Chapter3

I was practically crawling when I finally got the bathroom door open.

My heart was slamming against my ribs, but I had no time to catch my breath.

Dante could come back at any moment. I had to get what I needed before he noticed.

The study door was slightly ajar. I slipped inside and pressed my fingers to the hidden compartment in the bottom drawer of his desk—a spot I'd discovered during one of my cleaning sessions.

It was there. A folder, sitting quietly in the dark. I opened it fast: several pages of offshore account statements, a handful of blurry photographs.

My hands weren't quite steady, but I held them still enough to photograph every significant page with my phone. When I finished, I returned the folder to exactly where I'd found it—angle and all.

I had just eased the study door shut when I walked straight into a solid chest.

Dante was standing at the far end of the corridor, a freshly poured glass of water in hand. His eyes moved over my face like a blade. Then his gaze drifted down, stopping on my feet—on my slippers, flecked with grime.

"Who let you out?" His voice was quiet. The kind of quiet that prickled the back of your neck.

I took an involuntary step backward, my shoulder blades pressing into the cold wall. My skin crawled.

"I… I know I was wrong… Dante, please—"

"Is that so?" He walked toward me, each step landing on my nerves.

He didn't look at me. He pushed the study door open and went in.

My heart leapt into my throat. Had I pushed the drawer all the way in? In my hurry—

A few seconds later, the study light went out. Dante walked back out, his expression terrifyingly calm.

He grabbed my wrist, and his grip was something close to bone-breaking.

"It seems I haven't taught you enough of a lesson."

"Dante, you're hurting me—!" I struggled, but he was already dragging me toward the basement stairs.

"Funny mouth on you." A cold laugh, and then I was being hauled down.

The basement light was broken. Only the emergency lamp cast its sick, pale glow.

He shoved me against the wall, reached under his jacket, and drew a black handgun.

The cold barrel touched my forehead.

Every drop of blood in my body turned to ice.

"Clara." He brought his mouth close to my ear, his breath hitting my skin. "You know what I hate most? Dogs that don't obey." He let the words settle. "What did you take from my study just now?"

"I didn't take—" My voice shook. Not from the fear of dying.

"Nothing?"

The barrel moved down. It came to rest against my abdomen. Against the place where life had only just begun.

"No!" The scream tore out of me before I could stop it. I threw my arms around my stomach.

If that bullet fired here, neither my child nor I would survive.

Dante's expression didn't change. If anything, the corner of his mouth curved slightly upward.

"Talk. Tell me what you saw. If you don't, today is the last day of your life. I'll tell everyone you suffered a breakdown and shot yourself. Nobody will question it."

I clamped my teeth together so hard I tasted blood.

I couldn't say a word. Couldn't dare. The tears were falling now, mixing with cold sweat and soaking into my collar.

I couldn't confess. If I confessed, every door closed.

"You think I won't pull this trigger?" His finger rested against it. There was a soft, dry click.

The sound of death.

And then the landline rang upstairs.

A moment later, the butler's voice called down the stairwell: "Young Master, Mr. Antonio is here. He says it's urgent."

Dante's brow furrowed. His eyes stayed on me, cold and still.

The gun was still against my stomach. Hadn't moved.

The phone rang again—sharp, insistent.

He finally lowered it. But before I could exhale, the back of his hand connected with my face.

The sound rang through the whole basement. My ears went white with noise.

"You got lucky this time." He crouched, fingers gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "If you touch my things again, it won't just be a warning. You hear me?"

I was shaking. The tears wouldn't stop. But I didn't make a sound.

I was afraid of him. Genuinely, deeply afraid. But I was more afraid for the child inside me.

"I hear you." Three words, ground out from between my teeth.

He let go, stood up, and walked upstairs in long strides. The basement door slammed shut, sealing out every trace of light.

I crumpled to the floor. My stomach convulsed in a violent wave of nausea. I crawled to the corner trash bin and retched.

Bile and tears came up together. I curled in on myself, cold all the way through.

For a moment down here, I had genuinely thought I was going to die.

Dante wasn't a man. He was a monster.

I wiped my face and pulled myself upright using the wall. The woman in the dim reflection was wrecked—mouth still bleeding at the corner.

But the fear in her eyes was slowly draining away, replaced by something sharp and resolute.

I couldn't wait any longer. I had to leave. Now.

Back in my room, I forced myself to be calm.

I started going through the household inventory, pretending to check next week's grocery order. While I did it, I paid careful attention to Dante's habits—where he hid things, how he moved through the house. His spare key had to be somewhere in the study. A hidden compartment, maybe. Behind the safe.

I took out my phone and found the number for the identity forger.

"Hello. This is Clara." My voice was still slightly raw, but the resolve in it was unshakeable. "I'm accepting your quote. I also need an emergency exit. As fast as you can manage."

I ended the call and tucked the phone back under the mattress. My hand rested on my stomach, still tender from where the gun had pressed.

"Don't be afraid," I whispered—to myself, and to the child I was carrying. "Mama will get us out of here."