I want to argue. I want to stand my ground and prove that I'm not a piece of actual collateral. But the look in Dante's eyes stops me. Something tells me I need to listen.
This time.
I spin on my heels and dismiss them before they can say another word. I sit down next to Mila. “Can I color with you?” I ask.
“Sure,” Mila smiles.
I glance up and watch Dante leave the room. He pauses and looks over his shoulder at me. I can’t explain what it is, but I get the feeling he’s warning me.
I think I’m going to heed that warning—just this once.
9
HANNAH
Iwake up in a room that belongs in an architectural magazine.
Everything is clean lines and muted colors from the gray silk curtains to the black furniture. It's beautiful in that soulless, expensive way that screams interior designer rather than human inhabitant. A beautiful black and white shag rug marks the sitting area in front of the fireplace, with another near the bed. The room is opulent and truly stunning.
The bed isenormous and ridiculously comfortable, which only makes me more annoyed. I don't want to be comfortable here. I don't want to sleep well in my gilded prison or appreciate the thread count of these sheets.
I turn to check the time and frown when I see a folded piece of paper with my name written in bold, masculine handwriting.
“What the hell?”
When had that been put there?
My stomach clenches as I unfold it.
House Rules For your safety and the safety of others
1. You are not permitted to leave the estate grounds without escort
2. No phone calls, emails, or outside communication without permission
3. All meals will be provided—do not enter the kitchen unsupervised
4. Certain areas of the house are off-limits (marked clearly)
5. Staff have been instructed not to assist with communication or transportation
6. Cooperation ensures everyone's wellbeing
The bottom is signed with a simple "D" in that same confident script.
I stare at the list, fury building in my chest like a pressure cooker about to explode. This isn't protection—it's imprisonment with better thread count.
But the fury is quickly replaced by a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with anger and everything to do with the secret I'm carrying. I press a hand to my stomach and breathe in through my nose.
I need to tell him.
The thought hits me like a freight train. Dante has a right to know he's going to be a father again. Maybe if I tell him about the baby, he'll let me go. Maybe he'll realize that keeping me here puts his unborn child at risk too.
Or maybe he'll see it as even more leverage to use against my father.
The idea of lying crosses my mind—tell him I'm pregnant with another man's baby, make myself less valuable as a bargaining chip. But the thought dies before it's fully formed. Dante isn't stupid, and if he finds out I lied about something this important, I have no idea how he would react.
A man who can order someone's death probably doesn't take deception well.
