His Private Hell - Chapter 44: Chapter 44

Eella woke with the taste of ash on her lips.
Her sheets were still twisted, soaked with the scent of Garrison Wolfe. The heat of his body was gone, but the bruises remained—his fingerprints on her thighs, her hips, her throat. Each mark pulsed with memory. With danger.
He’d kissed her like he was burning alive. Fucked her like she was the only thing that could put the fire out. But he hadn’t stayed. Of course not. That was never the rule.
Garrison didn’t linger. He devoured. Then disappeared.
Eella sat up slowly, naked, skin stinging as her back slid against the cotton sheets. The apartment was silent except for the ticking of the old wall clock. 7:02 AM.
She stood, body aching, pulled on a robe, and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen, every step a reminder of how hard he’d taken her.
A red smear of her lipstick still stained the marble counter. Her shirt lay torn beside it.
She gripped the edge of the counter.
What the hell am I doing?
This was more than a fling. More than mutual obsession. This was a game she didn’t understand—and Garrison was writing the rules in blood and silence.
By the time she reached Ally’s Inc, her makeup was flawless, her hair slicked back, her dress screaming power.
But inside, she was already unraveling.
Ronnie spotted her near the elevators, her eyes narrowed.
“You’re playing with the wolves now,” she said softly, offering a coffee like it was a truce. “They bite harder when they get possessive.”
Eella forced a smile. “I’ve always had a taste for sharp things.”
Ronnie didn’t smile back. “She said the same thing. Before she disappeared.”
“She?”
“Darcie,” Ronnie whispered. “Floor thirty-three.”
The elevator dinged.
Eella’s stomach turned.
She hadn’t meant to hear the rumors—but they lingered like smoke in the walls. The 33rd floor. No access. No answers. No one ever went there except Garrison. Not even his inner circle.
And Darcie—an ex-marketing exec—had transferred to the London office three months ago.
Or so the story went.
⸻
When Eella got to her desk, there was a plain envelope resting on her keyboard.
No name. No label.
Inside: a security keycard snapped in half, and a single photo printed on glossy paper.
The image was blurry but unmistakable—white marble floors, the edge of a black desk, and a woman crumpled beside it. Blood. Lots of it. A torn red blouse. Blonde hair soaked in it.
Darcie.
She turned the photo over. Four words were scrawled in ink.
She broke the rules.
The blood in Eella’s veins turned to ice.
⸻
She found Ollie three floors down in IT. He was neck-deep in code and energy drinks.
“Don’t ask questions,” she said. “Just run this.”
He raised an eyebrow at the broken card.
“I can get fired for this.”
“I’ll double your salary.”
He snorted. “You don’t pay me.”
“Then I’ll owe you my soul.”
He looked at her. “You already gave that to Wolfe.”
⸻
The footage he found was buried in deep archives.
It showed Darcie swiping the keycard, entering Floor 33 at 11:52 PM on a Thursday. Dressed up. Lipstick on. Expectation in her eyes.
She never came back out.
No footage of her leaving. No logs. No exit.
Eella’s heart thudded. She grabbed her phone, fingers shaking.
No more whispers. No more tiptoeing around the monster in the tower.
It was time for truth.
⸻
She stormed into Garrison’s office like a woman on fire.
He was alone, framed by skyline glass and shadows. His suit jacket was off. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, veins visible beneath tight skin. He looked like sin sculpted into a god.
“Tell me what happened to Darcie.”
He didn’t look up.
“I’m not in the mood for tantrums.”
She slammed the photo down on his desk.
He stared at it. Then at her.
Silence stretched.
“You’re not ready for this.”
“Try me.”
He stood—slowly. Walked around the desk. Didn’t speak.
Eella’s heart pounded.
“I said—”
He slammed her against the window.
The glass was cool. His breath was hot.
“You want to know?” he hissed, mouth inches from hers. “You want to crawl through my hell?”
She tried to push him back. He gripped her wrists. Tight.
“You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“Then teach me.”
His mouth crushed hers. No mercy. No warning.
Heat exploded.
One hand tore at her blouse, buttons flying. The other yanked her skirt up.
She gasped. Bit his lip. He growled.
“You were made for this,” he rasped, dragging his hand between her thighs. “To burn.”
“Then burn me.”
He took her on the window. Against the world.
The city watched. And she didn’t care.
Because this was fire.
And she was already ash.
The first rays of dawn found Eella still pressed against the window—skin flushed, hair in disarray, heart pounding like a war drum. Below, the city pulsed in its morning ritual: traffic lights blinking, cabs honking, humanity hurtling forward. Up here, in Garrison Wolfe’s private domain, time had frozen.
She breathed in slowly, tasting him on her lips in every inhale. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with her own sweat, creating a heady perfume that made her toes go numb.
His voice behind her was quiet, reserved—hundreds of decibels shorter than it had been at midnight. “You survived.”
She turned, blinking against the light. “I’m still here.”
He studied her, eyes flickering with something like awe. It was the first time she’d seen him unmasked. Even in his controlled fury, he looked vulnerable.
He stepped forward. “So you want more rules?”
She tilted her head, shoulders bare. “Define them.”
He reached out, tracing a line from her collarbone down to her breast. “Rule One: Hell is private. No one else may enter my hell.”
Her pulse jumped. “But I’m already in it.”
He smiled—something close to tenderness. “Then Rule Two: You can’t leave.”
She swallowed hard. “Fine.”
His lips brushed hers, soft and urgent. “Rule Three: You burn with me.”
She laughed, breathless. “I thought I already was.”
He kissed her again, deep enough to seal the pact.
⸻
Four hours later, Eella slipped from his penthouse in nothing but a borrowed blazer, the memory of him in her bones. Her shoes clicked down the marble stairs, each echo reminding her that the real work lay below—at Ally’s Inc, where secrets festered like open wounds.
By the time she arrived, noon light filtered through the lobby’s glass façade. She looked too composed—her hair smoothed, her makeup perfect—but inside she was hollowed out, on fire, full of questions that no spreadsheet could answer.
Ronnie intercepted her at the turnstile. “You look like hell,” she said, voice low. “Literally.”
Eella forced a smile. “Something like that.”
Ronnie handed her a file. “Boss wants your input. Then lunch.”
Eella nodded. “Thanks.”
She ducked into her office, locked the door, and spread the file on her desk.
It was Darcie’s old personnel dossier: exemplary performance, glowing references, no disciplinary actions. Then a single stamped note: Transferred—London Office—May 2xx4. No explanation.
Beside it, security logs: Darcie swiped her card at 23:52 on July 14. It was last used. No exit swipe. No badge returned.
Eella’s breath caught. The broken keycard photo had been Darcie’s badge—shattered to bits.
She grabbed her phone. Called Ollie. “Meet me at the substation. Now.”
⸻
Two hours later, in the dusty basement server room, Ollie peered at the screens. “I found more footage.”
He cued a video: midnight camera at the 33rd floor entrance. Darcie approached alone, badge in hand. She hesitated. Looked around. Then tapped the sensor. The door clicked open.
Ollie fast-forwarded. No exit. Then a second camera at the elevator. Only one car moved—empty. It went down. It never came back up.
Ollie’s voice trembled. “She didn’t leave.”
Eella closed her eyes. “Or she never left.”
“Should we call security?” Ollie asked. “This is… serious.”
Eella shook her head. “Let them find the body later. I want to see the 33rd floor.”
“I can…disable logs,” Ollie stammered. “But that’s above my pay grade.”
She stared. “Do it.”
⸻
Dusk found Eella alone before the glass doors of floor 33. The corridor beyond was dim, lit by a single row of recessed lights. There were no cameras. No nameplates. Only the heavy hush of steel doors.
She slid the makeshift keycard through the reader. The door clicked. She held her breath and stepped inside.
The air was cold. Too cold. It smelled of bleach and silence. At the far end, a desk lamp glowed over a single workstation. Papers lay scattered. A broken phone. And on the wall—a large bloodstain, faint but unmistakable.
Her heels clicked on the polished floor as she approached. The blood formed a smear—like someone had dragged a hand across the wall. Underneath, she saw the edge of a nameplate:
Darcie V. Moore
Her heart pounded. She touched the wall, the smear still moist.
Then, at the desk, she found a folder—inside, pages of notes. Darcie’s handwriting: dates, times, names.** “Interview Wolfe,” “Project Lucidity confidential,” “Serum test #7,” “Subject refuses to comply—acid.”
Eella’s stomach churned. Lucidity? Serum? Experiments?
Behind her, the soft echo of footsteps.
She spun—Garrison stood in the doorway, jaw tight, eyes unreadable.
“You were here,” he said.
“I needed to know.”
He crossed the floor, closed the door. “You shouldn’t have.”
She opened the folder. “Tell me. What did you do to Darcie?”
He looked away. “She…she volunteered.”
“Volunteered?” she spat. “For a serum? For what?”
His voice cracked. “For hope. For a cure. To save others.”
She snorted. “You call this saving?”
He pressed his palm to the glass next to her. “She thought she could fix what I’d broken.”
Eella’s fingertips brushed the blood stain. “What happened?”
His shoulders slumped. “The serum was unstable. It drove her insane.”
Eella stared. “So you left her here?”
He flinched. “We…” He paused. “We never recovered her body.”
Her breath caught. “You covered it up.”
“I covered us,” he said. Voice hollow.
She looked up—eyes blazing. “Then I need to cover her.”
Garrison reached for her wrist. “You can’t.”
She shrugged off his hand. “I already have.”
⸻
Night fell as they descended together. She clutched the folder. He rode the elevator in stony silence.
Back at her office, she spread the notes across the table. “She confronted you,” Eella whispered, reading. “She wanted to expose Lucidity. Right?”
Garrison sank into a chair. “She tried to shut it down. They locked her in here.”
Eella’s eyes filled. “You watched her die, Garrison.”
He bowed his head. “I held her hand as the serum consumed her. She begged me to kill her. But I couldn’t.”
She reached, touched his arm. “Then let me finish what she started.”
He looked at her—desperate, broken. “You’ll lose yourself.”
“I’m already lost,” she said.
⸻
That night, they met on the rooftop again. The wind was colder. The city’s glow dimmer.
Eella held the folder. “I’m going to destroy Lucidity.”
He drew a breath. “They’re watching.”
“Then make them watch you burn it down.”
He nodded once. Then kissed her—deep, urgent, a vow and a farewell.
⸻
Pre-dawn, they infiltrated the lab beneath Ally’s Inc. Security guards, biometric locks, encoded alarms—but Eella and Garrison moved like phantoms. He deactivated cameras. She picked the locks.
Inside, they found a row of tanks—filled with pale bodies. Not just Darcie’s. Others. Test subjects.
Eella’s stomach turned. “God.”
“I’m sorry,” Garrison whispered.
She unscrewed the valve.
Acid hissed into the tank.
One by one, they burned.
Eella looked away. She couldn’t save them all.
She moved to the control station. Her fingers flew—deleting files, exposing Lucidity to the world. All protocols. All PDFs. All data streams. Within minutes, the entire operation would be live.
Sirens blared.
They ran.
⸻
Morning news screamed: “Ally’s Inc Scandal: Secret Experiments Exposed.” Boards dropped. Stock plummeted. Protesters gathered.
In his office, Garrison watched the coverage. He looked hollow.
Eella slipped in. “Darcie’s gone.”
He closed his eyes. “But you’re here.”
She crossed to him. “I’m not leaving.”
He reached out—trembling—and she took his hand.
They stood together as the world they built collapsed.
And in the rubble, they found each other.