𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

9

The sound of Damien's muffled voice is drifting up from downstairs. He's been on the phone all morning, sounding agitated. It's not like him to be this worked up, so early in the day.

Curiosity gets the better of me and I slip out of bed, tiptoeing to the top of the stairs. I sink down onto the plush carpet, straining to catch snippets of his conversation.

"...need to lay low for a while, beef up security..." Damien's saying, his words clipped and tense. "I don't care, just handle it."

My stomach clenches. What the hell is going on? I hear Damien's footsteps moving towards the back of the house, his voice fading as he steps out into the yard.

I creep downstairs, my bare feet silent on the marble floors. The living room TV is on, tuned to some 24-hour news channel.

I'm about to switch it off when a familiar face flashes across the screen, stopping me cold.

"...wealthy entrepreneur Jackson Addison was found dead at his mansion nearly four months ago," the anchor is saying, "Initial reports suggested suicide, but new evidence has come to light that has investigators questioning the circumstances surrounding Addison's death."

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god. The man from the party, the one Damien had me...

I feel like I'm going to be sick, again. I thought this was all behind me, that I was in the clear. It's been months since that night, months of trying to shove down the memories. But now it's all coming back up like the bile in my throat.

"...Investigators are now treating Addison's death as suspicious, and have not ruled out the possibility of foul play..."

I fumble for the remote, pressing the power button hard until the TV flickers off, plunging the room into silence.

This can't be happening. They can't find out, they can't trace it back to me right, to us?

Damien said he would handle everything, that I was safe, that no one would ever know.

I stumble into the kitchen, wrenching open the cabinet where I keep my medication; Xanax, sleeping pills, the good shit Damien's private doctor writes for me.

I shake out two, three, four of the little white pills into my palm. Anything to calm the anxiety. I toss them back dry. Please God, let this all be a bad dream.

I lean against the kitchen counter, my knuckles white as I grip the edge for support, when Damien comes rushing in.

He's got his phone still pressed to his ear, his brow furrowed in that way that tells me he's deep in conversation with one of his business associates.

He barely spares me a glance as he grabs his keys from the counter, muttering an abrupt "Morning, babe" before pressing a quick, distracted kiss to my cheek.

I blink, caught off guard. "Where are you going?" I ask.

Damien sighs, pulling the phone away from his ear for a moment. "Just got some stuff to take care of, Catherine. Don't worry about it."

I feel a flare of annoyance at his tone."Catherine". After everything we've been through, everything I've done for him, he's still shuts me out?

"Damien, wait-" I start, but he's already heading for the door, his attention back on his phone call.

"I'll be back later. Stay out of trouble, yeah?" He throws the words over his shoulder, not even bothering to look at me as he strides out of the kitchen.

I open my mouth to argue, but the slamming of the front door cuts me off. Just like that, he's gone, leaving me alone again.

I want to throw something, to chase after him and make him talk to me. But I know it's useless.