His Private Hell - Chapter 85: Chapter 85

The apartment felt like it was breathing.
No, he felt like he was breathing for it.
Garrison’s presence twisted the air, heat coiling around Eella’s limbs as she stood frozen by the window. The city blinked in a thousand fractured lights outside, but inside—it was a different world. One where she no longer recognized her boundaries, her morals, even her reflection.
Behind her, she felt him move. No footsteps. Just the pressure in the air changing. Her skin prickled before she even heard his voice.
“I gave you space,” Garrison said, low and restrained. “Three days. And you used it to lie to me.”
She turned slowly, every part of her body taut. “I didn’t lie.”
“No?” He crossed the floor in two steps. “Then what would you call it when you told me you were ‘handling things’? That you’d ‘take care of it’? You knew Darcie was back. You knew Ronnie had been asking questions. You knew, Eella. And you didn’t tell me.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Garrison’s eyes—black with fury, or maybe something worse—bored into her like a brand. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I was trying to protect you.” Her voice cracked. “Garrison, I—”
He grabbed her wrist, not hard, but with an intensity that made her heart stutter. “Protect me?” he echoed, his voice dark with disbelief. “From what, exactly? From the ghost I buried on the 33rd floor? From the memories I’ve been drinking myself to death to erase?”
Her eyes shimmered. “I didn’t want to lose you.”
“You never had me.” The words sliced her. He didn’t flinch when he said them. “You only ever had my interest. And now? You’re losing that too.”
She slapped him.
The sound rang across the apartment like a gunshot.
They stood there—frozen. Airless.
And then, Garrison moved.
He grabbed her face with both hands, slammed his mouth down on hers, and the kiss was so brutal she tasted blood. Hers? His? She didn’t know. Didn’t care.
He dragged her backwards. Shirts tore. Buttons scattered. His mouth didn’t leave hers even as they stumbled toward the kitchen island.
She hit it with her back. Hard.
He pushed her legs apart, dragging her to the edge, and she gasped when she felt the chill of the marble against her thighs.
“You wanted to lie?” His voice was a growl against her skin. “Then beg me like you lied.”
Her breath caught. “Garrison—”
“No. Beg.”
She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Her body was his. Her shame was his. Her truth—tangled in the rough grip of his fingertips—was also his.
“Please,” she whispered. “Punish me.”
That was all he needed.
His mouth traveled down her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse, and then lower, devouring her like a man at war with his own hunger. She arched, cried out, twisted her hands in his hair.
“Louder,” he said, licking her until she trembled.
Her scream was ragged.
But what shattered her more was what she saw when she dared to look down—his eyes. Not lust. Not even fury.
Devastation.
He hated needing her. Hated what she’d done. Hated what it meant that he couldn’t stop.
She came apart with his name on her tongue, and he didn’t stop—only climbed up her body, cupped her jaw, and kissed her again, tasting every piece of her like it was the only thing that could keep him alive.
And then—
A knock.
It wasn’t loud. Just one soft, deliberate rap against the door.
Eella froze. Garrison pulled away, panting. His hand slipped from her cheek, already reaching toward the drawer by the counter.
Another knock.
He opened the drawer. Pulled out a gun.
“What the hell?” she whispered.
“Stay here,” he said.
“Garrison—”
He was already moving.
She slid off the counter, grabbing the silk robe from a hook near the hallway. Her legs were shaking. Her heart, a hammer. She followed him as far as the hallway, hiding just out of sight as he pulled the door open.
The person on the other side wasn’t a threat.
But she might as well have been.
Darcie.
Alive. Stunning. Unbothered.
She looked like a damn movie scene—flawless hair, high heels, red lips. No fear. No guilt. Just cruel amusement.
“Hi, Garrison,” she said. “Miss me?”
The air went still.
Eella couldn’t breathe.
Darcie stepped inside without being invited, brushing past him like she had every right to be there.
“I see you haven’t redecorated,” she said, eyeing the space. “Still all blacks and greys and steel. Still a mausoleum for your guilt.”
“What do you want?” Garrison asked coldly.
“You. Of course.” She smiled. “And her.”
She turned then, like she knew Eella was watching.
Their eyes met.
Darcie’s smile widened. “Hi, little pet. I hope he’s teaching you better than he taught me.”
Eella flinched.
Garrison moved in front of her without a word. “Get out.”
Darcie cocked her head. “Or what? You’ll shoot me? Again?”
Silence.
“Did she know?” Darcie asked, eyes gleaming. “Did she know the truth about the 33rd floor? That it wasn’t some tragic overdose? That I wasn’t the poor broken addict who disappeared? Or that the blood on the walls—was mine?”
Eella shook her head, trembling. “He didn’t hurt you.”
Darcie laughed. “No. He didn’t. He loved me. And I loved him. But love isn’t a straight line. It’s a knot. And sometimes…” She touched her neck. “Sometimes knots tighten until something snaps.”
“I said—get out,” Garrison growled.
But Darcie wasn’t scared. Not even close.
“You still have the tapes?” she asked softly.
His silence was her answer.
“Then you’ll let me back in. Or I’ll show them to your board. To your clients. To Ally’s Inc. To her.”
Eella stepped forward. “Why?”
Darcie’s gaze sharpened. “Because hell doesn’t die, sweetheart. It just gets passed on.”
She dropped a keycard on the floor and walked out without another word.
The silence she left behind was absolute.
Eella stared at the card. Garrison didn’t move.
And then—her voice broke the stillness. “What’s on the tapes?”
He looked at her, broken and unreadable. “Everything.”
She bent down slowly. Picked up the keycard.
It was silver. Marked only with three numbers.
And suddenly, the story wasn’t just about pain or sex or betrayal anymore.
It was about the door at the top of the building.
And the devil waiting behind it.