His Private Hell - Chapter 68: Chapter 68
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Eella woke to silence. Not the soft kind that followed intimacy, but the sharpened edge of stillness that came when something had shifted—and you hadn’t noticed.
The sheets beside her were cold.
Garrison was gone.
Her pulse ticked up as she pushed herself upright, brushing tangled hair out of her face. The apartment was dim, lit only by the weak glow filtering through the curtains. It wasn’t morning. Not quite night. That hour of limbo where everything seemed more haunted.
She padded into the living room, bare feet silent on the polished floor.
He wasn’t there.
But the front door was cracked open.
Her stomach dropped.
Eella opened it—and froze.
Blood smeared the hallway carpet in lazy arcs. Crimson and thick, leading to the elevator like a trail left by something crawling. No body. Just the stain. Like someone had been dragged.
Her breath hitched. “Garrison?”
A shape emerged behind her. A whisper against her neck. A hand at her waist.
“Not Garrison,” said a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. “But he sends his regards.”
She spun—
Too late.
A sharp prick at her throat, a needle’s kiss. The world tilted, colors bleeding together. Her knees buckled as she hit the floor.
And everything went black.
⸻
She woke restrained.
Cold metal against her wrists, ankles. Leather biting into her skin. The room was dark, but not unfamiliar. The scent of it—a blend of expensive cologne, blood, and old paper—was burned into her memory.
The 33rd floor.
No mistaking it now.
She was in his hell.
Chains rattled softly as she tried to shift. She was naked. Except for the black silk blindfold knotted around her eyes. She heard a soft click—someone flipping a switch. The lights hummed to life. Even without seeing, she felt the intensity of the gaze burning into her skin.
“You wanted answers, didn’t you?”
The voice wasn’t Garrison’s.
It was Darcie’s.
Eella’s blood turned to ice.
“I warned you,” Darcie said softly. “He always chooses the ones who look like me. But you… you made him feel. I couldn’t allow that.”
The blindfold was yanked away.
Darcie stood before her in a blood-red dress, her expression a mask of something between sorrow and hatred. Behind her, screens flickered to life—grainy security footage, timestamps, archived footage. Eella saw herself in all of them. Caught in stolen kisses, elevator embraces, meetings where Garrison stared too long. It was surveillance. Obsession.
“He watched you even when you didn’t know,” Darcie whispered, stepping closer. “He let you in. He never let me in. I burned for him. I bled for him. But you—you took what wasn’t yours.”
Eella struggled against the cuffs. “What do you want?”
Darcie crouched beside her. “I want him to see. I want him to feel. The way he made me feel.”
Then the door opened.
Garrison stood there—soaked in rain, shirt torn, knuckles bruised. His eyes locked on Eella. Then on Darcie.
“Let her go,” he said, his voice gravel.
“She’s yours, isn’t she?” Darcie asked. “Would you trade her for me?”
Garrison stepped inside. Slowly. Like a lion approaching a trap.
“She isn’t mine,” he said coldly. “She’s free. You were never a prisoner, Darcie. You chose this madness.”
“She made you soft,” Darcie hissed. “She touched the part of you that still had hope. I had to carve it out.”
In a blur, she lunged.
But Garrison was faster.
The gun went off—once, then twice. Darcie slumped to the floor, red blooming on her chest like a final flower.
Silence.
Eella barely breathed.
Garrison dropped the weapon. Blood spattered his wrist. He looked at Eella—like he was seeing her for the first time, like he hated himself for what he’d done.
He stepped closer, wordless, and undid the cuffs.
Her arms collapsed around his neck.
She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.
“You came for me,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
He cradled her face, his thumb brushing a smear of blood from her cheek.
“I never left,” he said. “Not really.”
⸻
Later, she stood under the hot spray of the shower, water streaking down her back like absolution. Garrison watched her from the doorway, silent. His tie was gone, shirt open. His expression unreadable.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said.
“I do.”
The moment held like a match just waiting to ignite. And then—his mouth was on hers, fierce and possessive, his hands sliding down her wet body as if trying to memorize every curve, every bruise.
He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the cool tile.
Their mouths warred.
Eella’s legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back as he pushed inside her in a single stroke. She gasped, the pleasure sharp, wild—raw like everything between them. He wasn’t gentle. He couldn’t be.
“I almost lost you,” he gritted.
“You didn’t,” she panted. “You found me.”
He drove deeper.
Every thrust was a confession, every moan a promise. His mouth roamed from her lips to her neck, his teeth grazing the hollow of her throat.
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
“That you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered. “Even if it kills me.”
His eyes darkened. “It will.”
And he kissed her like he meant it.
⸻
They lay tangled afterward, slick with sweat and silence.
“You should leave the company,” she murmured, tracing a scar on his chest.
“I can’t.”
“You can. Walk away from it. From all of it. With me.”
He turned to face her.
“There’s something else,” he said. “You need to know.”
She froze. “What?”
“Darcie wasn’t acting alone.”
The world tilted again.
“She mentioned someone before I arrived. A man. Said he knew about you. About your past.”
Eella sat up. “What man?”
“Someone tied to Ally’s original board. Before I took over. The same man who put Darcie in charge of the 33rd floor. He’s back. And he wants everything I’ve built—including you.”
She swallowed hard. “Then what do we do?”
His answer was simple.
“We burn it down.”
⸻
The next morning, Eella walked into Ally’s Inc wearing a blood-red blouse and the heels Garrison had once ripped off her feet. Everyone watched her. Some with curiosity. Some with fear. No one dared approach.
She took the elevator to the 33rd floor.
It had been cleared. Sanitized. Darcie’s blood erased, her legacy reduced to nothing but ash in a file.
But the ghost of her madness lingered in the walls.
Eella stood in the center of the room and whispered: “I’m not her.”
Then she smiled—and walked out.
The fire was only beginning.
And hell had just found its new queen.
The sheets beside her were cold.
Garrison was gone.
Her pulse ticked up as she pushed herself upright, brushing tangled hair out of her face. The apartment was dim, lit only by the weak glow filtering through the curtains. It wasn’t morning. Not quite night. That hour of limbo where everything seemed more haunted.
She padded into the living room, bare feet silent on the polished floor.
He wasn’t there.
But the front door was cracked open.
Her stomach dropped.
Eella opened it—and froze.
Blood smeared the hallway carpet in lazy arcs. Crimson and thick, leading to the elevator like a trail left by something crawling. No body. Just the stain. Like someone had been dragged.
Her breath hitched. “Garrison?”
A shape emerged behind her. A whisper against her neck. A hand at her waist.
“Not Garrison,” said a voice she hadn’t heard in a long time. “But he sends his regards.”
She spun—
Too late.
A sharp prick at her throat, a needle’s kiss. The world tilted, colors bleeding together. Her knees buckled as she hit the floor.
And everything went black.
⸻
She woke restrained.
Cold metal against her wrists, ankles. Leather biting into her skin. The room was dark, but not unfamiliar. The scent of it—a blend of expensive cologne, blood, and old paper—was burned into her memory.
The 33rd floor.
No mistaking it now.
She was in his hell.
Chains rattled softly as she tried to shift. She was naked. Except for the black silk blindfold knotted around her eyes. She heard a soft click—someone flipping a switch. The lights hummed to life. Even without seeing, she felt the intensity of the gaze burning into her skin.
“You wanted answers, didn’t you?”
The voice wasn’t Garrison’s.
It was Darcie’s.
Eella’s blood turned to ice.
“I warned you,” Darcie said softly. “He always chooses the ones who look like me. But you… you made him feel. I couldn’t allow that.”
The blindfold was yanked away.
Darcie stood before her in a blood-red dress, her expression a mask of something between sorrow and hatred. Behind her, screens flickered to life—grainy security footage, timestamps, archived footage. Eella saw herself in all of them. Caught in stolen kisses, elevator embraces, meetings where Garrison stared too long. It was surveillance. Obsession.
“He watched you even when you didn’t know,” Darcie whispered, stepping closer. “He let you in. He never let me in. I burned for him. I bled for him. But you—you took what wasn’t yours.”
Eella struggled against the cuffs. “What do you want?”
Darcie crouched beside her. “I want him to see. I want him to feel. The way he made me feel.”
Then the door opened.
Garrison stood there—soaked in rain, shirt torn, knuckles bruised. His eyes locked on Eella. Then on Darcie.
“Let her go,” he said, his voice gravel.
“She’s yours, isn’t she?” Darcie asked. “Would you trade her for me?”
Garrison stepped inside. Slowly. Like a lion approaching a trap.
“She isn’t mine,” he said coldly. “She’s free. You were never a prisoner, Darcie. You chose this madness.”
“She made you soft,” Darcie hissed. “She touched the part of you that still had hope. I had to carve it out.”
In a blur, she lunged.
But Garrison was faster.
The gun went off—once, then twice. Darcie slumped to the floor, red blooming on her chest like a final flower.
Silence.
Eella barely breathed.
Garrison dropped the weapon. Blood spattered his wrist. He looked at Eella—like he was seeing her for the first time, like he hated himself for what he’d done.
He stepped closer, wordless, and undid the cuffs.
Her arms collapsed around his neck.
She didn’t cry. She couldn’t.
“You came for me,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
He cradled her face, his thumb brushing a smear of blood from her cheek.
“I never left,” he said. “Not really.”
⸻
Later, she stood under the hot spray of the shower, water streaking down her back like absolution. Garrison watched her from the doorway, silent. His tie was gone, shirt open. His expression unreadable.
“You don’t have to stay,” she said.
“I do.”
The moment held like a match just waiting to ignite. And then—his mouth was on hers, fierce and possessive, his hands sliding down her wet body as if trying to memorize every curve, every bruise.
He lifted her effortlessly, pinning her against the cool tile.
Their mouths warred.
Eella’s legs wrapped around his waist, her nails digging into his back as he pushed inside her in a single stroke. She gasped, the pleasure sharp, wild—raw like everything between them. He wasn’t gentle. He couldn’t be.
“I almost lost you,” he gritted.
“You didn’t,” she panted. “You found me.”
He drove deeper.
Every thrust was a confession, every moan a promise. His mouth roamed from her lips to her neck, his teeth grazing the hollow of her throat.
“Say it,” he growled.
“What?”
“That you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” she whispered. “Even if it kills me.”
His eyes darkened. “It will.”
And he kissed her like he meant it.
⸻
They lay tangled afterward, slick with sweat and silence.
“You should leave the company,” she murmured, tracing a scar on his chest.
“I can’t.”
“You can. Walk away from it. From all of it. With me.”
He turned to face her.
“There’s something else,” he said. “You need to know.”
She froze. “What?”
“Darcie wasn’t acting alone.”
The world tilted again.
“She mentioned someone before I arrived. A man. Said he knew about you. About your past.”
Eella sat up. “What man?”
“Someone tied to Ally’s original board. Before I took over. The same man who put Darcie in charge of the 33rd floor. He’s back. And he wants everything I’ve built—including you.”
She swallowed hard. “Then what do we do?”
His answer was simple.
“We burn it down.”
⸻
The next morning, Eella walked into Ally’s Inc wearing a blood-red blouse and the heels Garrison had once ripped off her feet. Everyone watched her. Some with curiosity. Some with fear. No one dared approach.
She took the elevator to the 33rd floor.
It had been cleared. Sanitized. Darcie’s blood erased, her legacy reduced to nothing but ash in a file.
But the ghost of her madness lingered in the walls.
Eella stood in the center of the room and whispered: “I’m not her.”
Then she smiled—and walked out.
The fire was only beginning.
And hell had just found its new queen.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 68. Continue reading Chapter 69 or return to His Private Hell book page.