I stood in the middle of the room, cuffs still on my wrists.
I watched this family fall apart in real time, and felt nothing.
Just tired.
When the officer came over to unlock my cuffs, he even gave me an apologetic little smile.
“Ms. Lane. I am so sorry.”
I rotated my wrist. Didn’t say anything.
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