His Private Hell - Chapter 133: Chapter 133

“You’ve gotten taller,” Vivienne said, setting her glass down like they were at a brunch and not standing at the edge of retribution.
Eella didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
She stepped into the penthouse, the click of her boots a death sentence written in echoes. The air was soaked in lilac perfume and falsified peace.
Vivienne Saint-Hart wore white silk and a string of pearls that looked like nooses.
“Sit, darling,” she said.
Eella did not sit.
“I remember your cries,” Vivienne murmured, circling. “They used to echo in the halls after I gave you away. But that’s what good mothers do—they protect the future. You survived, didn’t you?”
Eella let the silence answer.
Because her scream would’ve cracked the world open.
She looked around.
Photographs on the shelves.
Lavish décor.
A crystal vase from Prague.
A display of curated illusions.
Vivienne stopped in front of her and tilted her head like she was observing art.
“You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “Even with all that damage. You wear pain like a crown.”
Eella leaned forward.
“I wear pain like armor.”
Vivienne’s smile faltered.
Then she laughed.
“Oh, sweet girl. You think I sold you for survival? I gave you to Lazarus because he offered you purpose. He promised you’d be more than a forgotten daughter.”
“You gave me to a killer,” Eella said, voice like a tomb.
“I gave you to a god,” Vivienne hissed.
A pause.
Then a whisper:
“And you became a goddess.”
Eella’s hand twitched at her side. The gun was there. Easy. Clean. Simple.
But this was never going to be simple.
Vivienne poured herself another drink.
“You want to know what I regret?” she asked softly.
“No.”
But Vivienne spoke anyway.
“I regret not keeping you long enough to finish what I started.”
Eella struck before the last syllable dropped.
Faster than the eye could follow.
Not the gun.
A blade.
Across the wrist.
Vivienne gasped, dropping the glass, blood trailing down pearls like wine over bone.
“Still dramatic,” Eella said coldly.
Vivienne staggered back, gripping her wrist. “You came to kill me?”
“No.”
Eella stepped closer.
“I came to unmake you.”
⸻
She dragged Vivienne through every lie.
Tied her to the chair made of white leather and silence.
Lit the fireplace.
Pulled out the dossiers.
Photos of Choir camps.
Victim lists.
Eella’s baby photos.
Training logs.
Vivienne stared at them with glazed eyes, lips parted like a wound.
“I never read the reports,” she said, almost dazed.
Eella shoved one in her lap.
“I memorized them.”
Vivienne’s hands shook.
“I was trying to fix the country. I was promised—”
“You were promised nothing but power.”
Tears now.
Real or rehearsed, Eella didn’t care.
“Do it,” Vivienne said. “Put a bullet in me. Finish the myth.”
Eella knelt before her mother and looked up at the woman who made her.
And unmade her.
“You don’t deserve to die by my hand,” she whispered.
Vivienne blinked.
Confused.
Hopeful.
Until Eella rose and pulled out the final key.
A silver USB.
“I’m not killing you, Mother.”
She slid it into the penthouse console.
The screens around the room came to life.
One by one, dossiers flashed.
Names.
Crimes.
Survivor testimonies.
Videos of Vivienne’s “donations.”
Audio of Lazarus praising her.
Broadcasted live.
Every news outlet.
Every feed.
Every boardroom.
Vivienne Saint-Hart was exposed.
In her pearls.
In her silence.
In her original sin.
She let out a sob.
Then a scream.
Eella left her there.
Sobbing in silk.
Burned alive by truth.
⸻
Outside, the city roared.
Garrison stood across the street.
Watching it all.
He hadn’t slept in days.
His ribs were still wrapped.
His heart worse.
She stepped toward him slowly.
Their eyes locked.
He didn’t speak.
She didn’t break.
They stood in the middle of traffic, chaos swirling, two hurricanes made flesh.
“I didn’t stop you,” he said finally.
“No,” she said. “You couldn’t.”
“Why?”
She touched his chest.
Over his heart.
And whispered—
“Because some storms were born in the same sea.”
And then she walked away.
One block.
Two.
Three.
Until he couldn’t see her anymore.
And still, he stood.
Bleeding.
Wanting.
Alone.
⸻
That night, the world changed.
Vivienne Saint-Hart was arrested for war crimes.
Her trial broke every headline.
The Choir was dismantled publicly.
Survivors came forward.
Whispers became shouts.
Silence was shattered.
Astrid watched it all from a different continent.
She didn’t smile.
But she poured a glass of something old and toxic, and whispered to herself—
“She did it.”
Garrison disappeared again.
Vanished off the grid.
Rumors of a clinic in Morocco.
A vigilante in shadows.
No confirmation.
But Eella…
Eella was seen once.
Just once.
At the grave of the only man who had ever truly tried to love her without breaking her.
The first Choir handler who helped her escape once, long ago.
She left no flowers.
Only her name.
Etched into the stone.
Eella Hart. Survivor. Storm.
And then, she disappeared too.
⸻
Until—
A scream.
In the dark.
A whisper of boots across cold marble.
A face in the mirror that wasn’t there before.
A flash of pearls in the alley.
And the knowledge…
That Eella was still watching.
Still waiting.
Because some stories don’t end.
They evolve.