Chapter 11
HANNAH
The nausea hits me the moment I open my eyes, rolling through my stomach like a tide I can't escape. I press my face into the pillow, breathing through my mouth until the worst of it passes, then force myself to sit up slowly.
Eight weeks. By my calculations, I'm about eight weeks pregnant, and my body is making sure I don't forget it for even a moment.
I need to see a doctor. The thought has been nagging at me for days, growing more urgent with each wave of morning sickness. I need prenatal vitamins, blood work, all the things responsible pregnant women do to take care of themselves and their babies.
But I'm not exactly free to make my own medical appointments right now.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way downstairs.
It’s early. Really early. Most of the staff won't be awake yet. I’ve been here almost two weeks, and I’ve started to learn the rhythm of the house.
Mila will sleep for another hour at least. It's my favorite time of day here. It’s the brief window when I can pretend this is a normal house where I'm a normal guest instead of a prisoner in designer clothes.
Which hello, I don’t know who’s been doing the shopping for me, but they have good taste. Expensive taste. And I’m not mad about it.
The kitchen smells like coffee and something else—bacon, maybe, or the lingering scent of whatever elaborate dinner the staff prepared last night.
My stomach churns at the rich odors. I would kill for coffee, but I have to resist. This baby already has so much going against it.
If skipping coffee gives the little peanut an advantage, I’ll sacrifice my caffeine addiction.
I head straight for the tea collection, searching for the ginger tea that's become my salvation.
That's when I see him.
Dante stands at the kitchen island, fully dressed despite the early hour, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up when I enter. I catch something dark in his expression before it disappears behind his usual mask of control.
"Morning," he says, his voice rougher than usual.
"Morning." I keep my response neutral, focusing on preparing my tea. The ginger scent is already helping settle my stomach.
"Coffee?" he offers, though he doesn't move toward the machine.
"No, thanks. Tea's fine."
He watches me for a moment, and I wonder if he notices that I haven't touched coffee since I've been here. Probably not. Men don't typically catalog women's beverage preferences, especially when those women are supposed to be temporary inconveniences.
"Sleep well?" he asks.
It's such a normal question, the kind of thing people ask at breakfast tables across the world. But nothing about this situation is normal, and the domesticity of it makes something twist in my chest.
"Fine," I lie.
The truth is I barely slept. I spent most of the night staring at the ceiling, thinking about the baby growing inside me and what it means for my future. Thinking about my father, wondering if he's safe, if he's figured out how to fix whatever mess he's supposedly created.
Thinking about the man standing across from me and how my body responds to him despite everything logical in my brain.
Dante's phone buzzes, and whatever he sees on the screen makes his expression darken further.
"Problem?" I ask before I can stop myself.
"Business."
He disappears into his study without another word, leaving me alone with my tea and my churning thoughts.
I spend the morning with Mila, helping her with a puzzle while trying not to think about how natural this feels. How easy it would be to fall into this routine and let myself believe this could be something more than captivity dressed up in luxury.
But when Mila leaves for a play date, the restlessness hits me full force.
I need answers. I need to know what's happening with my father. When will this nightmare end? What does my future look like?
Do I have a future?
I need to know if Dante has any intention of letting me go, or if I'm going to be trapped here forever while my pregnancy progresses and becomes impossible to hide.
I find him in the library. He's reading something on his laptop with that usual serious expression.
"We need to talk," I say.
He doesn't look up. "About?"
"About when I can go home."
That gets his attention. His blue eyes meet mine. I see something flicker there—surprise, maybe, or annoyance that I'm still fighting this.
"You are home."
"This isn't my home." I step into the room, closing the door behind me. "This is a prison with better interior design."
"I’m still waiting for my money.”
I roll my eyes. “The fact that he hasn’t given you the money should tell you something.”
“What?”
“He doesn’t have it! My father would move heaven and earth for me.”
“I’ve given him an extension but I’m running out of patience.”
“My father's been working for you for twenty years. Why would he steal from you now?”
Dante closes the laptop. "Sit down."
"I don't want to sit down. I want answers."
"Red—"
“Do you believe my father stole from you?”
"The evidence suggests—"
"I'm not asking about evidence. I'm asking what you believe."
He stands up, moving around the desk to face me. "It doesn't matter what I believe. It matters what I can prove."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only answer you're going to get."
Frustration boils over, and I find myself moving closer to him, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"My whole life has been a lie. Do you understand that?
Everything I thought I knew about my father, about our family, about who I am—it's all been built on secrets and half-truths. "
"Welcome to my world."
"I didn't ask to be part of your world!"
"Neither did I." The words come out harsh, unexpected. "You think I wanted this? You think I planned to have Richard Quinn's daughter under my roof, in my life, turning everything upside down?"
The admission catches me off guard. "Then let me go."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
He's standing so close now I can smell that expensive cologne that's haunted my dreams for weeks.
"Because I don’t have my money.”
“I’ll pay you back,” I blurt out. “I have to work to get you your money which means you have to let me go.”
Something in his eyes changes. The way he’s looking at me.
I know that look.
I take a tiny step back.
"Hannah—"
"No." I press my hands against his chest, intending to push him away, but the moment I touch him, everything changes.
The careful control we've both been maintaining for two weeks shatters like glass.
His mouth crashes down on mine. I kiss him back with equal ferocity. All the anger and frustration and unwanted desire I've been suppressing explodes into this moment, this connection that should be wrong but feels like the only honest thing in my life.
My hands twist into the fabric of his shirt.
"This is insane," I gasp against his lips.
"Yes, it is."
But neither of us stops. His hands tangle in my hair, mine claw at his shirt, and we're moving backward until my legs hit something solid—a chair, maybe, or a side table. I don't care.
"Tell me to stop," he breathes against my throat.
I should. I should tell him to stop, should remember that he's holding me prisoner, should think about the baby growing inside me and all the reasons this is a terrible idea.
Instead, I pull his shirt open, buttons scattering across the expensive carpet.
This is anger and need wrapped up in irrational desire.
He lifts me onto the desk, scattering papers and books, his mouth never leaving mine. When his hands find the hem of my blouse, I help him remove it, past caring about propriety or consequences or anything beyond the fire building between us.
"Hannah," he says, and there's something broken in his voice, something that sounds almost like an apology.
"Don't," I whisper. "Don't think. Just feel."
So he does. We both do.
His hands are everywhere—my waist, my back, tangling in my hair as he pulls me closer. I can taste the desperation on his lips. It’s the same wild need that's been building in me for weeks. This is wrong in every possible way, but I can't bring myself to care.
"You're going to be the death of me," he murmurs against my throat, his accent thicker with desire.
"Good," I breathe, arching into him as his mouth finds that spot just below my ear that makes me lose all rational thought.
His hands quickly undo the skinny jeans I’m wearing. I work at his belt with shaking fingers, frustrated by my own clumsiness. Nothing has ever felt this desperate, this necessary.
I lift my weight off the desk while he peels my jeans and panties down my legs. I kick off my shoes and I’m free. Exposed to him in front of the windows that overlook the backyard. Exposed to the guards that could very easily see if they tried.
When he touches me, I cry out, my head falling back as pleasure shoots through me like electricity. He swallows the sound with his mouth, his fingers moving with practiced skill that makes my vision blur.
"I need you," I gasp, the words torn from somewhere deep inside me. "Please, I need—"
"I know what you need," he says, positioning himself between my thighs. "I know exactly what you need."
And he does. When he enters me, it's with a possession that steals my breath. Every thrust is deliberate, calculated to drive me higher. He’s trying to make me forget everything except this moment.
Good.
He’s my salvation and damnation.
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, needing more of everything he's giving me. The desk creaks beneath us but I don't care. Let the whole house hear. Let them know that their boss is claiming his prisoner in ways that have nothing to do with money or debts or family obligations.
"Look at me," he commands when I let my eyes drift closed. "I want to see you."
I force my eyes open, meeting his gaze as he moves inside me. There's something fierce in his expression, something that looks dangerously like possession. Like he's claiming me in ways that go far beyond the physical.
The thought should terrify me. Instead, it pushes me over the edge.
I come apart in his arms, my body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crash over me. He follows a moment later, burying his face in my neck as he finds his own release.
For a long moment, we stay like that—breathing hard, holding each other like we're afraid the other might disappear. The reality of what just happened settles around us like smoke, heavy and inescapable.
I'm pregnant with his child, and I still haven't told him.
I'm falling for my captor, and that's the most dangerous thing of all.
"Hannah," he says quietly, his voice rough.
"I know." I press my forehead against his shoulder, not ready to face whatever comes next. "I know this changes nothing."
But even as I say the words, I know they're not true. This changes everything.
I can feel his heartbeat against my cheek, steady and strong. "I'm still your prisoner."
"You're collateral."
"Same thing."
"No," he says, his arms tightening around me. "It's not the same thing at all."
I can't shake the feeling that everything has changed, whether I want to admit it or not.
The secret sits between us like a ticking bomb, growing more dangerous with each passing moment.
The thought terrifies me almost as much as the realization that part of me doesn't want to be anywhere else but here, in his arms, pretending that this impossible situation could somehow have a happy ending.