All Chapters of The Devil You Know : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

ELIJAH When I woke up, I thought I was dead. Everything was white. White ceiling. White walls. White light. For a second I thought maybe that was it. Maybe this was what dying looked like. Sterile and empty. Except my chest hurt like hell. My ribs burned with every breath, and when I tried to move, pain shot through my spine like lightning. That’s when I realized I wasn’t dead. Something beeped beside me — a slow, mechanical rhythm that matched my heartbeat. I barely turned my head, and that’s when I saw it. Wires. Tubes. Machines. A monitor with green lights. My body wasn’t mine anymore — it was being kept alive by something else. My arm had IV lines running into it, my chest wrapped in white bandages. There was even a tube taped to my wrist. I froze. Panic crawled up my throat, thick and suffocating. I tried to move, to rip everything off, but my arms were too weak. My voice came out cracked and broken. “Help!” No one answered. The room was empty. It

ELIJAH I am on the treadmill sweating, lungs burning. The gym smelled like rubber and oil. Five months after they pulled me out of that coma, the unfamiliar had started to feel normal. The wheelchair was gone now; the trainer made sure of that. I walked on my own two feet, even faster than I used to. Renata stood a few meters back with a stopwatch. My trainer was beside me, the sort of guy who taught men how not to hurt themselves when they lifted heavy things. He watched my posture, corrected my form. “Keep it steady,” the trainer said. “Tempo’s good. Two minutes incline, then sprint. Push it.” I ran until my thighs burned. I wanted the burn to take over the voice in my head. I wanted to run past everything. Training was both punishment and focus. It took the rage and bent it toward something useful. When the treadmill beeped, the trainer clapped once. “Weights next. Deadlifts. Two warm-up sets, then go heavy. Don’t rush the form.” Renata clicked the stopwatch closed a

ELIJAH The mansion had grown familiar, yet the air still felt thick, oppressive in its own way. The wedding was getting closer, the plans moving faster than I could control. But none of it mattered anymore. I was beyond caring about the theatrics, beyond worrying about what they thought of me. I had a role to play, and I would play it until the end. I stopped at the bottim of the stairs when I saw Camila in the living room. Different types of flowers were on display. Everywhere looked like a garden. She was humming softly to herself, her hands carefully selecting the best blooms for the bouquet. The sight of her, content and at peace, made something twist inside of me, but I ignored it. This was the game I had chosen, the life I had entered, and I had no choice but to play my part. I walked up quietly, stopping just behind her. I hesitated for a second before I moved in. Slowly, I wrapped my arms around her from behind, pulling her close to me. Camila froze for a moment, a

ELIJAH I walked into Camila's room with the exact mood I wanted on my face — soft, hurt, tired. It was all performance now, every expression measured, every step calculated. She looked up the second I shut the door and the way her face lit up when she saw me… relief, joy, a little confusion — told me I was still right on track. “Eli,” she called. “You look... are you all right? You seem upset.” I let the hurt settle into my features. “I was just with Andrade,” I said. The name was a blunt instrument in my mouth. “He humiliated me.” Her face changed instantly. The softness turned hard; her hand went to her belly like it was instinctive protection. “What did he say?” she demanded, already standing, anger hot and sharp. Perfect. I sat on the edge of the bed and kept my eyes on her. If I kept it steady, she’d supply whatever I needed from the well of her devotion. “He called me a common driver. A gold-digger. He told me to be grateful for whatever crumbs I was given, like I’m

ELIJAH I stood at the altar, my palms slightly damp even though the hall was air-conditioned to near freezing. The sound of murmurs filled the cathedral—people whispering, waiting, watching. They were all dressed like royalty, pretending this was a day of love, unity, celebration. But I knew better. This wasn’t a wedding—it was an execution. I adjusted my tie, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. Every second felt like a countdown. Every beat of my heart echoed louder than the priest’s voice rehearsing the lines in his head. Marisol sat in the front row, her face expressionless as ever, but her eyes… those sharp, assessing eyes followed my every move. Beside her sat Cristian, stiff, trying too hard to look composed. And then there was Andrade. Andrade, in his perfectly tailored suit, sitting with his hands clasped, his face unreadable. He hadn’t looked at me once since I walked in, not directly, but I could feel him—his presence like a silent force pressing against my skin. I wa