Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
Hannah
I 've discovered a new kind of power—silence. For three days now, I've only spoken when absolutely necessary. One-word answers to direct questions. Nothing more. My voice has become something I no longer offer freely to Dante. It's the one thing I can still control, a part of myself I can withhold, even as he claims everything else. I move through the mansion like a ghost, following the rules, doing what’s expected, but inside—I’m hollow. Just a vessel for his child. Nothing more. The numbness has become my armor, a protective barrier between me and the reality of my existence. Behind it, there's a part of me he can't touch, can't own, can't destroy. And Dante knows it. I can feel his eyes on me constantly, his frustration growing with every quiet, unacknowledged moment. He doesn’t understand this defiance. He can’t punish it. And it’s driving him insane.
It started after the last time he took me—violently, possessively, like he was trying to erase any part of me that didn’t belong to him. I don’t know what triggered it. Maybe it was the way I looked at him, the way my mind had already begun to drift to some faraway place he couldn’t reach. But his response was brutal. Desperate. As if sheer force could bridge the emotional chasm growing between us. It didn’t. Instead, something inside me simply…shut off. Like a switch. A door closed. And I stopped feeling anything.
In that void, I found an unexpected strength.
I didn't plan this silence—it just happened. In the aftermath of what he did, words felt meaningless. I realized that if I couldn’t control my body, my freedom, or my life, I could still control my voice. So I stopped speaking. Stopped engaging. Stopped giving him any part of myself he didn’t forcibly take. By the second day, I realized what I was doing. And I embraced it. This is my rebellion now—the only one I can afford. A rebellion without words, without confrontation. Just silence. And it's driving him mad.
The child changes things too. Eight weeks now. Still invisible to the world, but undeniable inside me. I didn’t want this baby. But now, I protect it fiercely—like it’s the only pure thing left in my life. My silence protects the baby too. It creates a thin but vital barrier between Dante’s darkness and this innocent life. And I’ll cling to that silence as long as I can.
"Hannah."
Dante's voice cuts through my thoughts. I’m in the sitting room, allowed to read for the morning. I glance up, meeting his gaze briefly before dropping it back to my book. I don’t speak.
"You're quiet today." He steps into my line of vision, blocking my view. "You've been quiet for days now."
I meet his gaze again, forcing my expression to remain blank. There was no question—only an observation. So I don’t respond. Silence is not defiance, I remind myself. It’s survival.
His eyes narrow slightly. "Are you unwell? Morning sickness?"
A direct question. I have to answer. "No." One word. Minimum compliance.
He watches me carefully, predator assessing prey. "Then explain your silence."
Another direct question. Another forced response. "Nothing to say." Three words. Controlled. Emotionless.
The flicker of tension in his jaw is subtle, but I catch it. I’ve learned his tells—the microexpressions that warn of danger. He’s angry. Frustrated. And it’s growing.
"You've never been 'just quiet' before," he says, voice deceptively calm. "This feels deliberate." His head tilts slightly. "Almost like resistance."
The accusation hangs in the air. I don’t confirm it. But I don’t deny it either. "Perhaps." One word. Purposefully ambiguous.
His temper flares—just a flash—but he tamps it down with iron control. "I see." He moves to sit across from me, too casual to be genuine. "How long do you intend to keep this up?"
I don’t answer. No direct question. No response required. Silence.
For the rest of the day, Dante watches me like a wolf circling wounded prey. He tries to bait me into conversation—asking about the nursery, my books, the weather. I offer only the bare minimum of response. Yes. No. Fine. Nothing more. With every passing hour, his patience wears thinner. His control cracks. I can feel the storm building.
By dinner, it breaks.
"This ends now," he says, setting his fork down with deliberate force. His voice is still quiet, still measured, but the tension in his body betrays his fury. "This silence. This withholding of yourself from me."
I meet his gaze, expression vacant. Silent.
"Speak, Hannah," he demands, his voice sharp despite its softness. "Tell me about your day. Your thoughts. Your feelings. End this distance you’re creating between us."
A command. I have to answer. But not in the way he wants. "The nursery should be neutral colors." My voice is flat. Detached. Minimal compliance. Maximum defiance.
Dante’s entire body tenses. He wants more. Needs more. And my refusal to give it is breaking him. "Not just words," he grits out. "I want you. All of you. Emotion. Presence. The part of you you're deliberately hiding from me."
I meet his gaze, my voice quiet but firm. "I can't give you what doesn't exist anymore."
The silence that follows is suffocating. His face doesn't change, but I can feel the rage simmering beneath his controlled exterior. I’ve crossed a line.
"Explain," he finally says, the word a threat in itself.
I should lie. I know I should. But something reckless stirs in me. Maybe it’s the baby. Maybe it’s the numbness. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I’ve already lost everything—what more can he take?
"You wanted everything," I say quietly. "You took everything. My body. My freedom. My mind. There's nothing left to give you, Dante. Just this shell."
For a moment, I think I’ve broken him. His stillness is terrifying. And then—calm. I know that calm. It’s the stillness before the storm.
"You think you can withdraw from me." His voice is soft, deadly. "You believe you can keep some part of yourself separate. Untouched. Unowned." He rises slowly, deliberate, controlled. "You're wrong, Hannah. Profoundly wrong."
Dread curls in my stomach. "Dante?—"
He cuts me off. "Come with me."
Not a request. A command. I rise, heart hammering, and follow him through the mansion. It isn’t until we turn the corner toward the isolation wing that I understand.
"No," I whisper, panic breaking through my numbness. "The baby?—"
"Will be safe," he says coldly. "This isn't punishment. It’s recalibration." He doesn’t look at me. "You need time to remember that you belong to me—every part of you. Including your silence."
We reach the isolation room. My prison. Soft, luxurious, and utterly designed to break me. I stumble, dread thick in my throat. "Dante, please?—"
He opens the door, gesturing inside. "Three days," he says simply. "No books. No distractions. Just you. And the reality of your place here."
I turn, desperate. "It won't work," I whisper. "You can’t force me to feel something that’s gone."
His mouth curves in a chilling smile. "You underestimate me, Hannah."
And then the door closes. And I am alone.