His Dark Desire: The Devil’s Bride

I wasn’t supposed to be home this early.

The diner had been dead all afternoon, just two truckers nursing cold coffee and a drunk who kept calling me “sweet cheeks.”

My manager shrugged and told me to clock out at six. Fine by me. My feet were killing me, my head was splitting, and all I wanted was to fall face-first into the couch and let Micah rub my shoulders until I forgot how much I hated my life.

I climbed the three flights of stairs to our tiny apartment, already tasting the cheap wine we kept in the fridge. I was smiling like an idiot, thinking maybe tonight I’d finally let him go further than second base.

Three years of “waiting till marriage” felt less romantic and more stupid every month.

The door was cracked open. But I didn’t think anything of it. I pushed it slowly. The living room was dark except for the flicker of the TV nobody was watching.

And suddenly — I heard a woman’s high, breathy moan leak down the hallway, followed by the unmistakable wet slap of skin on skin.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

I told myself it was p**n. It had to be p**n. Micah watched it sometimes when I was at work. Normal guy stuff, right?

Then I heard her voice, sweet and fake-innocent, the same voice that used to call me “bestie” while stealing my clothes.

“Yes, Micah… right there… oh fuck, you’re so much bigger than—”

I knew that voice.

I walked down the hallway like I was walking to my own execution. The bedroom door was half open, just enough.

And there they were.

Micah, my Micah, on his knees behind Stacy, my best friend since I moved to America. Her fake blonde hair stuck to her sweaty back, mouth open in a perfect O, moaning his name like it belonged to her.

He had one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise, pounding into her like the bed was on fire.

I must have made a sound, because his head snapped up. His eyes met mine, and for one single second I waited for shame but I didn’t get it.

“Bella?” He didn’t even stop moving. “You’re home early.”

That was it. Not “I’m sorry.” Not “This isn’t what it looks like.” Just “you’re home early.”

Something inside me snapped clean in half. Stacy finally noticed me. She shrieked, scrambled for the sheet, and clutched it to her chest like I was the intruder.

“Bella, wait—”

I laughed. It came out ugly and cracked. “Don’t bother.”

Micah pulled out, still half-hard, and reached for his boxers like we were discussing the weather. “Baby, listen—”

“Don’t call me baby.” My voice didn’t even sound like mine. “How long?”

Stacy’s fake tears started. “It just happened, I swear—”

“How. Long.”

Micah shrugged. “A couple of months. You’re never here, Bella. A man has needs.”

A couple of months?

I looked at the bed we picked out together. The sheets I washed last night. The pillow I cried into when my dad cut me off.

I looked at Stacy wearing my favourite pink silk nightie, the one I’d been saving for a special night.

I looked at Micah, the man I gave up my family, my name, and my future for, and felt nothing but hate.

“Enjoy each other,” I said, calm and cold. “Hope she was worth it.”

I turned and walked out and then….they chased me.

“Bella, wait!” Karla’s bare feet slapped the hallway. “Bella please wait, okay? It was a mistake!”

I spun around so fast she almost crashed into me. “A mistake?” My voice cracked. “You’ve been fucking my boyfriend for months and you say it was a mistake?”

Micah tried next. “You’re overreacting—”

“Screw you.”

I slammed the apartment door so hard the frame shook.

Outside, the night air slapped me awake. I had twenty-three dollars in my purse, a half-dead phone, and nowhere to go. Because I’d burned every bridge for him.

I walked until my legs gave out, then climbed into my beat-up Camry and locked the doors. The backseat became my bed. Leftover fries from the diner became dinner.

I sat there in the dark, replaying every lie Micah ever told me, every time I defended him to my father.

I used to be Isabella Mendoza, heiress to Mendoza Enterprises. Private schools, bodyguards, a black Amex with no limit. I gave it all up because Micah said he loved the real me, not the money.

So I changed my last name on every form. Took a waitress job. Moved into his shitty one-bedroom. Told my father I’d rather be poor and happy than rich and trapped.

Dad warned me.

“He’s using you, Isabella. When he’s done, he’ll spit you out.”

I didn’t listen.

Now here I was, eating cold fries in a parking lot, mascara running, virginity still intact because I wanted to “wait for marriage” like an idiot.

My phone buzzed with texts from Micah.

“Baby, I’m sorry.”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

“Come home so we can talk.”

I stared at the screen until it went black.

Then I scrolled to the one contact I swore I’d never call again.

The line rang twice.

“To what do I owe this call, Bella?” My brother’s voice was calm, amused, and a little cold. “I thought you were done with the Mendoza name.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’m ready to come home.”

Silence settled between us.

“You sure?” he finally asked. “Because Dad’s not gonna throw you a welcome party. You humiliated him.”

I nodded to myself, even though he couldn’t see me. “Yeah. I know. I don’t have anywhere else to go. And I’ll face whatever consequences.”

There was a pause, then a smirk in his tone.

“Alright then, lucky for you, I just happen to be in Chicago for the last night.” Josh said. “Pack your bags. You’re coming home.”