His Private Hell - Chapter 91: Chapter 91

They didn’t speak on the ride back.
Garrison’s blood stained the passenger seat. The pain didn’t even register on his face—just silence, his jaw clenched as if every breath was punishment. Eella sat beside him, Darcie’s voice still echoing in her ears. Her perfume still in her lungs. Her blood still on her hands.
They’d left the building burning behind them.
No body.
No cops.
No answers.
Only smoke.
Back at the penthouse, the city sprawled beneath them—unaware that something ancient and furious had just cracked open in its shadows.
He didn’t move until she pulled him out of the car and dragged him up the elevator with shaking hands. His suit jacket was soaked with blood, the white of his shirt gone crimson.
“You need a hospital,” she said.
“I need the truth,” he said.
She froze.
“Then tell me, Garrison. All of it. The fire. Darcie. The fucking 33rd floor. Tell me what you buried.”
He looked at her like she was the shovel.
And he was the grave.
Inside the penthouse, he peeled off his jacket, dropped it to the floor like a carcass, then disappeared into the bathroom. The shower started. Steam billowed through the crack in the door.
Eella stood still.
Her legs wouldn’t move.
Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
She should have run.
But she walked in after him.
He didn’t turn when she opened the glass.
His back was to her, the water running down his spine, over the fresh bullet wound, the faded burns that told more of the story than his mouth ever would.
“Do you want to know what really happened on the 33rd floor?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then take off your clothes and step into the flames.”
She stripped without hesitation.
Stepped into the water.
It was scalding.
But she didn’t flinch.
He turned slowly.
Blood mixed with water. Steam curled around them. The air between them thickened into something primal.
“I was married to her for six months before I realized I was never going to be enough,” he said. “Not for her. Not for myself. She wanted power. She wanted to own me. And I let her. Until she crossed a line even I couldn’t ignore.”
“What did she do?” Eella whispered.
“She got pregnant.”
Her breath caught.
“But not with my child.”
He leaned his forehead against the tile.
“She wanted to trap me. But she made a mistake. She told me the truth in a moment of rage, thinking I wouldn’t do anything about it.”
“But you did,” Eella said.
“I didn’t kill her,” he said, voice cracking. “But I wanted her gone. I wanted her erased. So I left her on the 33rd floor—with all the secrets, the contracts, the bastard child she never got to carry full term because of what I set in motion.”
Eella’s stomach turned.
“She miscarried?”
“She fell down the stairs. I don’t know if it was an accident. I don’t know if I pushed her. I don’t remember.”
She closed her eyes.
“Garrison…”
“I buried what was left of her reputation. The building caught fire two nights later. They never found her body. I thought she was dead. But she wasn’t.”
Eella stepped forward.
Pressed her hand to his chest.
Felt his heartbeat thudding like a war drum.
“And now?”
“She came back to destroy me.”
“But you already destroyed yourself,” she whispered.
Their mouths crashed together—wet, angry, desperate.
He pinned her to the glass.
“I should ruin you.”
“You already have.”
He lifted her—effortless, animalistic—and slammed her against the wall. The heat of the water mixed with the fire of his mouth. His tongue demanded. His hands branded.
She gasped into his kiss.
He turned her around, bent her forward, and without warning, entered her.
It wasn’t slow.
It wasn’t gentle.
It was punishment.
It was confession.
Her scream echoed off the marble.
But she didn’t ask him to stop.
He was gripping her hips like she was the only thing keeping him grounded. She felt him shatter inside her, every thrust a cracked scream, every groan a plea for something he didn’t know how to ask for.
She let him take.
She let herself fall.
When they collapsed onto the floor, steam still rising, water still scalding, she turned her face to his.
“I’m not her,” she whispered.
“I know.”
“But you want me to be.”
“No.”
He looked at her, eyes so open they bled.
“I want you to survive me.”
The next day, the headlines hit:
ARSON SUSPECTED IN GUTTED TOWER FIRE. NO BODIES RECOVERED.
Eella stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, coffee in hand, robe barely clinging to her skin. Garrison was on the phone with someone again—another voice, another ghost from the past.
“You told me she was dead,” he said.
Pause.
“Yes, I handled it. For now.”
Pause.
“I’ll find the others.”
Others?
She turned.
“What others?” she asked.
He hung up.
Looked at her like he’d already started to lose her.
“Darcie wasn’t working alone.”
“Who?”
He shook his head.
“You don’t need to know. Not yet.”
“I do if they’re coming for me too.”
Silence.
He walked over.
Traced his fingers down her cheek.
“I’ll burn the world before I let them touch you.”
A knock at the door.
They both froze.
Garrison walked slowly to the panel.
Checked the camera.
Then smiled.
But it wasn’t peace.
It was war.
He opened the door.
And standing there—
Was Astrid.
Alive.
Smiling.
Wearing one of Eella’s dresses.
And holding Darcie’s phone.
“Miss me?”
Eella dropped the mug.
The shatter was deafening.
To be continued.