His Private Hell - Chapter 95: Chapter 95

They didn’t speak as the elevator descended. Not even when the lights stuttered, not when the walls seemed to breathe around them with the echo of something that shouldn’t exist. Eella’s lips were still swollen from Garrison’s mouth. Her body ached with bruises she hadn’t even felt forming. But her mind—her mind was on fire.
Darcie’s voice.
Not imagined. Not distorted.
Real.
Garrison’s hand hovered near the emergency stop. As if he wanted to trap them again. As if he didn’t trust the descent—or maybe he didn’t trust the world waiting for them below. He glanced at Eella, jaw clenched.
“That was a playback,” he said finally, voice stripped raw. “Pre-recorded. Some kind of loop. Someone’s playing games.”
Eella stared straight ahead. “Or she never died.”
He whipped toward her. “She’s dead.”
“But is she?”
“Stop.”
“Is it worse to believe she’s alive—or to admit you’re still haunted by her ghost?”
The elevator landed with a jolt. The doors opened, and the lobby waited. Normal. Bright. Too bright. Like nothing had happened on Floor Thirty-Three. Like the past didn’t crawl behind them in the shadows.
They walked out together—but they weren’t the same.
Not anymore.
—
Later, in her apartment, Eella couldn’t sleep.
Her limbs were exhausted but her mind replayed the sound of Darcie’s voice over and over again. She lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, curled on the windowsill like a sinner waiting for punishment. Rain hit the glass in soft, rhythmic taps. Garrison had texted once.
“Tell me you’re okay.”
She hadn’t replied.
Because she wasn’t.
Not really.
She poured herself two fingers of scotch, the expensive kind she never drank. She wore nothing but his shirt. The collar still smelled like him—sandalwood, leather, and sin. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, letting the liquor burn its way down.
Then she heard it.
A whisper.
From her hallway.
She froze. Breath held. Eyes open.
No one was supposed to be here.
She stepped into the hallway slowly, bare feet silent. The apartment was dark, except for the blue flicker of the fish tank in the corner. She didn’t keep fish. Garrison did.
And he’d never been here.
She blinked. Hard.
There was no tank.
Just a mirror.
She turned—
And Darcie stood behind her.
Or a woman who looked like Darcie. Same red hair. Same cruel smirk.
But it couldn’t be.
Eella reached for the knife on the counter, but it was gone. The woman’s lips parted.
“Nice shirt,” she said, voice dripping poison. “His favorite.”
“Who the fuck are you?”
But she already knew.
The woman vanished before Eella could blink. Like a mirage. Like a memory.
But the scent she left behind?
Roses.
Darcie’s perfume.
—
Garrison was already at her door when she called.
No questions. Just a gun tucked under his coat and hell in his eyes.
“She was here,” Eella said before he could speak.
His whole body stilled. “What did she say?”
“‘Nice shirt.’”
He flinched. “That was hers.”
“You gave me hers?”
“She left it behind the last time she… before the fall.”
Eella stepped away. “Jesus, Garrison.”
“I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”
“Like what?” she snapped. “Like me living in her shadow? Wearing her skin like a second fucking layer?”
“You were never supposed to get this deep.”
“Oh, I’m deep now,” she said, voice trembling. “So deep I saw her. Felt her. Smelled her.”
He grabbed her face in both hands. “Then we’re both losing it.”
“Are we?”
She didn’t pull away.
And when he kissed her this time, it was different.
There was no heat. No lust. Just desperation. Like he needed to feel something real. To make her solid under his hands so he didn’t question if she was slipping through his fingers like the last one.
They collapsed into the bedroom.
This time, it wasn’t fast.
It was slow. Terrifying. Reverent.
Like he was praying to her, trying to keep her soul anchored while his world unraveled.
He spread her legs and pressed kisses to the insides of her thighs like he was mapping scripture. Her hands twisted in his hair, but she didn’t beg.
She commanded.
“Deeper.”
He obeyed.
The sound of her breaking filled the room—and for a moment, he looked less haunted.
But then, just as she came undone beneath him, she saw it.
On the nightstand.
A flash drive.
Labeled in gold marker: DL-FINAL.
Eella’s heart stopped.
She reached for it when Garrison pulled her close, his breathing heavy, his mouth still at her collarbone.
She tucked it into her palm.
Didn’t tell him.
Let him hold her.
Let him think he still owned the truth.
But she didn’t sleep that night.
And in the morning, while he showered, she plugged the drive into her laptop.
Video files.
Thirty-three of them.
All dated for the same month.
The last month Darcie was alive.
And the final one?
DL-FINAL.
Eella clicked it.
And the screen went black.
Then a voice.
Her voice.
Darcie.
Looking into the camera, makeup perfect, eyes like razors.
“If you’re watching this,” she whispered, “then he’s already moved on. He thinks I’m dead. Maybe I am. But make no mistake—he didn’t lose me.”
She smiled.
“I let go.”
Cut to static.
Then a final frame:
“Watch your back. He breaks what he loves.”