His Private Hell - Chapter 76: Chapter 76

Garrison’s fingers trembled on the steering wheel as the SUV cut through the wet streets. Rain spattered the windshield in frantic patterns, matching the wild drum of Eella’s heart. She sat beside him, silent, the shard of mirror pressed tight in her palm—a promise of all the fractured truths they still had to piece together.
Ollie drove in measured calm, eyes flicking between the road and rearview mirror. “Archives are three blocks away. After that, we can intercept whatever intel your brother’s behind.”
Eella nodded, fingers tracing the sharp edge of the shard. “He used Darcie as bait. Then you. Then me.” She swallowed. “Why did he wait so long?”
“Patience,” Garrison muttered, tone sour. “He wanted to watch us burn first.”
The SUV slipped into a nondescript loading dock. They climbed out, water beading on their clothes. Eella twined her arm through Garrison’s, seeking warmth. He didn’t pull away.
Inside, the archive storage was a cavern of steel racks and filing cabinets. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Piles of documents—legal briefs, HR files, blueprints—lined a central table. Ronnie and Ollie waited, flanked by two security staff Garrison trusted.
“Everything we could unearth on Darcie and your brother,” Ronnie said, dropping a stack of manila folders. “Plus everything on Project Lucidity.”
Garrison closed his eyes. “I thought I’d buried it.”
“Buried secrets don’t die,” Eella whispered, stepping forward. “They fester.”
She swept up the top file—Darcie Vale’s personnel dossier. The pages were thick with redactions. Handwritten notes in Garrison’s script: Monitor behavior. Positive response to pressure. Subject stable—under control.
Her breath caught. “Pressure? What pressure?”
Ronnie showed her an internal memo: “Recommend: Controlled environment interrogation.” Under it, a line in bold: Use if subject deviates from protocol.
Eella’s pulse spiked. “He tortured her here.”
Garrison’s hand landed on her shoulder, gentle but firm. “She volunteered. Thought she could handle it.”
“She never should have,” Eella said, voice cracked. “And neither should I.”
He closed the folder. “Next.”
They moved through dossiers: bank transfers, covert surveillance logs, travel itineraries. Then a small envelope, unmarked. Garrison hesitated, then opened it.
Inside was a single Polaroid: Eella, asleep in Garrison’s penthouse. The shot was taken from above, a faint reflection in the glass ceiling. Someone had been watching—inside his home. Anyone could have sent the message: “We know where you sleep.”
Ollie cursed. “That’s personal. This goes beyond boardroom politics.”
Eella looked at Garrison. Fear and fury warred in her gaze. “He wants me terrified.”
Garrison ripped the photo in half. “Then let’s give him something to fear.”
He slammed his fist on the table. Papers fluttered. The security guards stiffened.
“We go on offense,” he said.
Their target: the penthouse controller, the IT hub that managed surveillance feeds, power, comms. If they could seize it, they would blind the building—cut off cameras, alarms, door locks. Then escape, smoke, mirrors.
Eella felt the old thrill—danger, conspiracy, the forbidden. She met Garrison’s eyes. “I’m with you.”
⸻
They drove back, a tight quartet moving under cover of darkness. The archive alight with newfound purpose, Eella’s zippered tote packed with files, Garrison’s gun gleaming under his jacket. Each block felt like a heartbeat: slow, quick, slower.
They crossed the storm-blown boulevard and slipped through the penthouse service entrance. The walls hummed with power. Cameras blinked overhead. The red file shard burned in Eella’s pocket.
Garrison led, Ronnie and Ollie flanking, Eella behind him. They navigated to the utility corridor—the route Garrison had once used to bypass security. Floor plans Ronnie had copied from the archive guided them.
They reached the server room: a nondescript door with a biometric scanner—Garrison Wolfe. He pressed his palm; the scanner beeped green. The door hissed open.
Inside: rows of servers, cables snaking across the floor like mechanical vines. The air was cold, scented faintly of ozone. A single console stood by the wall, screens flickering with live feeds: lobby, corridors, the vault, the atrium.
Eella’s stomach twisted. She reached for the EMP remote in her pocket—the same device that had blacked out the 33rd floor. If they triggered it here, the entire penthouse would plunge into darkness.
Garrison moved to the console, finger poised over the keyboard. “I want every feed on a loop—fixated on the furnace room. When they check the screens, they’ll see nothing but flames.”
Eella nodded. “And we slip out.”
He typed commands, eyes scanning rows of codes. Then he triggered an override. Eella held her breath as the screens glitched, then switched to pre-recorded footage of a raging fire. The panicked cries of Darcie’s voice looped beneath it: “You can’t bury me!”
Smoke alarms shrieked. Lights switched to emergency mode—red strobes pulsing. The building’s PA crackled: Warning: System malfunction. Security lockdown disengaged.
Garrison turned, face a stolen mask of triumph. “Time.”
Eella pressed the EMP. The servers hummed, then died. Screens went black. The door clanged shut as integrated locks engaged. The corridor beyond lit by flickering emergency lamps.
Together, they ran—Eella first, bowing her head against the strobe lights, Garrison close behind, Ronnie and Ollie covering their flanks. Guards flooded the hallway, weapons raised, but the emergency lights disoriented them; the looped fire footage kept them frozen at checkpoints.
They spilled into an empty unit for sale—an unfurnished box of concrete and glass overlooking the river. Garrison jammed the console door with a cable spool.
“They’ll come this way,” he said.
Eella turned, saw him for the first time through new eyes: vulnerability beneath the predator. “Let them.”
He met her gaze. “I didn’t bring you into hell to lose you.”
She pressed her palm to his cheek. “Then don’t.”
He kissed her like salvation. Then he broke away, rummaging through the archive folders in his bag until he pulled out a single name scrawled on a yellow Post-it: “M. Hart—not in files.”
Her heart stopped. “My brother’s real name was Matthew.”
“No one called him that.” Garrison crushed the note in his fist. “He created that ghost—Darcie—to get to you. Then he gambled everything on your loyalty. But he forgot one thing.”
Eella’s pulse surged. “What?”
Garrison pulled her close. “No one’s more loyal than the woman he loves.”
She raised a brow. “You mean…”
He smiled—dangerous, rare. “Yes.”
She laughed, shaky. “Then let’s find him.”
They slipped out through the fire escape, into the open night. The wind wasn’t just wind; it was freedom. Fear. Fury.
Behind them, the penthouse alarms wailed. Red lights trimmed the skyline. The mirrors in the 33rd floor reflected a building ablaze—with lies.
Eella reached for Garrison’s hand. “Where to?”
His gaze cut across the city. “To the origin point. The place where it all started.”
She held onto him as they descended the fire stairs into the belly of the city, into the underworld of secret files and hidden identities. Into the final act of .
Because the next door they’d open would lead not to fire, but to truth.
And truth, they both knew, was the deadliest flame of all.