THE DEMON'S BARGAIN

CHAPTER 3: HELL HATH NO FURY

DARLA’S POV

My feet move, charging toward the glass case faster than my brain can catch up—faster than Charles can predict.

In the next second, his beloved golf club is in my hand. It's cold to the touch, heavier than expected, but none of that matters.

There's a rush of blood to my head, a deafening pounding in my ears, and the crushing weight of the last five miserable years crashes down on me like a searing boulder of lava.

I don’t stop moving.

I don’t stop until I’m swinging the club into the TV screen, hard. The glass cracks, shatters, but it’s not enough.

I swing again, with brutal force, over and over, chaos exploding with each hit, the glass splintering under the assault.

Charles is screaming now—shouting profanities, charging toward me—but it’s all a blur. His voice barely registers. Even when he grabs at the club, tries to wrench it from my hands, I don’t stop.

It’s like I’ve been possessed, but maybe this savage little thing has always been inside me—biding its time.

Maybe this was my mother’s deepest fear—the reason she worked so hard to mold me into a proper lady. Perhaps she dreaded the day she’d wake up and realize I’d inherited her madness.

After all, she did set my father’s house on fire—with his new wife and children still inside.

At some point, Charles grabs me, restraining my arms and pulling me away from the completely shattered TV.

Even then, seeing the shards of glass, my bloodied bare feet, and Charles’ face red with rage, it doesn’t feel enough—not even close.

I want to burn this whole house to the ground.

“LET ME GO, YOU SELFISH PIG!” I kick out wildly, swinging the club with reckless aggression until it slips from my grip and crashes to the floor.

I’m left clawing at his arm with my nails, hoping to rip out a f*****g vein.

Charles flings me to the ground recklessly, and I slam against the sharp edge of the bar. The unforgiving impact knocks the air from my lungs, followed by a biting pain that stabs right through my back.

"f**k!" His nostrils flare, eyes blown wide with shock and disbelief. He whirls around to face the mess, both hands fisting in his hair like he's about to tear it out. "That was a three-million-dollar TV, Darla! Have you lost your f*****g mind?"

I let out an acidic laugh, despite the bitter ache that terrorizes me.

“Bastard. How did it take me this long to realize just how pathetic you are?”

Those once-beautiful eyes turn murderous—filled with pure hatred—when they lock back onto me.

“You’re f*****g crazy! No, crazy is an understatement—you’re a demented b***h! Rabid cunt.” He jabs a shaking finger in my direction, and when that doesn’t seem to satisfy his rage, he kicks the side of the leather stool, sending a glass flying until it shatters.

“f**k! That was the last game of the season! You couldn’t have picked a better time to be a raging psychopath. It had to be today—the most important day of the year! Cunt. And all this because you can’t handle your damn emotions.”

"Oh, shut the hell up. You've been a raging narcissist from the first day we met, so pardon me, dear husband, if I decided to smash your precious TV today—God knows you've cared more about this stupid room than you ever gave a damn about me. Hell, you deserve worse than this! Cheater. You deserve so much worse for the bullshit you've put me through. I gave my whole life to this marriage, and it still wasn’t enough for your selfish ass!

I refused to have kids for you. I didn’t even attend my own mother’s funeral because of you! Juniper cut me off because of you! I dyed my hair this ridiculous color because Charles can’t love anyone unless he’s turning them into his own damn clone! So, when you talk about a psychopath, look in the f*****g mirror."

I rise to my feet, fixing him with a venomous glare—sharp enough to carve his heart out if it could.

Charles lunges toward me, and for a fleeting second, I brace for a hit. Instead, his flushed face fills my vision, veins bulging angrily across his forehead.

He spits the next words through gritted teeth. “You want the truth? Fine. I’ll give you that, dear wife.”

Nothing could prepare me for it, though.

“I f**k her seven days a week, three times a day, and it’s a goddamn delight. You wanna know why I don’t touch you anymore? It’s because you’re a suffocating, boring prude who can’t even give a decent blow job. You’re needy, clingy, always whining, and I swear to God, I can’t breathe around you.

Oh, but poor little Darla, the pitiful victim who’s ‘given up everything’ for me, right?” His voice morphs into a mocking sneer. “Don’t you dare forget where I picked you up from. You were nothing. You and your crackhead mother were the shame of this city, and my family—I—saved you. I gave you my home, my assets, my name. And I’ll do whatever the f**k I want with it. You know why? Because I’m Charles Carmichael, the man who owns half this city—and your pathetic life.

And in case you were wondering, no, I’m not going to stop seeing her. And there’s not a damn thing your demented, f**k-face can do about it. Burn down the house, smash every TV, hell, hump every receipt you find—it won’t change a damn thing. You’re still the same powerless loser you were five years ago.”

His cruel eyes trace the line of my cheek, and it’s only then I realize my eyes are burning—tears spilling with the same searing intensity as the ache constricting my heart like a vicious snake.

“Aww, is my poor little Darla crying?” He sneers. “Save those tears for tomorrow, sweetheart. I’ll be f*****g her all day.”

It hurts.

His words hurt so much.

And I’m just frozen, powerless, dead-eyed as I watch him pull away, smoothing his tousled hair and regaining whatever composure he lost when I smashed the TV.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, baby, I’ve got replays to catch up on.” He pulls out his phone, briefly rolling his eyes. “God, I hate watching replays.”

Charles casually grabs his coat and car keys, flashing me that quick, charming smile.

“Don’t sulk. I’ll call in the maids to clean up the mess.” He turns to leave, already halfway to the door when my lips move.

“Is she blonde or brunette?”

He pauses, turning his head just enough for me to catch the amusement in his eyes and the cruel smirk spreading across his face.

“Brunette.”