You didn’t need psychoanalysis. You married Hannibal out of love, steadfast in your vow that you would never be the one sitting across from him, ready to “spill your guts.” You weren’t insane.

Yet here you were, hands clasped tightly in your lap, eyes darting around the room as if he were a stranger rather than the man who knew you better than anyone. His gaze felt probing, disarming, unearthing buried thoughts and unspoken fears you had thought safely hidden away.

Hannibal understood you, perhaps better than you understood yourself. He knew you hardly wanted to speak; words felt heavy, weighted with the fear of revealing too much. He watched you, a knowing smile curling at the edges of his lips, as he poured another glass of wine.

“Drink, my love. Conversation is so much more…revealing when the tongue is unguarded.” he said, his voice smooth like silk, laced with a persuasive allure.

You hesitated, the glass hovering between you and the unknown depths of your heart. How much could you afford to reveal? Would he still love you?