All Chapters of The Devil You Know : Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

ELIJAH The night felt heavier than the others. It's the night of the surgery. Hospitals were always quiet at night, but this was different. This quiet pressed against my chest, settled into my bones, made every breath feel deliberate, counted. The machines beside Andrade’s bed hummed softly, steady, unforgiving in their rhythm. Every beep reminded me that time was moving forward whether I was ready or not. I sat beside him, staring at his face while he slept. He looked smaller like this. Not weak—never weak—but stripped of the armor he wore so naturally. No sharp commands. No anger. No control. Just Andrade, lying still under white sheets, lashes dark against his skin, chest rising and falling slowly. I reached for his hand and held it carefully, like I was afraid I might break something if I held too tight. My thumb traced over his knuckles. I memorized the warmth of his skin, the weight of his hand in mine, as if my body knew this moment might need to last me a lifetime.

ELIJAH I slammed the car door harder than necessary and sat there with my hands on the steering wheel, breathing like I’d just run for my life. My chest hurt. My throat burned. My eyes were swollen and raw from crying, and I hated that about myself. I hated that Andrade had locked me out! I had stayed at the gate all day. All day. Security wouldn’t even look at me anymore. At first, they tried to be polite. Then they ignored me. By the end of it, they treated me like part of the fence. Something that was just there and not worth acknowledging. I shouted. I begged. I demanded. I told them to call him, to tell him I was there, that I wasn’t leaving. They told me Andrade had given strict orders. No visitors. Not even me. Especially not me. I slammed my fist against the steering wheel. “Why are you doing this to me?” I muttered, my voice breaking in the empty car. “Why won’t you let me be there?” My phone sat in the cup holder, silent. No calls. No messages. Nothing from Ma

ELIJAH I spent the next hour pacing through the house, stopping every few steps to point, correct, or change my mind. “No, not there,” I said sharply, gesturing at a large abstract canvas wrapped in linen. “That stays away from direct light. It’s an original Rothko-inspired piece. If the sun hits it, the pigments will fade.” The mover nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.” I moved on before he could ask another question. “The marble console goes against that wall,” I told another team, tapping the floor with my shoe. “Centered. And be careful—Italian Carrara. If it chips, I’ll know.” They murmured apologies and adjusted their grip. I stopped in front of the living room, staring at the low leather sectional I’d chosen myself. Dark brown, almost coffee-colored. Andrade’s color. Everything in this house had been chosen with him in mind, even if he didn’t know it yet. “That chair,” I said, pointing at a sculptural armchair upholstered in muted charcoal, “goes by the fireplace. He’ll sit

ELIJAH I helped Andrade from the wheelchair into the bed slowly, one careful step at a time, my hand firm around his waist like I was afraid he’d disappear if I let go. He sat down with a quiet exhale, shoulders sagging the moment the mattress took his weight. I pulled the duvet up over him immediately, smoothing it down, then reached behind his head to adjust the pillow, lifting it slightly so his neck wouldn’t strain. “Too high?” I asked. He shook his head. “It’s fine.” I adjusted it anyway, nudging it just a little lower. Then a little more. Then I stopped myself, hands hovering uselessly. He was here. Actually here. In the house. In his bedroom. In his bed. The thought hit me so hard my chest tightened. “Out." I waved at the nurses who brought him in. They are part of his medical team and would be staying in the house until Andrade fully recovers. They obeyed. I turned to him. “It still feels unreal,” I muttered. Andrade glanced at me, one corner of his mouth lift

ANDRADE I slammed the door so hard it rattled in its frame. The sound didn’t do enough. I grabbed the first thing my hand touched—a lamp on the side table—and hurled it across the room. It smashed against the wall, glass exploding, light dying instantly. The crash echoed, sharp and violent, and for a split second, it felt good. Like the chaos inside me had finally found a voice. Then it didn’t. My chest was still tight. My hands were shaking. My jaw hurt from how hard I was clenching it. I didn't even hear the door open. “Andrade,” My mother called from behind me, her voice cautious. “You need to calm down.” I spun around on her so fast it startled even me. “Calm down?” I snapped. “Did you see what he did?” “The poor boy meant well,” she said softly. That did it. “Why is he so fucking stupid?” I barked, running a hand through my hair, pacing like a caged animal. “Why does he do this to himself?” My mother stepped into the room then, quiet but solid, her presence groundin