His Private Hell - Chapter 45: Chapter 45

His Hell,Her Fire
The first thing Eella tasted in the morning was regret.
Not hers. His.
Garrison sat at the edge of her bed, shirtless, motionless. Moonlight still painted his back, but the tension bleeding off him was colder than the steel buried deep in his voice the night before. She reached for him, fingers brushing the scar that ran like a bolt of lightning down his spine.
He flinched.
That was new.
She watched him—no, studied him—as he dragged his hands down his face like he wanted to tear something off. Maybe his past. Maybe the memory of her lips pressed to his stomach last night as she whispered things into his skin that he hadn’t been ready to hear.
“You stayed,” she murmured, still drowsy but aware. Very aware.
“I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
He looked at her then. Full force. No armor. Just wreckage. “I had a dream,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “She was alive.”
Her.
Darcie.
The ghost of the 33rd floor. The locked silence in his file drawers. The missing pieces she was still forbidden to chase.
“What happened to her, Garrison?” Eella asked softly, daring to reach for the shadow in his eyes.
His breath stilled. Then he stood, retreating as if her words had teeth.
“She tried to save me,” he said finally. “But I ruined her instead.”
⸻
The day was unnaturally quiet in Ally’s Inc. Not in the hum of tech or the buzz of meetings—but in the way everyone stared at Eella like they knew.
Maybe they did.
Garrison hadn’t arrived yet. And when she tried to access her messages, the server kicked her out. Twice.
“Coffee?” Astrid asked with a pointed glance toward the break room, her voice unusually clipped.
“Sure,” Eella said, following. The moment the door closed, Astrid hissed, “I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“I’m working,” Eella said stiffly. “Just like you.”
Astrid’s hand clamped her wrist. “You don’t sleep with Garrison Wolfe. You survive him.”
Eella yanked her hand back. “You think I’m afraid of him?”
Astrid blinked. “I think you should be.”
Before she could respond, the door opened—and Walter stepped in. His eyes flicked between them. “He’s in. Meeting in fifteen.”
With that, he was gone.
So was the pretense.
Astrid exhaled. “He doesn’t let anyone in his office unless—”
“I know,” Eella said tightly. “I’ve been in there.”
Astrid didn’t press. But she didn’t look away either.
⸻
When Eella stepped inside Garrison’s penthouse office, she expected cold detachment. Not the man seated with his sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, eyes rimmed in something dangerously close to exhaustion.
“Sit,” he said.
She did.
A long pause stretched between them. Outside, the skyline glittered like temptation. Inside, it felt like confession.
He didn’t look at her when he said, “I think you’re making a mistake.”
She tilted her head. “By sitting here? Or by not running away yet?”
“By getting close,” he replied. “To me. To any of this.”
“You mean Darcie.”
His gaze snapped to hers. “You want the truth?”
“Always.”
He stood, pacing toward the window. “She was my assistant. And brilliant. And too goddamn kind.”
“What happened?”
“She found something. A transaction hidden under the merger with Stonebridge Pharma. A payment—off the books. She brought it to me.”
Eella stood now too. “What did it say?”
“That we funded a trial we never approved. And people died.”
She inhaled sharply.
Garrison turned slowly. “She said we had to expose it. I said we needed proof. The next day… she vanished.”
Eella’s stomach dropped. “Vanished?”
“No signs of a break-in. No last calls. She was just… gone.” His voice wavered. “And I never found her.”
Eella stepped closer. “You blame yourself.”
“I buried her,” he said, voice thick. “Not literally. But every day I kept this place running… I buried her deeper.”
Silence wrapped around them, thick as velvet.
“I need to know what you want from me, Eella,” he said after a beat. “Because whatever this is… it’s not safe.”
She didn’t blink. “Maybe I’m not safe either.”
⸻
That night, she found herself back at his place.
She told herself she was only there to look through the old files he’d finally agreed to share. But the way he watched her from across the room said otherwise.
He wanted her closer.
So she went.
“You know what I hate about desire?” he asked as she approached. “It makes liars out of men who pride themselves on truth.”
She stopped in front of him. “What lie are you about to tell?”
“That I can stop.”
And then he was kissing her again.
But this time was different.
This time, he wasn’t punishing himself for wanting her.
He was indulging.
His hands didn’t just slide over her skin—they claimed it. Gripped her hips. Dragged her onto his lap. She gasped into his mouth as his fingers slipped under her blouse, palming her breast with reverence and desperation.
She rocked against him, needing friction, needing him. And when she reached for his belt, he grabbed her wrist.
“Not yet,” he rasped. “I want to see you first.”
He stripped her slowly—painfully slowly—and laid her out on the couch like she was a secret worth memorizing. Every kiss was a question. Every lick a curse.
When he slid down between her thighs, she stopped breathing.
And when he tasted her, she stopped thinking.
“You’re addictive,” he whispered against her. “Worse than whiskey. Worse than rage.”
She arched, eyes fluttering, hands gripping his hair.
He didn’t stop. Not when she trembled. Not when she came. Not even when she sobbed his name into the dark.
Because Garrison Wolfe didn’t make love.
He devoured.
⸻
The file he left on her nightstand said: “Darcie’s last messages.”
Eella opened it at 3:13 a.m., the taste of him still on her lips.
I don’t trust Ally’s anymore.
Tell Garrison he’s not above this.
Someone’s deleting records. I saw the logs.
The 33rd floor—something’s off. It’s like no one’s allowed to talk about it. Not even HR.
I think I’m being followed.
The final message was sent thirty-six hours before she vanished:
If anything happens to me, tell him I never stopped loving him. Even when he buried the truth.
Eella stared at it for a long time.
Then she rose from the bed, naked and shaking, and found Garrison staring out the window, eyes haunted.
“She loved you,” she said.
He didn’t turn. “I know.”
“She tried to save you.”
He closed his eyes. “And now you’re trying to do the same thing.”
She touched his back, lips brushing the scar again.
“I don’t want to save you, Garrison,” she said. “I want to burn with you.”
His body tensed.
Then he turned and kissed her like damnation.
⸻
Two days later, she went to the 33rd floor.
She used Darcie’s old keycard—somehow still active. The moment the doors slid open, cold air hit her like a ghost.
The floor was abandoned.
Or so it seemed.
As she walked past the empty offices, she noticed a red light blinking above one door. Motion sensor.
She moved closer. The door creaked open.
And inside, she found a room that didn’t belong in a corporate building.
Dark velvet walls. A single chair bolted to the floor. A mirror that wasn’t a mirror—it was a two-way glass.
The hell was this?
A recording light blinked in the corner.
Something told her this was never for board meetings.
Then she saw the initials carved into the chair’s armrest.
D.H.
Darcie Hart.
Her knees almost buckled.
Before she could react, a voice sounded behind her.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.”
She turned.
Walter.
His face was pale. His eyes dead.
“What is this place?” she demanded.
He didn’t answer.
He only smiled. “You’re making the same mistake she did.”
And then he lunged.