His Private Hell - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The elevator didn’t stop on the thirty-third floor.
Eella Hart pressed the worn brass button again, holding her breath as the numbers above flickered from thirty-two to thirty-four without hesitation. No ding. No pause. Just silence, like that floor didn’t exist at all.
She glanced around. The interior of Ally’s Inc’s executive elevator was mirror-polished, sleek, and silent—too silent. No corporate muzak, no company slogans. Just the soft hiss of climate control and the quiet hum of something unspoken. The man beside her hadn’t moved since they entered. He hadn’t spoken either.
He didn’t need to.
Garrison Wolfe’s presence filled the confined space with a cold, calculated stillness that could slice through concrete. He stood like a sculpture—immaculate suit, hands tucked into his pockets, gaze fixed forward like the walls were beneath him. His reputation preceded him. Ruthless. Brilliant. Broken.
And worse—untouchable.
Eella’s breath caught when the elevator dinged at the top. Forty. The executive suite.
“Don’t ask about the thirty-third,” said a voice behind her before the doors even fully opened.
She turned. A woman with blunt-cut silver hair and clipboard heels walked briskly into view. “You’re the new image director, right? Eella Hart.”
“Yes.” Eella straightened.
“Ms. Rainer, assistant to Mr. Wolfe,” the woman said curtly. “You’ll report to me. You’ll observe. You won’t speak to Mr. Wolfe unless he initiates it. And you absolutely won’t ask about the thirty-third floor.”
“I wasn’t going to—”
“You were.”
And she had been. Eella bit the inside of her cheek as she followed Ms. Rainer into the sprawling executive wing.
Ally’s Inc didn’t just scream money. It whispered it. Softly. Intimately. The space was cool-toned marble, matte black fixtures, glass walls and silence. No plaques, no portraits. It didn’t feel like a workplace. It felt like the lair of someone who preferred shadows to people.
Her heels clicked softly as she was led through winding corridors until they stopped at a glass door marked only with a W etched faintly into the corner.
“He’ll see you now,” Rainer said, and vanished.
See me? She thought he didn’t talk to anyone.
Eella squared her shoulders and stepped in.
The office was massive and deliberately underlit. Shadows pooled in the corners, thrown by slatted blinds that broke the sunlight into shards across the dark wood floor. And at the far end of the room, Garrison Wolfe sat with one elbow resting on the arm of his chair, a tumbler of something dark in his hand.
He didn’t stand.
He didn’t speak.
He just watched her.
Eella cleared her throat. “Mr. Wolfe—”
“You’re early.” His voice was smooth. Low. Razor-edged.
She swallowed. “I thought that would be a good thing.”
“It’s not.”
Something in his eyes flickered—approval, maybe. Or warning. Eella wasn’t sure which.
“I was told to consult with you on the upcoming charity gala,” she said. “Ally’s Inc has been in the press for—”
He held up a hand. Just a flick of his fingers. She stopped speaking instantly.
“I hired you because my board begged me to,” he said quietly. “Not because I wanted anyone fixing me.”
Eella’s spine straightened. “I’m not here to fix you.”
“Good,” he murmured. “You’d fail.”
A long silence stretched between them. Her hands were slick against the folder she was holding. She couldn’t read him. And that unsettled her more than it should have.
He stood slowly, walking to the window. From behind, he was taller than she expected. Broader, but lean like someone carved from marble and stitched back together with threadbare mercy.
“Tell me, Ms. Hart,” he said without turning. “Why would a woman with a stacked resume, a spotless record, and multiple offers from brighter, cleaner firms come here?”
Eella exhaled carefully. “Because I wanted to work where the rules aren’t written in gold script on lobby walls.”
He turned. That was the first time she saw it: the barest trace of a smirk. Not amusement. Not kindness. Recognition.
“You like the dark corners,” he said.
“No,” she replied, calm and measured. “I’ve just learned that the brightest rooms have the worst shadows.”
Another silence.
Garrison took a slow sip from his glass. “You’ll do fine.”
He walked past her, his scent trailing—warm spice, sandalwood, something smoky. She turned, breath snagging, but he didn’t look back.
“Ms. Hart,” he said at the door, voice like a blade. “Last warning. Don’t ask about the thirty-third floor.”
And then he was gone.
⸻
Eella didn’t sleep that night.
She lay in her cold apartment, the city buzzing low beneath her windows, and stared at the ceiling as shadows danced across the plaster.
There was something wrong with him. Not the kind of wrong that set off alarms. The kind that pulled you in. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a deep breath before the plunge.
And she should’ve been smarter than to want to understand it.
But the way he watched her—like she was a question he hadn’t decided whether to answer or erase—it haunted her.
She’d worked with monsters before. Sleek-talking executives with poison beneath their tongues. Men who smiled while sharpening knives. Garrison Wolfe wasn’t like them. He didn’t hide his damage. He wore it like a second skin.
And that made her want to know what broke him.
⸻
Three days passed before she saw him again.
She’d spent her time quietly examining the branding strategy, the media fallout from a whistleblower case six months prior, and the messy web of unresolved PR disasters. Ally’s Inc was profitable—but its image was scorched earth.
Which meant she had leverage.
When Garrison appeared at the end of the executive hallway without warning, Eella was the only one who didn’t look down.
He didn’t speak. Just gestured with two fingers for her to follow.
She did.
He led her past the office. Past the main floor. And then to a black door—unmarked, mechanical, sterile. He pressed his palm to a panel and it opened with a hiss.
Eella hesitated. “This is…?”
He looked at her, expression unreadable. “Thirty-three.”
A chill slid down her spine.
“You said not to ask—”
“I did.” He walked in. “But I changed my mind.”
The room was… wrong.
Too quiet. No windows. Soft lighting. And in the center—a piano. Glossy, untouched.
Eella turned slowly. “What is this?”
Garrison didn’t answer immediately. He moved to the piano, traced a finger along the keys, then finally spoke.
“It belonged to someone I loved,” he said quietly. “Someone I buried before I ever touched her.”
Eella blinked. “I—”
He turned, stepped closer. Too close.
“You wanted to know what broke me,” he murmured.
She froze.
His voice was lower now, rougher. “Everyone does. They look at the suits, the silence, the stories—and they want to peel the layers. But you? You didn’t ask. That’s why I’m telling you.”
Her breath caught.
His hand lifted—not touching. Hovering. Just above her cheek. A warning and an invitation.
“I can’t be fixed,” he whispered. “But you should still walk away. Before this stops being curiosity.”
Eella’s voice was barely audible. “What if it already is?”
His mouth twitched—like he was in pain. Or restraint.
Then, finally, he touched her.
Just a brush of his fingers along her jaw. A test. A taste. A beginning.
And somewhere inside her, a match struck.