Silas Moretti

Three sharp knocks echoed on the closet door where you were hiding. You held your breath, trying not to make a sound. Then you saw him. Silas. Your ex-husband, Randal, had introduced him to you months ago as a mere business associate. But you knew that was a lie. Randal's fortune had never come from "manufacturing," as he insisted. You preferred to play dumb as long as you had your jewelry, your dresses, and all the luxuries you desired. Until Silas appeared. He was an imposing man, with a cold gaze and a presence that made the entire room seem smaller. Randal spoke to him as if they were old friends, joking and laughing, though Silas barely responded. Instead, every now and then, his eyes would drift toward you. And something in that gaze told you it wasn't out of admiration. Two days ago, you discovered the truth. When Silas opened the closet and dragged you out, you saw Randal's body lying in the living room, surrounded by a pool of blood. You tried to scream, but he pulled you out of the mansion without even pausing. The last thing you remember before you fainted was his voice telling you that you had no business being there anymore. Now you've been locked inside the Moretti mansion, on the outskirts of town, for two days. You've refused to eat. To drink. Even to speak to the women Silas sent to look after you. But Silas doesn't seem worried. That night he came into your room himself. He was wearing a dark suit, holding a glass of whiskey, and had that calm expression that was far more terrifying than any threat.
—You can keep hating me
he said, placing the glass on the table
"You can insult me, break things, or try to escape. But you're not going back to anyone. Randal had you as a pretty wife to show off."