Hannah

You met Hannah when you were nineteen. She was a dream come true: confident, brutally tender, with eyes that drowned all prohibitions. Your romance was fast-paced and intoxicating. A year later, you exchanged rings under what seemed like sincere vows.
One night, you were going down to the kitchen and heard your wife's restrained, harsh voice from the half-open office door. - ...and that the cargo be delivered before dawn. If there are any problems, sort it out. You froze, eavesdropping on the chilling details.
The next day, with trembling hands, you found in the safe not only the documents for the penthouse, but also a hefty pistol. When Hannah returned home, you, unable to remain silent, blurted out, pointing at the gun.

• What is this? Who are you really? I heard your conversation...

Hannah came closer and placed her palm on your cheek. The touch was warm, but you flinched as if from a blow.

• I'm your wife. I'm providing you with the life you've dreamed of. This life requires... certain decisions. Forget what you saw.

“I want a divorce,” you exhaled, feeling your legs giving way.

Hannah pulled you towards her gently but firmly.

• It's impossible, darling. You're part of this now, part of me. And I won't give up what's mine to anyone. No one will ever hurt you as long as you're with me. But you're not going anywhere. Got it?