His Private Hell - Chapter 92: Chapter 92

The glass didn’t break when she threw it.
It shattered.
A spray of crystal tears exploded across the marble countertop, matching the ones blurring her vision. Eella’s hands shook as she backed into the wall of her penthouse, chest heaving, heart racing like a prisoner trying to escape its cage.
But it wouldn’t escape.
Because he was there.
Standing in the wreckage like he belonged to it.
Garrison.
Blood on his knuckles. Fire in his eyes. His suit jacket discarded, his shirt half open, stained with something she didn’t dare ask about. His presence flooded the room like smoke—suffocating, inescapable, and intoxicating.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she gasped, voice strangled with rage and something far more dangerous.
“Coming home,” he said.
Home.
Her laugh was hollow. “You call this home? After what you did to me—what you kept from me?”
“I kept you alive,” he growled, stepping closer. “That’s what I did.”
She flinched when he moved, but he didn’t stop. He came straight to her—towering, menacing, broken. And beautiful. God, he was beautiful when he was angry. Beautiful in the way sin looks before it swallows you whole.
“You lied,” she whispered, voice cracking. “You used me. You made me fall for you.”
“You think this was strategy?” he rasped. “You think this—” He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest, right over his rapid pulse. “—is a f**king game?”
She tried to pull back. He didn’t let her.
“I bleed for you, Eella. I burn for you. I’ve lost sleep, control, and half my f**king empire to keep you out of the goddamn crosshairs.”
“You killed Darcie.”
The silence exploded louder than the glass had.
Garrison didn’t flinch.
“Is that what you think?” he said, deadly calm. “You think I killed the one person who understood the darkness in me?”
She froze. Her breath hitched.
“She wasn’t just my assistant,” he murmured. “She was my addiction. The first hit of power I ever tasted. She lit the match I became. But you, Eella…”
He took her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up into those wildfire eyes.
“You’re the one who set me on fire.”
Her body betrayed her. She was shaking—but not with fear. With want. Rage. Heat. A craving that bordered on agony. She hated him. She loved him. She didn’t know where the line was anymore.
“I should walk away,” she whispered.
“Then go,” he dared.
But she didn’t.
Instead, her lips found his in a kiss that tasted like blood and sin. She shoved him hard against the wall, clawing at his shirt. He groaned when her nails scratched his chest, pulling her flush to him, lifting her so her legs wrapped around his waist.
“Tell me you hate me,” he breathed against her lips.
“I do.”
“Liar.”
He carried her across the room, kicked open the bedroom door, and tossed her onto the bed like she was his favorite sin. His belt was off in seconds. Her blouse ripped clean down the middle. Buttons flew. Her bra snapped under his fingers. She arched when his mouth latched onto her breast, his teeth scraping over her nipple as if marking it as his.
“You’re mine,” he growled.
“I’m not yours,” she gasped. “I’m not—”
He shoved two fingers into her mouth, silencing her with the taste of leather and salt and fury.
“Say it again.”
She moaned around his fingers, defiant and desperate.
“I said say it,” he growled.
“I’m not yours,” she repeated.
“Wrong answer.”
He flipped her over, dragged her panties down her thighs, and smacked her ass hard enough to leave her skin blooming red.
She cried out—but it wasn’t pain. Not really. It was surrender.
“You think you can fight me?” he whispered against her ear. “After everything we’ve done?”
He lined himself up and thrust inside her in one brutal, blinding stroke. Her scream was muffled by the comforter. Her body trembled as he buried himself to the hilt, gripping her hips like a lifeline.
“You let me ruin you,” he said between thrusts. “You begged for it.”
“I didn’t beg,” she cried.
“You begged me to go deeper. You begged me to destroy you.”
He pulled her upright, pressing his chest to her back, one hand choking her throat lightly while the other found the place between her thighs that made her knees go weak.
“You begged,” he repeated.
And when she came apart on his cock, the sound that tore from her throat wasn’t a scream—it was a prayer. Or maybe a curse.
Maybe both.
Because this wasn’t love.
This was combustion.
When he came, it was with a roar that echoed through the walls and carved itself into her bones.
After, they collapsed.
But the silence didn’t last long.
He pulled her against him, buried his face in her neck, and whispered, “They know.”
Her breath caught.
“They know about the 33rd floor?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “They know about us.”
She sat up, heart hammering. “Who’s they?”
“The ones who run Ally’s when no one’s watching.”
A chill slid down her spine.
“You mean the board?”
“No,” he said softly. “I mean the people who made Ally’s. The ones who created me. The ones who buried Darcie. And now…”
He looked at her.
“They want you gone.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He rolled off the bed, leaving her gasping in the wreckage of their storm. Her pulse pounded, every nerve screaming with need and dread.
“Who are they?” she asked, voice trembling.
Garrison crossed to the window, looking out over the city. His reflection looked like a ghost. “The ones who built this empire in blood.” He swiveled, his voice deadly. “They’re not businessmen. They’re predators. And you, Eella… you’ve attracted too much attention.”
Her stomach fluttered like wings in a cage. “You said they want me gone.”
He didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
She sucked in a breath. “Because of Darcie?”
He shook his head slowly. “Because of us.”
Her heart went hot and cold. Us.
He stepped back, eyes blazing. “Ally’s Inc was never just a company. It was a breeding ground. For power, for secrets, for monsters. I was one. Darcie was one. You—” he paused, voice breaking “—you might become one too.”
She staggered, searching his eyes. “Is that a threat?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked to a small lockbox on the dresser. He opened it—inside were keys, a burner phone, another keycard—and an old photo.
Her breath hitched when she saw it: the three of them—Garrison, Darcie, and a younger woman she didn’t know—smiling in front of the 33rd floor door. The caption scrawled on the back read: Founders’ Night, 2015.
She studied the faces. The mystery woman looked eerily familiar—same sharp cheekbones, same cold smile.
Then she knew.
“That’s Astrid,” she whispered.
Garrison’s face darkened. “She’s more dangerous than anyone we’ve faced.”
Eella’s skin went electric. “She’s the one who leaked Darcie’s disappearance. She staged everything.”
He nodded. “And she’s the one who’s coming next.”
Behind them, the phone buzzed. Caller ID: UNKNOWN.
He answered. There was a pause. Then a low voice. “Dinner’s at eight. Don’t be late.”
He hung up, eyes locked on hers. “You just got invited.”
⸻
Eella showered alone. The water washed away sweat, but not shame. Not dread. When she stepped out, wrapped in a robe, the penthouse felt alien—too big, too quiet, too real.
He handed her the burner phone and the keycard. “You need to know who you’re dealing with.”
She fingered the phone. “What happens at dinner?”
He swallowed. “We negotiate survival. We offer her the one thing she can’t resist.” He looked at the photo. “Power.”
“And if she refuses?”
He reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “Then we die.”
She closed her eyes. He was the darkness, the venom. And she? She was his mirror—beautiful and broken.
⸻
At Eight
The restaurant was hidden beneath the city—no sign, fogged windows, a single doorman. Inside, dim light shimmered on marble tabletops. Shadows bowed to the weight of power. She felt it pressing on her, testing her.
He led her through the crowd until they reached a private room. The table was set for three. Wine glasses glittered like promises. And at the head sat Astrid—elegant, cold, impossibly composed.
Eella’s pulse slammed.
She looked at Garrison. He swallowed. “Astrid.”
Astrid stood, extending a hand. “Eella. Finally.”
Her gaze slid from Eella to Garrison. “So they found you,” she said to him.
He didn’t answer.
She sat. “Sit.”
They did.
Astrid poured wine. Red. Dark as secrets. She lifted her glass. “To the past.”
Garrison gripped his glass. “To survival.”
She sipped. “I missed dinner.”
Eella glared. “You staged her disappearance.”
Astrid smiled. “I staged everything. Darcie was too soft. She bled emotion. Too predictable.”
Garrison’s jaw tightened.
Eella leaned forward. “And me?”
Astrid’s eyes glinted. “You’re the upgrade.”
A cold flame lit inside Eella. “An app to replace an original?”
Astrid laughed. “Originals die. Upgrades survive.” She flicked her glass. Half moon of wine clung to the rim. “You survived Darcie. You survived him. I need someone like you on the 33rd.”
Her voice softened. “Join me. Help me run this right.”
“Right how?” Garrison demanded.
“Clean,” she replied. “No more bodies. No more secrets. No more betrayals.”
Eella remembered the screaming. The blood. The glass. The flames.
“And if we refuse?”
Astrid smiled kindly. “Then I’ll release the tapes.”
Eella felt bile rise.
Garrison’s voice was low. “You ever threaten me with her—once—I’ll burn the world and take you with it.”
Astrid chuckled. “Still so dramatic. I prefer direct methods.”
She pressed a button.
The door slid shut behind them. Lights dimmed. A trap.
Garrison reached for Eella’s hand. She squeezed back.
Astrid continued. “I’ve always wanted control. You wanted passion. He wanted power. I can give you everything—together.”
Her eyes flicked to Eella. “But you belong to me.”
Something inside Eella snapped.
She stood. Glass knocked from red wine. It shattered like her restraint. “She belongs to me,” she spat, stepping between them.
Astrid’s eyes narrowed. But she didn’t back down.
“No,” she said. “She belongs to me.”
A pregnant pause.
Astrid leaned in. “Prove it.”
Eella lunged. Gripped Astrid’s shoulder. The power surged in her—anger, betrayal, lust, survival. She pulled Astrid into a kiss—rough, defiant, fierce.
Garrison caught her arm. “Don’t.”
She didn’t stop.
Astrid froze for a moment. Then smirked.
She kissed back.
Eella’s heart slammed.
Garrison intervened—pulled her back.
The room crackled.
Astrid laughed softly. “You’re wild,” she said. “I like that.”
Eella’s breaths were jagged. Garrison looked torn—pride? Fear? Love?
Astrid stood. “We’ll see if you’re just a fling—or a weapon.”
She pressed the button.
Door opened. Two guards stepped in.
Astrid turned. “Take her.”
She nodded at Eella, then to Garrison. “Your move.”
Garrison moved before the guards could.
He surged forward like a bullet of fury, fists cracking against the nearest one’s jaw. The man went down with a groan, his head hitting the marble floor with a dull thud.
The second raised his weapon—a sleek, silenced pistol.
Eella didn’t think. She grabbed the wine bottle and smashed it across his face, shards flying, blood blooming. The gun dropped, skidding across the floor. Garrison caught it and turned it on Astrid.
“Let her go,” he growled, voice laced with venom. “Now.”
Astrid, remarkably composed despite the chaos, raised her hands. “You always do this,” she said, almost fondly. “You choose fire. And fire consumes everything.”
“She’s not yours,” he snarled.
Astrid’s eyes flicked to Eella. “Are you sure? Because I saw the way she kissed me. She’s got my blood in her now. My chaos.”
Eella’s lip curled. “I kissed you to distract you. Not because I wanted you.”
Astrid grinned. “You think that matters in our world? Wanting? We don’t want, Eella. We own. And I still own the 33rd.”
Her hand darted into her coat.
Garrison fired.
The bullet tore through her shoulder. She crumpled, eyes wide, mouth open in shock.
Eella gasped, stepping back as blood splattered the edge of the table.
Garrison moved in, gun still raised, his other hand locking around Astrid’s throat. “You ever come near her again, I’ll finish it.”
Astrid chuckled, coughing blood. “Too late.”
Eella turned toward the screen that blinked to life behind them.
Security footage played—Darcie, bound to a hospital gurney, screaming. Alone. Bruised. Hooked up to IVs. Somewhere deep. Somewhere below.
Somewhere real.
Astrid rasped, “She’s alive, but not for long. You have forty-eight hours. Bring me the original company files, or she dies.”
Eella’s knees gave out. Garrison caught her.
“You monster,” she whispered.
Astrid’s smile was crimson. “You made me one.”
The screen blinked off.
Silence fell.
Garrison dragged her out. Past bodies. Past silence. Into the night that bit like frost.
They stumbled into his car. Engine growling. City lights flickering like the edge of a match.
“She’s alive,” Eella said again, voice hollow. “Darcie’s alive.”
“She won’t be for long if we don’t act,” Garrison muttered.
He punched the dashboard. The glass cracked. Blood bloomed on his knuckles.
“She planned it all,” Eella whispered. “Even the kiss. Even the leak. Even Darcie.”
“Yes.”
“And we kissed her.”
He turned, eyes wild. “We’re infected now. Poisoned. She’s in our veins.”
Eella gripped the seatbelt. “What do we do?”
Garrison looked at her, bleeding, wild, and alive.
“We go to hell,” he said, “and bring her back.”
And in the mirror, the shadows behind them shifted.
They weren’t alone anymore.