His Private Hell - Chapter 108: Chapter 108

Eella’s breath hitched in the darkness. Her apartment wasn’t hers anymore. The shadows moved like they knew her, sliding across the walls with a hiss of recognition. Something had changed. No—everything had changed.
There was a note on the floor. Crimson ink on thick paper, folded once, sharp like a knife edge.
She stared.
You’re already in the second Choir. Welcome home.
No signature. No explanation. Just the weight of the words curling into her lungs like smoke.
The second Choir.
The name pulsed like a siren behind her ribs, loud enough to override reason. She’d heard Lazarus mention it once, barely a whisper. Something underground. Off the books. Off the grid. A facility? A program? An execution site?
Eella didn’t know. But her bones did.
A shiver traced her spine as she crumpled the note in her fist and turned toward her bedroom. The door was cracked. It hadn’t been when she left. She was sure.
“Don’t,” a voice said from the corner.
She froze.
Not Garrison.
Not Lazarus.
It was him.
“Luka,” she breathed.
The ghost in her blood. The twin flame to her terror. His smirk was carved from glass.
“You’re late,” he said, stepping out from the shadows. His leather gloves were still damp. “I told you hell wasn’t a metaphor. Not with him. Not with me.”
“What the hell are you doing in my—”
“Your home?” Luka’s laugh was dry and razored. “You really think you have one left? Garrison already gutted it. Lazarus salted the earth. And now you—you—stand here thinking you still get to ask questions.”
She hated how her knees weakened.
“How did you get in?” she snapped, trying to hold onto her voice.
“I never left.”
He took a step closer. Then another. Until the only thing between them was the silence of everything she refused to believe.
“You told me you were dead.”
“I told you the truth you wanted to hear.”
His hand rose, and he brushed a strand of hair from her face like he owned it. His touch was clinical, then cruel. Eella slapped it away.
But he didn’t stop.
“You’re already cracking, Eella. You think Garrison’s the worst of it?” Luka’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You think the 33rd floor is just trauma porn and his broken little redhead?”
Eella’s heart jerked.
“Don’t talk about Darcie.”
“You don’t know what Darcie is.”
Luka’s eyes glinted. “And when you do? You’ll wish she’d stayed dead.”
He vanished as quickly as he came, slipping through the hallway like he never existed. Her room remained half-open. Nothing inside but her perfume, the echo of her scream, and a single red rose on her pillow.
Eella didn’t sleep that night.
•
The next morning at Ally’s Inc was a funeral dressed as a board meeting. Garrison stood at the head of the table like a prophet with blood on his hands.
The room was silent, except for the flick of his lighter.
Eella entered late. She didn’t care.
His eyes cut to hers, dark and burning. There was no apology. No question. Just a command.
“Sit.”
She did.
“Mr. Wolfe,” said one of the VPs, shifting uncomfortably. “The… footage leak—”
“Handled,” Garrison said, voice flat.
“And the new internal audits?”
“Useless.”
Eella watched him through her lashes. He hadn’t touched her since the night in her apartment. Hadn’t said a word. But the bruise he’d left on her throat still bloomed, angry and deliberate.
She liked it more than she should.
“What about the Choir Program?” someone asked. “It’s being resurrected under Lazarus’s department—”
Garrison’s hand slammed against the table.
“Leave.”
Every exec stood without protest.
Only Eella remained.
He didn’t look at her. Not at first. He just lit another cigarette and leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him.
“I saw Luka,” she said quietly.
His jaw clenched.
“He said I’m in the second Choir.”
“He’s wrong,” Garrison said. But his eyes betrayed him.
Eella rose, walked around the table, and pressed her palms flat against it.
“Then tell me what it is.”
He stared at her for a long, heavy moment. Then—
“You.”
She blinked. “Me?”
“You’re the second Choir, Eella. Don’t you get it yet?”
He stood slowly, walking until he was toe-to-toe with her. His fingers lifted her chin.
“You think it’s a place? A file? It’s not. It’s what you become after surviving me.”
Her breath caught.
“You’re lying.”
“No,” he whispered. “I’m giving you a mirror.”
Then he kissed her.
Not gentle. Not sweet.
This was punishment. A confession. An unraveling.
Her back hit the table as his hands claimed every part of her. His mouth traced the line of her jaw down to her throat, to the bruise he’d left there before.
“You keep coming back,” he murmured against her skin. “You keep letting me do this.”
“Because I’m already ruined,” she whispered. “Because you made me need it.”
His hand slid beneath her skirt, fingers curling over silk and secrets.
“You think this is need?”
He slipped inside her without warning. Her cry echoed off the walls.
“This is devotion.”
She bit her lip hard enough to taste blood. He moved slow at first—torturous, deliberate. Then deeper. Rougher. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand.
“You don’t walk away from hell,” he growled. “You crawl through it.”
Eella shattered.
And then shattered again.
Her body arched off the table as his name ripped out of her throat. Garrison didn’t slow. Didn’t flinch. He buried himself deeper until there was nothing but fire and him and the way her soul cracked open under his weight.
He didn’t pull out.
He wanted her marked.
Claimed.
When he finally stepped back, he left her limp on the boardroom table, dress wrinkled, lipstick ruined, hair tangled.
“I won’t apologize,” he said.
“Don’t.”
Their eyes met.
There was something broken in both of them. Something unfixable.
•
Later that night, Eella found herself standing outside the 33rd floor again. The hallway was cold. The air too still.
The door was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
Inside, the room was empty.
Except for a chair.
And Darcie.
Alive.
Breathing.
Smiling with her mouth stitched shut.
She turned her head slowly, eyes locking on Eella.
And winked.