Page 2 of In His Name

"They can't," I protest, the words feeling hollow even to my own ears. "They don't know where I am, they're probably afraid?—"

"They know exactly where you are," Dante says, his grip on my shoulders tightening slightly. "I've sent them pictures. Updates. Proof of life, as they say. They could have gone to the police. They could have made a public spectacle, demanded your return. They didn't."

This can't be true. My family wouldn't abandon me, wouldn't accept my disappearance so easily. But a seed of doubt takes root—my father's guilty expression as I was taken, the financial troubles that were never fully explained, the quiet desperation that had hung over our home in the months before my abduction.

"You're lying," I say, but there's no conviction in my voice.

"Am I?" Dante moves around to face me, crouching to bring his eyes level with mine. "Hannah, I've never lied to you. I've taken you, claimed you, marked you as mine—but I've never deceived you. Your family made their choice. They chose financial security over you. They've moved on. Your father'sdebts are paid. Your mother has a new car. Your sister Emma is applying to universities without the burden of tuition concerns."

Each detail lands like a physical blow. How would he know these things if he hadn't been in contact with them? The thought of my family continuing their lives, accepting material improvements purchased with my freedom, makes me physically ill.

"Your friends have moved on too," Dante continues relentlessly. "That girl—what was her name? Lily? She has a new best friend. Your professors barely noticed your absence. There's always another eager art student to replace the ones who drop out. The world didn't stop when you left it, Hannah. It didn't even pause."

I close my eyes, unable to bear his gaze any longer, but he takes my chin in his hand, forcing me to look at him. "No retreating," he says. "No hiding. Face the truth. No one is coming for you. No one is searching. No one is waiting for your return. There is only me. Only us."

"Please stop," I whisper, tears welling despite my determination not to cry in front of him.

"I'm not being cruel, Hannah. I'm being kind. The greatest kindness is truth, even when it hurts." His thumb brushes away a tear that escapes despite my efforts. "Once you accept that your old life is truly gone, that those people have moved on without you, you can finally embrace what you are now. What we are together."

The worst part is that his words resonate with fears I've tried to suppress. As months passed with no rescue, no intervention, I've wondered if I've been forgotten, if my absence has healed over like a wound in the lives of those I left behind. The thought is unbearable, yet increasingly plausible as time stretches on.

"Even if what you say is true," I manage, my voice trembling, "it doesn't change who I am. Inside, I'm still me. I still have my thoughts, my memories, my?—"

"Your what?" Dante interrupts. "Your identity? Let's examine that too. What made you 'Hannah' before? Your studies? Abandoned. Your art? You haven't created anything in months. Your relationships? Severed. Your independence? Surrendered." He leans closer, his breath warm against my face. "The Hannah you're clinging to is a ghost, a memory fading more each day. The only real Hannah is the one sitting before me now—my Hannah, my possession, my wife."

I shake my head, but the denial feels weak, unconvincing even to myself. Who am I now, if not Dante's captive? What defines me beyond the boundaries he's set, the role he's forced upon me? My sense of self feels suddenly fragile, insubstantial, like fog that dissipates when grasped.

"I can see you understanding," Dante says, his voice softer now, almost hypnotic. "I can see the acceptance beginning. It's beautiful to witness, Hannah. Your surrender not just of body but of mind."

"No," I whisper, but it's a reflexive protest, lacking conviction. "I'm not just…I can't be just..."

"Just mine?" He completes the thought, smiling. "But you are. Wholly, completely, irrevocably mine. And once you truly accept that, you'll find peace. The struggle is what causes your suffering, Hannah. The resistance, the clinging to a past that no longer exists, to a self that has been transformed."

His words wrap around me like silk cords, beautiful and suffocating. There's a terrible logic to them, a persuasive power that finds purchase in the cracks of my already weakened defenses. What if he's right? What if everyone has moved on? What if the only reality that matters now is the one Dante has created for me—for us?

"I want to show you something else," Dante says, rising to retrieve something from his pocket. He returns with a small velvet box, opening it to reveal a delicate gold locket. "This is for you. A gift to mark this moment of clarity."

He removes the locket, opening it to show me what's inside. On one side is a tiny photograph of me, taken recently within the mansion. On the other side, an engraving: "Dante Severino’s.”

"To remind you of the truth," he says, moving behind me to fasten it around my neck. "To help you when doubt creeps in, when the old delusions try to reassert themselves."

The necklace feels heavy against my skin, the metal cold. Another marking, another claim, but this one seems to reach deeper, to touch not just my body but my sense of self. Property. Is that truly all I am now?

"Say it," Dante urges, his hands on my shoulders again, his lips close to my ear. "Say what you are."

I remain silent, some last vestige of resistance holding the words back. His grip tightens, not painfully but with unmistakable intent.

"Say it, Hannah. Accept it. Embrace it."

"I am..." My voice breaks, the admission feeling like surrender of something fundamental, something I've protected through all the physical violations. "I am yours."

"My what?" he presses, relentless.

A tear slides down my cheek, unchecked. "Your property."

His arms encircle me from behind, pulling me against his chest in a parody of comfort. “No,” he breathes, satisfaction evident in his voice. “You are myeverything. Mine in every way. And you always will be."

As he holds me, as his words sink into my consciousness, I feel something essential crumbling inside me—the core of resistance, of identity, of hope that has sustained me through these months of captivity. The Hannah who entered thismansion—bright, defiant, certain of herself and her future—seems increasingly distant, increasingly unreal. In her place is someone new, someone shaped by Dante's will, someone for whom resistance feels not just futile but increasingly meaningless.

---