Page 19 of In His Name

As we pull up to the red carpet entrance, I check her appearance one final time. "Remember," I say, my voice low and intimate, "you are Hannah Severino tonight. My wife. My most prized possession. You are not to leave my side..”

The chauffeur opens my door, and I exit first, buttoning my tuxedo jacket before extending my hand back into the car for Hannah. She emerges gracefully, the red dress catching the light of the camera flashes that immediately begin. Her hand rests on mine exactly as instructed—not too tight, suggesting dependency, not too loose, suggesting reluctance. Perfect poise, perfect presentation.

We pause briefly for photographs—a necessary evil in these social circles. Hannah stands slightly angled toward me, her body language communicating clear belonging. My hand rests possessively at the small of her back, visible ownership that no one could misinterpret.

Inside the grand ballroom, conversations pause as we enter, gazes turning toward us with undisguised curiosity. This is Hannah's first public appearance since becoming my wife. The rumors have circulated—whispers about her acquisition, about the true nature of our relationship, about her status as captiverather than spouse. Tonight will put those rumors to rest, or at least provide plausible alternative narratives.

"Dante!" Francesco Castellano approaches immediately, his smile not reaching his eyes. "And this must be the mysterious Mrs. Severino we've heard so much about." His gaze travels over Hannah with unconcealed appreciation, lingering on the tattoo visible at her neck, recognition dawning in his expression.

"Francesco," I acknowledge coolly. "Yes, my wife, Hannah. Hannah, this is Francesco Castellano, a business associate."

"Pleased to meet you," Hannah says, her voice soft but clear, her eyes meeting his only briefly before lowering appropriately. The perfect balance of politeness without encouragement.

"The pleasure is entirely mine," Francesco replies, reaching for her hand as if to kiss it.

I intercept the movement smoothly, redirecting his attention with a question about his recent ventures in the shipping industry. Hannah remains at my side, her hand now resting in the crook of my arm, her body angled slightly behind mine—a clear signal that she is not available for further interaction.

As we move through the ballroom, I note the reactions—the whispers behind jeweled hands, the speculative glances, the assessment and reevaluation taking place as society adjusts its understanding of my relationship with Hannah. She performs flawlessly, maintaining the delicate balance of elegant submission that I've cultivated in her, speaking only when directly addressed, her responses perfect in their brevity and appropriate content.

"Severino," Antonio Russo materializes before us, champagne in hand, his youthful arrogance evident in his posture. "Finally decided to share your bride with the rest of us, I see." His eyes linger on Hannah with the entitled appreciation of a man who has never been denied what he desires.

"Sharing implies transfer of access," I reply, my tone pleasant but carrying an undercurrent of warning. "I'm merely allowing her to be seen, Antonio. Nothing more."

He laughs, the sound forced. "Always so literal, Dante. I simply meant it's nice to finally meet the woman who's captured your complete attention these past months." He turns to Hannah directly, breaking protocol. "You must be quite extraordinary, Mrs. Severino, to have distracted Dante from business so thoroughly. Several of us have benefited from his…preoccupation."

Before Hannah can respond, I intervene smoothly. "My wife's extraordinary qualities are evident to anyone with eyes, Antonio. Whether my business decisions have benefited you or not is a matter for private discussion, not a charity gala. If you'll excuse us, I see the Governor waiting to speak with me."

I guide Hannah away, my hand firm at her waist, fingers pressing slightly in approval of her silence during the exchange. She's learning when to defer to me, when to allow me to manage interactions that might become problematic.

Throughout the evening, I maintain constant physical contact—a hand at her back, fingers intertwined with hers, an arm around her waist. Each touch a declaration of ownership, each positioning of our bodies a statement about our relationship. I feed her small bites from my plate, hold her champagne glass for her to sip from, control even these basic physical functions as public demonstration of her dependence, her submission, her belonging.

The message is received. Conversations with us are brief, deferential, careful to acknowledge the boundaries I've established around Hannah. No one addresses her directly without first engaging with me. No one attempts to separate us, to create private conversation, to establish independent connection with what so clearly belongs to me.

Until Senator Morrison's wife.

A well-meaning socialite with no connection to our world, no understanding of its rules, she approaches Hannah during a momentary separation—I've stepped three feet away to speak with the event organizer about our donation.

"Mrs. Severino," she says warmly, taking Hannah's elbow in friendly fashion. "I've been hoping to meet you all evening. We must have lunch sometime soon—the wives of powerful men need to stick together, don't you think?"

I'm at Hannah's side before the sentence is fully spoken, my hand covering Mrs. Morrison's where it rests on Hannah's arm. "I'm afraid my wife's schedule is quite full," I say, applying gentle but unmistakable pressure until the woman releases her grip. "Perhaps another time."

Mrs. Morrison's eyes widen slightly at whatever she sees in my expression. "Of course," she says, stepping back. "Just a thought. Lovely to meet you both."

Hannah remains perfectly still throughout the exchange, neither encouraging the interaction nor visibly rejecting it. When Mrs. Morrison departs, I lean close to Hannah's ear. "Well handled," I murmur, reward for her passive compliance. "It's almost time to leave."

The remainder of the evening passes without incident. Hannah maintains her performance flawlessly—the perfect, obedient wife, beautiful and reserved, speaking when spoken to, remaining physically connected to me at all times. When we finally depart, the whispers have evolved from speculation about captivity to envy of my possession, from concern about her wellbeing to appreciation of her beauty and composure.

In the car returning home, I allow myself to relax marginally, satisfaction warming my blood. "You did well tonight," I tell Hannah, my hand resting possessively on her thigh, the reddress vibrant even in the dim interior lighting. “It was all I could do to keep from fucking you right there in front of all of them.”

"Thank you," she says, her voice revealing the first hint of fatigue after hours of careful self-monitoring.

"They all saw," I continue, more to myself than to her. "They all understood. You belong to me."

Hannah remains silent, perhaps understanding that these observations require no response. Her performance tonight has reinforced my ownership in the eyes of society, has transformed perception of our relationship from something potentially problematic to something enviable, admirable even.

As we approach the mansion, I allow my hand to slide higher on her thigh. Her breathing quickens, and I can almost see her pulse racing in her through.

My cock is a rod of steel in my pants.

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