Page 23 of In His Name

The mistake is so simple I almost miss it. A maintenance worker, repairing something in the hallway outside my suite, leaves his access card on the floor when he steps away briefly. From my position near the partially open door—a privilege recently granted for "good behavior"—I can see the small rectangle of plastic lying forgotten on the polished marble. My heart stutters, then races. An access card. Freedom. Possibility. For weeks I've been playing the role of compliant captive, the gradually accepting wife, building Dante's trust increment by careful increment. The performance has earned me small rewards—the partially open door, fewer guards, slightly less surveillance. Not because Dante truly trusts me, but because he believes I'm beginning to accept my imprisonment, to surrender to his ownership. And now this—a gift of random chance, a key to doors that have been locked against me for almost a year.

I freeze, my mind spinning with calculations. The guard who usually stands outside my door has been reduced to hourly check-ins—another "reward" for my improved behavior. The maintenance worker has turned the corner, speaking with someone out of sight. The corridor is momentarily empty. The card lies there, innocuous and life-changing, just beyond my reach.

If I take it, if I'm caught...

The images flash unbidden—Rivera's broken neck, Elena's screams echoing through the mansion before she fell silent forever. Dante's rage, his punishments, the consequences that would inevitably follow a failed escape attempt. The last time, he tattooed his initials on my neck and wrist, marked me more permanently as his possession. What would he do this time? What new horror would he invent to ensure I never tried again?

But if I don't take it, if I ignore this chance...

A different set of images: months, years, decades spent as Dante's possession. My body used as he desires, my mind gradually surrendering to the reality he's constructed, my self slowly dissolving in the acid of captivity. Children, perhaps, binding me to him through biological ties I could never sever. A lifetime of ownership, of control, of existence as an object rather than a person.

The decision makes itself. My body moves before conscious thought completes, hand darting out through the partially open door, fingers closing around the plastic card, pulling it back inside my suite. The entire action takes perhaps three seconds. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain the surveillance microphones must pick it up, that security must already be rushing toward my room.

Nothing happens. No alarms, no running footsteps, no immediate consequences. I clutch the card in my tremblinghand, pressing it against my chest as if it might absorb into my skin, become part of me, undetectable and inseparable.

What now? I have a key, but no plan. No understanding of the mansion's layout beyond the few areas Dante has allowed me to see. No knowledge of the security systems, the guard rotations, the perimeter defenses. Just this small piece of plastic and the desperate hope it represents.

I slip the card into the inner pocket of my dress—a design feature Dante allows for handkerchiefs or lipstick, not escape tools. My mind races, sorting through limited options. The guard will return for his hourly check in…I glance at the clock. Seventeen minutes. The maintenance worker will notice his missing card…when? Immediately upon his return? At the end of his shift? I have no way to know.

Logic suggests waiting until night, when the mansion is quieter, when movement might be less noticeable. But the card might be missed by then, security heightened, the opportunity lost. No—if I'm going to try, it must be now, in this moment of unexpected possibility.

I move to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, trying to calm my racing pulse. In the mirror, Dante's initials stare back at me from my neck, a permanent reminder of the consequences of failure. I touch the mark lightly, steeling myself against fear. One chance. One desperate attempt to reclaim my life.

I return to the door, peering through the narrow opening. The hallway remains empty, the maintenance worker still out of sight. The guard won't return for his check for another fifteen minutes. Now or never.

Taking a deep breath, I step through the door, the access card clutched in my sweating palm. The hallway stretches before me, long and imposing with its marble floors and expensive artwork. I've walked this corridor many times, but always withDante at my side, always with his hand at the small of my back, guiding, controlling, possessing. Walking it alone feels forbidden, transgressive, terrifying.

I move quickly but quietly, bare feet silent on the cold marble. My mind conjures a map based on fragmented memories, observations, overheard conversations. Left at the end of this hallway, then right past the small sitting room, then down the service stairs that should lead to the kitchen area. From there…from there I'd need to improvise, to find a door, a window, any exit from this gilded prison.

The access card feels hot in my hand, a burning promise of possibility. I reach the end of the hallway, pause, listen. Nothing. No voices, no footsteps, no indication that my absence has been noticed. I turn left, heart pounding in my throat.

The sitting room appears ahead—empty, thankfully. Beyond it, the discreet door that should lead to the service stairs. I quicken my pace, hope building with each step that doesn't result in discovery. The door appears solid, heavy, with an electronic card reader mounted beside it. The moment of truth.

I press the access card against the reader, holding my breath. A second passes, stretching into eternity. Then—a soft beep, a green light, the click of the lock disengaging. It works. It actually works.

My hand trembles as I push the door open, revealing a utilitarian stairwell beyond—concrete steps, metal railings, fluorescent lighting. The stark contrast to the opulent corridors of the main house is jarring, but welcome. This is a space for staff, for function rather than display, for movement rather than observation.

I slip through the door, letting it close softly behind me. The stairwell smells of cleaning products and faintly of cooking odors from below. I descend quickly, my bare feet cold against the concrete, my breath coming in short, controlled gasps. Threeflights down, the stairs end at another door. Another card reader.

Again, I press the stolen card against the electronic eye. Again, the blessed beep and green light, the sound of freedom moving one step closer. Beyond this door should be the kitchen area, the service entrance, paths to the outside world that Dante has kept hidden from me.

The kitchen is larger than I imagined, industrial in its design, with stainless steel surfaces gleaming under bright lights. Two staff members work at a far counter, their backs to me, voices low as they discuss dinner preparations. I freeze, pressing myself against the wall just inside the door, praying they won't turn, won't see me.

My eyes frantically scan the space, looking for another exit. There—a door on the far side of the kitchen, past the staff but clearly marked with an exit sign. If I can cross the kitchen without being noticed, if that door leads outside or to a corridor that does...

I take a deep breath, then move silently along the wall, keeping as much distance as possible between myself and the working staff. Their conversation continues, something about wine pairings and Dante's preferences. Twenty feet to the door. Fifteen. Ten.

One of the staff laughs suddenly, the sound making me jump. But they don't turn, don't notice the ghost slipping through their domain. Five feet to the door. My hand extends, grasping the handle. It turns. No card reader this time, no electronic barrier. Just a simple push-bar door that swings open at my touch.

Beyond lies a short corridor, and at its end, miracle of miracles, a door with a small window showing daylight beyond. Actual daylight, unfiltered by bulletproof glass, unframed by locked windows. My pace quickens, hope surging almost painfully in my chest. Could it really be this simple? Thisstraightforward? After months of captivity, of planning, of failed attempts and brutal punishments?

The final door has another card reader. My hands shake so badly now that it takes two attempts to align the stolen card properly. The reader flashes green. The lock clicks. I push through into blinding sunlight, fresh air, the scent of grass and trees and freedom.

I'm in a service yard of some kind—delivery trucks could pull up here, staff could take breaks, maintenance equipment is stored in a small shed. A high wall surrounds it, but there's a gate. A gate that might lead to a road, to a street, to help. I run toward it, bare feet slapping against concrete, heart thundering in my ears. The gate has a keypad, not a card reader. My stolen access won't work here.

But the gate isn't fully closed. There's a gap—perhaps eighteen inches wide—where it hasn't quite latched. Enough for a person to slip through. Enough for me, thin from months of captivity, to squeeze my body between the heavy metal panels into whatever lies beyond.

I push through, the rough edge of the gate scraping my arm, drawing blood I barely notice. On the other side is a narrow service road winding down toward what must be the main entrance to the estate. Too exposed—I'd be seen instantly, recaptured before I made it halfway to the gate. But to my right, a dense line of trees offers concealment, the possibility of moving undetected along the property boundary until I find another way out.

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