His Private Hell - Chapter 73: Chapter 73
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The Inferno's Edge
Eella felt the pull of darkness before she even entered the penthouse lobby. The rain-soaked city sprawled beneath her like a wound, neon bleeding into black pavement. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, each echo a heartbeat marking the march into Garrison Wolfe’s private hell. She clutched the folder containing Ronnie’s latest discoveries—bank transfers to shell companies, off-the-books payments, coded messages signed “G”—and steeled herself against the storm that brewed behind her ribs.
The elevator ride up was silent except for the low hum of cables. The doors slid open onto the 33rd floor, now blood-red under dim sconces. Velvet walls swallowed sound. At the far end, the single black door waited, unmarked. Eella stepped forward, heart pounding like detonations, and inserted the key Garrison had never thought to change. It clicked.
Inside was an atrium of memories. Mirrors hung on every wall, reflecting her in endless repetitions. In each, she saw herself—and a shadow behind her: Darcie. Not a ghost but a witness, her pale eyes tracking Eella’s every move.
Garrison stood at the center, back to Eella, shirt hanging open, tie undone. He didn’t turn.
“You came alone,” he said, voice low. “I expected you’d bring an army.”
“I came for the truth,” Eella replied, dropping the folder on a glass pedestal. “I think it’s time we both faced it.”
He finally turned. His eyes were hollow craters. He looked almost… fragile.
“First,” he said, “we purge the lies.”
He pressed a button on the pedestal. The glass rotated, revealing a playback screen: surveillance of Eella at work—her lunches, her meetings, her private moments—woven together with footage of Garrison and Darcie in shadowed embraces. The montage surged like a confession.
“You watched me,” Eella said, voice trembling.
“I watched us,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I needed to be sure you weren’t like her.”
“Like Darcie?” Her laugh was bitter. “She was my mirror. You could see yourself in her.”
He closed the distance, pressing his hand to her chest. “She broke me.”
“And I stitched you back together,” Eella whispered, sliding her fingers under his shirt. “Only to rip you open again.”
He shuddered at her touch. The truth between them was a blade both feared and desired.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“Regret?” She swallowed. “I regret not seeing it sooner. Not knowing the hell you forged before I stepped inside.”
Their lips met—first soft, then fierce. Eella kissed him like a reckoning, tasting the salt of his sorrow. His arms wound around her, lifting her effortlessly, carrying her to the center of the room.
He laid her down on the mirrored floor, straps sliding from hidden panels to bind her wrists and ankles. Eella stared up at a thousand reflections, the fragments of herself dancing in fractured light.
“Let me show you the real fire,” Garrison murmured, lowering himself. His mouth on her thigh was a promise of pain and salvation. Each flick of his tongue spun her world, until her breath caught and the mirrors blurred with tears.
He rose, his gaze fierce. “Darcie was lost in this room. She thought she could find herself in the flames. She died trying to reclaim what I took.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Eella spat, voice raw. “She was real. Human.”
Garrison’s expression cracked. “And I made her less than human.”
His confession cut deeper than any blade. Eella’s hands ached against the straps, the coolness of the metal a reminder of her captivity in his world.
He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I need you to understand what I became. So you can decide if you still want me.”
Her heart thundered. “Show me.”
He reached for a hidden panel. A trapdoor in the mirrored floor slid open, revealing stairs spiraling downward. From below came the faint roar of machinery and the scent of something acrid—smoke, oil, anger.
Eella’s pulse quickened.
He offered her his hand. “Your choice. Down there, you’ll find the furnace room—the origin of the fire I lit in my soul.”
She took his hand, pulling herself up and out of the restraints. Each reflection in the mirrors seemed to watch her betrayal, her surrender, her power.
They descended the stairs, mirrors replaced by bare concrete. The hum became a howl. Heat brushed their skin.
At the bottom, they stepped into a cavernous chamber—rusted pipes twisting like serpents overhead, a massive forge roaring at its center. And hanging above it: Darcie’s dress, the silk scorched and bloodstained, suspended by chains as if on a pyre of memories.
Eella’s breath caught in her throat.
Garrison swallowed. “I burned what I loved to try and purge the darkness. But the darkness didn’t die. It’s here, in this room, waiting.”
He touched the dress. “I wanted to incinerate every trace, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her dying like that.”
She stepped forward, fingers brushing the fabric. The heat stung. “It belongs in flames.”
She reached for the lever beside the forge.
Garrison grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”
She froze, gaze on his face.
“You’ll burn me with it.”
Eella’s eyes softened. “I want to burn what hurt you. Not you.”
His chest heaved. “It’s too late.”
“No.” She pulled the lever.
The forge flame roared higher. The chains rattled. The dress caught—and ignited, the silk liquefying into tears of flame.
Darcie’s final silhouette shimmered in the blaze—and then melted away.
Eella turned to Garrison, tears streaking her cheeks. “I did it.”
He stared at the dying pyre. “You freed her.”
She pressed to him, warmth and smoke around them. “Now free me.”
He kissed her like absolution: slow, fierce, desperate. Their bodies fused in the forge’s glow, shadows dancing in their wake.
When it was over, they lay in the heat of the chamber, sweat and soot mingling on their skin.
Garrison whispered, “My hell is your hell now.”
Eella smiled, exhausted but alive. “Then let’s burn together.”
They rose hand in hand, leaving the furnace room behind to cool. Each step up the spiral stairs felt lighter, the weight of the past sloughing off.
At the top, the mirrors awaited—thousand reflections of them, battered but unbroken.
He met her gaze. “Do you still choose me?”
She stepped close, lips brushing his. “I choose us.”
They kissed, the mirrors echoing their devotion.
But beyond the mirrored doors, the city still burned with secrets.
And in the penthouse, the phone buzzed.
A new message lit the screen:
“We’ve watched you rebuild. Now watch it all fall.”
Eella’s fingers trembled as she showed Garrison.
His hand found hers. “They’re coming.”
She swallowed. “Then let them burn.”
Together, they faced their private hell—and the pyre wasn’t over yet.
Eella felt the pull of darkness before she even entered the penthouse lobby. The rain-soaked city sprawled beneath her like a wound, neon bleeding into black pavement. Her heels clicked across the marble floor, each echo a heartbeat marking the march into Garrison Wolfe’s private hell. She clutched the folder containing Ronnie’s latest discoveries—bank transfers to shell companies, off-the-books payments, coded messages signed “G”—and steeled herself against the storm that brewed behind her ribs.
The elevator ride up was silent except for the low hum of cables. The doors slid open onto the 33rd floor, now blood-red under dim sconces. Velvet walls swallowed sound. At the far end, the single black door waited, unmarked. Eella stepped forward, heart pounding like detonations, and inserted the key Garrison had never thought to change. It clicked.
Inside was an atrium of memories. Mirrors hung on every wall, reflecting her in endless repetitions. In each, she saw herself—and a shadow behind her: Darcie. Not a ghost but a witness, her pale eyes tracking Eella’s every move.
Garrison stood at the center, back to Eella, shirt hanging open, tie undone. He didn’t turn.
“You came alone,” he said, voice low. “I expected you’d bring an army.”
“I came for the truth,” Eella replied, dropping the folder on a glass pedestal. “I think it’s time we both faced it.”
He finally turned. His eyes were hollow craters. He looked almost… fragile.
“First,” he said, “we purge the lies.”
He pressed a button on the pedestal. The glass rotated, revealing a playback screen: surveillance of Eella at work—her lunches, her meetings, her private moments—woven together with footage of Garrison and Darcie in shadowed embraces. The montage surged like a confession.
“You watched me,” Eella said, voice trembling.
“I watched us,” he corrected, stepping closer. “I needed to be sure you weren’t like her.”
“Like Darcie?” Her laugh was bitter. “She was my mirror. You could see yourself in her.”
He closed the distance, pressing his hand to her chest. “She broke me.”
“And I stitched you back together,” Eella whispered, sliding her fingers under his shirt. “Only to rip you open again.”
He shuddered at her touch. The truth between them was a blade both feared and desired.
“Do you regret it?” he asked.
“Regret?” She swallowed. “I regret not seeing it sooner. Not knowing the hell you forged before I stepped inside.”
Their lips met—first soft, then fierce. Eella kissed him like a reckoning, tasting the salt of his sorrow. His arms wound around her, lifting her effortlessly, carrying her to the center of the room.
He laid her down on the mirrored floor, straps sliding from hidden panels to bind her wrists and ankles. Eella stared up at a thousand reflections, the fragments of herself dancing in fractured light.
“Let me show you the real fire,” Garrison murmured, lowering himself. His mouth on her thigh was a promise of pain and salvation. Each flick of his tongue spun her world, until her breath caught and the mirrors blurred with tears.
He rose, his gaze fierce. “Darcie was lost in this room. She thought she could find herself in the flames. She died trying to reclaim what I took.”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” Eella spat, voice raw. “She was real. Human.”
Garrison’s expression cracked. “And I made her less than human.”
His confession cut deeper than any blade. Eella’s hands ached against the straps, the coolness of the metal a reminder of her captivity in his world.
He knelt beside her, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I need you to understand what I became. So you can decide if you still want me.”
Her heart thundered. “Show me.”
He reached for a hidden panel. A trapdoor in the mirrored floor slid open, revealing stairs spiraling downward. From below came the faint roar of machinery and the scent of something acrid—smoke, oil, anger.
Eella’s pulse quickened.
He offered her his hand. “Your choice. Down there, you’ll find the furnace room—the origin of the fire I lit in my soul.”
She took his hand, pulling herself up and out of the restraints. Each reflection in the mirrors seemed to watch her betrayal, her surrender, her power.
They descended the stairs, mirrors replaced by bare concrete. The hum became a howl. Heat brushed their skin.
At the bottom, they stepped into a cavernous chamber—rusted pipes twisting like serpents overhead, a massive forge roaring at its center. And hanging above it: Darcie’s dress, the silk scorched and bloodstained, suspended by chains as if on a pyre of memories.
Eella’s breath caught in her throat.
Garrison swallowed. “I burned what I loved to try and purge the darkness. But the darkness didn’t die. It’s here, in this room, waiting.”
He touched the dress. “I wanted to incinerate every trace, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face her dying like that.”
She stepped forward, fingers brushing the fabric. The heat stung. “It belongs in flames.”
She reached for the lever beside the forge.
Garrison grabbed her wrist. “Wait.”
She froze, gaze on his face.
“You’ll burn me with it.”
Eella’s eyes softened. “I want to burn what hurt you. Not you.”
His chest heaved. “It’s too late.”
“No.” She pulled the lever.
The forge flame roared higher. The chains rattled. The dress caught—and ignited, the silk liquefying into tears of flame.
Darcie’s final silhouette shimmered in the blaze—and then melted away.
Eella turned to Garrison, tears streaking her cheeks. “I did it.”
He stared at the dying pyre. “You freed her.”
She pressed to him, warmth and smoke around them. “Now free me.”
He kissed her like absolution: slow, fierce, desperate. Their bodies fused in the forge’s glow, shadows dancing in their wake.
When it was over, they lay in the heat of the chamber, sweat and soot mingling on their skin.
Garrison whispered, “My hell is your hell now.”
Eella smiled, exhausted but alive. “Then let’s burn together.”
They rose hand in hand, leaving the furnace room behind to cool. Each step up the spiral stairs felt lighter, the weight of the past sloughing off.
At the top, the mirrors awaited—thousand reflections of them, battered but unbroken.
He met her gaze. “Do you still choose me?”
She stepped close, lips brushing his. “I choose us.”
They kissed, the mirrors echoing their devotion.
But beyond the mirrored doors, the city still burned with secrets.
And in the penthouse, the phone buzzed.
A new message lit the screen:
“We’ve watched you rebuild. Now watch it all fall.”
Eella’s fingers trembled as she showed Garrison.
His hand found hers. “They’re coming.”
She swallowed. “Then let them burn.”
Together, they faced their private hell—and the pyre wasn’t over yet.
End of His Private Hell Chapter 73. Continue reading Chapter 74 or return to His Private Hell book page.