Page 1 of In His Name

CHAPTER 1

Hannah

Ihaven't seen sunlight in three days. After the incident with Michael, Dante ordered the automatic blinds on my windows sealed shut—punishment for my "misplaced compassion," as he called it. The darkness is wearing on me, making time stretch and contract in unpredictable ways. My circadian rhythm is unraveling, sleep coming in disjointed patches that leave me disoriented and foggy. I think this is deliberate. Dante understands that physical deprivation—of light, of proper sleep, of regular meals—weakens the mind's defenses. The mental walls I've maintained, the inner sanctuary where the real Hannah still exists, are beginning to show cracks. Like water finding the weakest point in a dam, Dante's influence seeps through, contaminating the only part of me I've managed to keep separate from his possession.

I don't know what happened to Michael. Dante never mentioned him again, and I've been afraid to ask. The not knowing is another form of torture—my imagination conjuringscenarios each more horrible than the last. Sometimes I dream of him, his desperate eyes pleading with me for an intervention I couldn't provide. I wake gasping, drenched in sweat, guilt coiling in my stomach like a living thing.

The door opens without warning, artificial light from the hallway spilling into my darkened room. I squint against the sudden brightness, raising a hand to shield my sensitive eyes. Dante's silhouette fills the doorway, tall and imposing, before he steps inside and closes the door behind him, returning the room to near-darkness. Only the soft glow of a lamp in the corner provides any illumination, casting long shadows that make the familiar space feel alien and threatening.

"Good evening, Hannah," he says, his voice deceptively gentle. "Or perhaps I should say good afternoon. It's difficult to tell in here, isn't it?"

I sit up straighter on the bed where I've been listlessly lying, trying to orient myself. "What time is it?" I ask, hating how small my voice sounds, how the simple question reveals my disorientation.

"Does it matter?" Dante approaches, sitting on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body. "Time is just another construct, another way we try to impose order on chaos. In here, there is only us. Only now."

His words send a chill through me. This isn't his usual possessive dialogue. There's something different in his tone, something calculated and methodical that frightens me more than his explosive rage ever could.

"I've been thinking about you," he continues, reaching out to touch my face. I force myself not to flinch. "About us. About your continued resistance."

"I haven't resisted," I say quickly, fear making my heart stutter. "I've done everything you've asked."

His smile is gentle, patronizing. "Physically, yes. Your body has submitted beautifully. But your mind..." His fingers trail down to tap my temple lightly. "Your mind still harbors delusions of escape, of a life beyond these walls, beyond my possession."

I say nothing, terrified by his accuracy. Despite everything, I have clung to the hope of someday being free, of returning to the life that was stolen from me. It's a hope I've kept buried deep, sharing it with no one, barely acknowledging it even to myself.

"Your silence confirms it," Dante says, his hand now moving to stroke my hair, the gesture almost tender. "You still believe that this is temporary, that someday you'll leave me, return to your ordinary little life with your ordinary little family."

"I don't—" I begin, but he presses a finger to my lips, silencing me.

"No lies between us, Hannah. Not tonight. Tonight is about truth, about reality, about acceptance." He stands suddenly, moving to turn on the main lights, flooding the room with harsh brightness that makes me wince. "Look at me."

I raise my eyes to his, blinking against the light. He's dressed impeccably as always, his dark suit tailored to perfection, his hair precisely styled. A man in complete control, not just of himself but of everything—and everyone—around him.

"How long have you been here with me?" he asks.

The question throws me. I've been trying to keep track of time, but the days have blurred together, especially recently. "Eight months," I guess, though it might be more. "Maybe nine."

"Nine months and seventeen days," he corrects. "Almost the length of a full-term pregnancy. Appropriate, in a way—you've been reborn in this time, transformed from the naive girl I claimed into something more refined, more worthy of my attention."

I swallow hard, fighting to maintain my composure. "I'm still the same person," I say, the words coming out stronger than I expected. A small defiance, but one I cling to.

Dante smiles, but the expression doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you? Let's see." He moves to a hidden panel in the wall, pressing his palm against it. The panel slides open, revealing a screen. "I had this compiled for tonight. A reminder of who you were, compared to who you are now."

The screen flickers to life, showing images that make my breath catch in my throat. It's me—but a version of me I barely recognize. I'm laughing with friends on a university campus, my face open and carefree. Another image: painting in an art studio, brow furrowed in concentration. Another: walking down a street with my sister, both of us talking animatedly about something now forgotten.

"That girl," Dante says, gesturing to the images, "no longer exists. She was ordinary, unremarkable, destined for a life of mediocrity. Look at her. Really look."

I can't stop staring at my own face, at the unguarded expressions, the easy smiles, the light in my eyes that has long since been extinguished. It's like looking at a stranger, yet one I desperately miss, one whose absence is a physical ache inside me.

"Now," Dante continues, pressing another button that changes the images. "Look at who you've become."

The new pictures are surveillance footage from the mansion. Me walking through the halls, eyes downcast. Me sitting at dinner, posture perfect but expression vacant. Me in bed with Dante, his body covering mine, my face turned away from the camera but the resignation in my body language unmistakable.

"You see the difference?" he asks, moving to stand behind me, his hands resting on my shoulders. "The girl in the first images was nothing—a sketch, an outline waiting to be filled in.What you are now has depth, significance. You exist because I give you existence. You matter because I decided you matter."

"That's not true," I whisper, but doubt creeps in, insidious and cold. The Hannah in those first images feels impossibly distant, like a character from a movie I watched long ago rather than the person I once was. "I had a life before you. I had people who loved me, dreams, plans?—"

"Did you?" he interrupts, his voice still gentle but with an edge that cuts. "Let's examine that. Your family sold you to pay a debt. Your father traded you for his own financial salvation. Your mother didn't stop him. Your siblings haven't searched for you."

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