His Private Hell - Chapter 40: Chapter 40

He was the fire, but she kept dragging the gasoline.
The lights of her apartment buzzed softly overhead as Eella dropped her heels by the door, her pulse still pounding from what had happened on the 33rd floor. The echo of Garrison’s hands—his mouth, his words—clung to her skin like sweat.
She should’ve felt guilty. Ashamed.
She felt feral.
The city lights bled in through her tall windows, casting fractured shadows across her floor. It should’ve comforted her, returning home. Instead, it felt like a descent.
This wasn’t a sanctuary anymore. It was the set of something unholy.
She went straight for the wine, stripping her blouse as she moved. The fabric still bore the evidence of his grip—creases, faint snags from his belt buckle where it had brushed too hard. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache.
But it wasn’t just him.
It was what he made her feel. What he’d awakened.
She poured the wine with shaking hands and drank deeply, trying to drown the sound of his voice, low and guttural, repeating her name like it belonged on his tongue.
But the thing about drowning in a fire was—it never worked.
And when her phone buzzed on the counter, she nearly dropped the glass. Not because she didn’t expect it. But because a part of her wanted it to be him.
It wasn’t.
It was an old contact. One she hadn’t seen in almost a year.
Damien (don’t)
You still play?
Her throat tightened. Her past had a scent. Clove smoke, whiskey, and sweat. Damien had been her sin before sin had a name. A musician with scars and no limits. And with him, Eella had done things that no corporate PR resume would ever show.
And yet… she didn’t delete the message.
Instead, she walked into her bedroom, pulled open her bottom drawer, and dug out the box.
She hadn’t opened it in months. But tonight, she needed the ache to feel real. She needed the proof that the girl she used to be—the one who danced barefoot on glass—hadn’t died beneath all the tailored clothes and fake .
Inside the box: her silk ropes, a blindfold, a set of cuffs she’d kept not out of nostalgia—but out of some sick promise to herself.
Tonight, she wouldn’t be anyone’s employee. She wouldn’t be a pawn in Ally’s Inc or a player in Garrison Wolfe’s empire of lies.
Tonight, she’d burn in her own private hell.
She cuffed herself to the bedframe. Not tightly. Just enough to remember. Just enough to feel. She turned on the speaker. The playlist she hadn’t used since Damien. Dark, heavy bass that vibrated through her bones. The kind of music that made her hips move on their own.
Then she slid her hand down.
She imagined Garrison’s voice. Not gentle. Not coaxing. But commanding.
“Touch yourself, Eella. Show me how desperate you are.”
Her fingers circled slowly, teasing, then pressing harder. She moaned. Louder than she meant to. And when her body started to writhe, she reached up with her free hand and grabbed the scarf. She gagged herself with it. Just to take control away. Just to fall deeper.
Each thrust of her hand brought his face back into her mind. His scowl. The way he stared like he saw things no one else did. The way he owned her body like it had offended him.
She came fast. Hard. Legs shaking. Chest heaving. But even in the aftershock, her skin buzzed.
One climax wasn’t enough. Not when her soul still screamed.
She unclipped the cuffs. Moved to the mirror. She wanted to see what Garrison saw. Not the professional. Not the fixer.
The monster underneath.
She put on the lipstick she hadn’t worn since college—dark crimson, sinful and slick. She painted her lips slowly, precisely. Like a woman preparing for battle.
Her reflection stared back—wild-eyed, flushed, and more alive than she’d looked in years.
She whispered to herself, “You were never innocent.”
And her reflection smirked.
—
The next day, she walked into Ally’s Inc like nothing had happened. The red lipstick was gone. Her hair was in a tight bun. Her heels sharper than ever. But her eyes—they still glowed from the night before. A residual fire she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—extinguish.
In the boardroom, Garrison didn’t look at her.
He didn’t have to.
Because the tension between them had evolved. It was no longer curiosity. It was promise. It was ownership. He’d claimed a piece of her. And she had taken more than he’d expected.
“Morning,” said Astrid, cool and clipped as usual. The woman was beautiful, efficient, and eerily loyal to Garrison.
“Morning,” Eella replied, pulling out a chair. “Where’s the tyrant?”
“Flying back in from Milan tonight.”
Eella nodded, feigning indifference. But inside, something clenched.
She knew Garrison. He didn’t leave unless there was something that needed fixing—or silencing. And when he came back, he’d want control again.
And she wasn’t sure she’d be willing to give it.
—
That night, she didn’t go home.
She went to a bar on 14th and King—underground, barely lit, the kind of place where secrets liked to breed.
She wasn’t looking to flirt. She was looking to feel again. To chase the shadow Garrison had left on her skin.
She drank. Danced. Let strangers look at her too long. She kissed one. Hard. Against the bathroom wall. But when he tried to touch her, she shoved him away.
Because he wasn’t Garrison.
No one was.
She was walking the edge. And she liked it. Maybe too much.
—
When she got home, a box was waiting.
No name. No return address.
Inside: a single key and a note in perfect script.
“You want hell, Eella? Use this. But don’t expect mercy.”
No signature.
But she didn’t need one.
The key was cold in her hand. Heavy. It hummed with the same energy she felt every time he looked at her.
She should throw it away.
Instead, she slid it into her top drawer and whispered, “Open the door.”