C126 Too Many Questions

The silence in the house was unbearable.

Annabelle sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers drumming anxiously on the mattress.

The clock on the wall ticked relentlessly.

Marking the hours since Dante and Angelo had left.

She had seen Mikhail’s men earlier, stationed around the estate like statues, but Mikhail himself had been nowhere to be found.

She had questions.

Too many questions.

Annabelle regretted not having Mikhail’s number.

Surely he could have answered her.

Angelo had put Dante’s number on speed-dial on her phone when she first got it, telling her she could call him right away if there was a need to.

But in a fit of anger during one of their many arguments, she’d deleted it.

She had been so self-assured at the time, so convinced she would never have a reason to call him.

Now she berated herself for her pettiness.

She tried calling Angelo instead.

Nothing.

His number didn’t even ring, going straight to voicemail.

Her frustration mounted as she went downstairs to ask the men standing guard if they knew anything.

But they were like steel walls, their responses curt and uninformative.

They wouldn’t even look her in the eye, as though avoiding her gaze might absolve them of responsibility.

The longer the night dragged on, the more her desperation grew.

The shadows deepened as midnight approached, wrapping the house in an eerie quiet. Annabelle’s mind raced with possibilities, each worse than the last.

Suddenly, an idea struck her.

She fumbled with her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found the name she hadn’t thought of before.

Antonia.

The phone rang twice before Antonia picked up, her voice sharp and impatient.

"What is it, Annabelle?" she snapped.

Annabelle swallowed her irritation at Antonia’s tone. "I... I just wanted to ask if you’ve heard from Dante or Angelo. They haven’t come home, and I—"

Antonia cut her off with a derisive laugh. "You really need to learn your place, Annabelle. Dante doesn’t like nagging women trailing his every move."

Annabelle froze, the coldness in Antonia’s words hitting her like a slap.

"Excuse me?" she managed, but Antonia didn’t give her a chance to say more.

"Maybe he’s out having fun," Antonia continued with a mocking edge. "He’s a virile man, after all. And here you are, worrying like an old housewife."

Annabelle’s hand tightened around the phone.

Her cheeks burned with humiliation and anger, but she was too stunned to speak.

"And do you really think you’re permanent in Dante’s life?" Antonia scoffed. "Stick your nose out of our business, Annabelle. Enjoy Dante’s money while it lasts."

The line went dead.

Annabelle stared at her phone, her mouth open in shock.

The insult and the condescension was worse than anything she had expected.

Her hands trembled as she set the phone down, her mind a storm of conflicting emotions.

Was Antonia right?

Was she just being nosy?

What claim did she really have on Dante, even after his declarations of love?

A notification pinged on her phone, startling her.

It was a message.

From Antonia.

Frowning, Annabelle opened it, bracing herself for more insults.

Instead, the text read: "I’m sorry for being so brash earlier. I was in the middle of something, and it wasn’t the right time to talk. I’ll explain later."

Annabelle blinked at the screen, her shock growing.

Was Antonia bipolar?

The abrupt shift from vicious to apologetic was too jarring to process.

Even if Antonia claimed she hadn’t meant her words, Annabelle felt there was some truth to them.

She had no right to question Dante’s whereabouts.

He was free to do as he pleased.

Annabelle pushed herself off the bed and wandered aimlessly down the hall, her thoughts a mess. She decided to focus on what Dante wanted from her.

To spend his money like a good little mistress.

For the first time, Annabelle went to the wine cellar she had been shown earlier.

The chill of the room seeped into her skin as she browsed the shelves.

She deliberately chose a bottle of red wine with a high alcohol content, telling herself it was what a carefree mistress would do.

Back in her room, she poured herself a glass.

The first sip burned her throat, and she grimaced.

"This is what you wanted, isn’t it?" she muttered to herself, taking another sip.

The second glass went down easier.

By the third, the wine had become an acquired taste, and her mind started to dull.

She stared out of the window at the moonlight casting silver beams across the estate grounds. Somewhere out there, Dante was doing whatever Dante did.

She tried not to think about Mikhail’s serious expression earlier in the day or the cryptic air of his visit.

She poured another glass, determined to drown her thoughts.

The alcohol worked its way through her system, loosening the tight knots in her chest.

Sometime after midnight, Annabelle slumped onto her bed while still seated at the edge.

The wine bottle lay nearly empty at her feet.

Her head swam, but the turmoil in her heart had finally quieted.

As her eyes drifted shut, her last coherent thought was of Dante.

Then she was suddenly plunged into another world.

The haze of twilight was stark.

The kind of faint light where shadows stretched long, and the world felt neither alive nor dead. She was standing barefoot in a corridor that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions.

The walls were made of dark, glistening stone, damp with condensation.

A faint, flickering red light came from sconces on the walls, casting ominous shadows that danced like malevolent spirits.

Her heart raced as she looked down at herself.

She was wearing a flowing white dress.

The dress was so sheer and delicate that she knew she would never have dared to wear outside The mate.rial clung to her, wet and cold, as though she had just stepped out of a storm.

Her hair hung loose around her shoulders, dark strands clinging to her skin.

She didn’t know how she had gotten there, but she was certain of one thing.

Dante was nearby.

She could feel his presence like an oppressive weight pressing down on her chest.

She began to walk with her feet splashing in shallow puddles that reflected the eerie red glow. Her movements were slow and hesitant and her breaths shallow.

“Dante?” Her voice echoed down the endless hallway.

It was a fragile sound swallowed almost instantly by the oppressive silence.

No answer came, but she swore she heard a faint, low chuckle.

The sound slithered down her spine, sending a chill through her body.

She turned quickly, her dress swirling around her ankles, but the corridor behind her was empty.

She pressed forward, her bare feet moving faster now, the wet stone cold against her skin.

The corridor seemed to tighten with the walls closing in on her.

Her heart thundered in her chest, and she called his name again, louder this time.

“Dante! Where are you?”

The laughter came again, louder now, but it wasn’t Dante’s voice.

It was higher, feminine, and dripping with malice.

Annabelle froze.

The sound surrounded her, echoing off the walls as though it came from everywhere at once.

“Annabelle,” the voice cooed mockingly. “Always looking, always waiting. How pitiful.”

The corridor suddenly shifted and the damp walls giving way to smooth marble.

The red light vanished and was replaced by the golden glow of chandeliers.

She found herself in a grand ballroom.

The ceiling soared high above her, deigned with images of angels and demons locked in battle. The floor was polished to a mirror shine so translucent that it reflected her pale, trembling figure.

She wasn’t alone.

At the far end of the room stood Dante with his tall frame unmistakable.

He wore a sleek black suit, his dark hair perfectly styled, and his eyes were locked on hers.

Relief surged through her, and she began to move toward him.

But then she saw her.

A woman stepped out from the shadows beside him, her hand resting possessively on his arm. Annabelle’s heart plummeted as she recognised her.

Antonia.

She was breathtaking in a crimson gown that clung to her like a second skin with her ruby lips curled in a smug smile.

Her dark hair was styled in cascading waves, and her piercing eyes glittered with triumph.

Annabelle stopped in her tracks, her throat tightening. “Dante?” she called again, her voice trembling.

Dante turned his head toward her, his expression unreadable.

His eyes, usually so full of intensity, were cold and distant.

He didn’t move nor speak.

In fact, it was as though he barely recognised her.

“You’re too late,” Antonia purred, her voice dripping with mockery.

She leaned closer to Dante, whispering something in his ear that made him smirk.

Annabelle felt as though the ground had been ripped out from beneath her. “What’s going on?” she demanded with her voice breaking.

Antonia laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Oh, darling,” she said, her tone condescending. “Did you really think he was yours? Dante doesn’t belong to anyone. Least of all you.”

“That’s not true,” Annabelle whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Isn’t it?” Antonia challenged, tilting her head. “He’s with me now. And you… well, you’re just a fleeting amusement.”

The words cut deep like shards of glass slicing through her chest.

She looked at Dante, willing him to deny it, to tell her it wasn’t true.

But he just stood there, silent and unyielding.

“You don’t belong here, Annabelle,” Antonia said, her voice turning venomous. “You never did.”

Annabelle backed away as her vision blurred with tears.

The grand ballroom around her began to shift and warp, the polished floor cracking beneath her feet.

She stumbled and fell hard.

And when she looked up again, Dante and Antonia were gone.

The room dissolved into darkness, and Annabelle found herself standing in the middle of a desolate field.

The sky above was a swirling mass of angry black clouds, illuminated occasionally by jagged streaks of lightning.

The air was thick and suffocating, heavy with the scent of rain and ash.

She turned in circles, her heart pounding. “Dante!” she screamed, her voice hoarse.

From the shadows, a figure emerged.

It was Dante, but something was wrong.

Gone was his cold look and his suit was torn.

Not just torn but bloodstained too.

His face was bruised and his eyes were wild.

He staggered toward her, reaching out a hand.

“Help me,” he rasped, his voice barely audible over the howling wind.

She ran to him, her bare feet sinking into the muddy ground. “I’m here!” she cried. “I’ll help you!”

But as she reached out to take his hand, it dissolved into smoke, curling away from her grasp. His figure flickered and disappeared, leaving her standing alone in the storm.

“No!” she screamed, her voice cracking. “Come back!”

The wind howled around her, carrying with it a haunting, feminine laughter.

Antonia’s voice echoed through the darkness.

“You’ll never have him,” it taunted. “He’ll destroy you, Annabelle. Just like he destroys everything he touches.”

Annabelle fell to her knees, the mud sucking at her legs.

She covered her ears to try to block out the voice.

But it was inside her head now.

Relentlessly battering at her.

“Dante!” she cried again, her voice breaking.

The storm intensified and the lightning striking sounded closer and closer.

The ground beneath her began to crack and crumble, and she felt herself being pulled downward into a dark hole..

She clawed at the earth with her nails breaking, but it was no use.

The darkness swallowed her whole.

Annabelle woke with a jolt, her body drenched in sweat and her chest heaving.

The room was dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the moon filtering through the curtains.

Her heart raced as she tried to steady her breathing, her mind reeling from the vivid nightmare.

She touched her face, her fingers brushing against the hot tears that had spilled during her sleep. Her hands trembled as she clutched the sheets, the lingering echoes of the dream still clawing at her sanity.

“Dante,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

But the only response was the silence of the empty room.