.THE DEVIL'S TRUTH.

The moment Isabella stepped out of her room, the house seemed different.

Colder.

Quieter.

Every corridor felt like a secret. Every shadow seemed to breathe. The walls were lined with ancient paintings, eyes watching her, mouths locked in silence. Even the chandeliers above her glittered like sharpened daggers, beautiful but deadly.

She wore the ring. It felt heavy on her finger, like a manacle masquerading as jewelry.

One day.

That's what he'd said.

She had no idea what that meant. But deep in her bones, she knew—whatever he was about to show her, it would change everything.

She followed the scent of smoke and spice to the lower wing, where double oak doors loomed at the end of a dim hallway.

They opened before she could knock.

He was waiting.

Drystan stood by a roaring fireplace, dressed in black on black — shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of the tattoos crawling up his chest like sin given form. Shadows kissed the hard lines of his face, and his eyes glinted like obsidian cut from the earth's core.

"You wore it," he said simply.

Isabella stepped in slowly. "I want the truth."

He didn't smile.

This time, there was no charm. No teasing.

Just silence.

And then: "Come."

She followed him through a hidden door behind the fireplace. Down a spiral staircase carved into stone. Cold air coiled around her legs as they descended, deeper and deeper, until the luxury of the mansion melted into something… ancient.

A vault.

And inside?

Hell.

Stacks of bloodstained files. Guns. Photographs pinned to corkboards like evidence in a murder case. But the worst part was the center table—lined with black envelopes, each labeled in red ink.

Each one held a name.

Drystan picked up one and handed it to her.

"Open it."

She hesitated. "What is this?"

"The reason your father sold you."

She opened it.

And screamed.

Inside were photos. Her father. Not just in business meetings — but holding a gun. Standing over bodies. Smiling.

Mafia.

Murderer.

Traitor.

The air fled her lungs. Her body trembled.

"He—he told me he was a banker…"

"He was a killer," Drystan said coldly. "A thief. A coward. He stole from my family. Lied to my father. Killed one of my men. He owed us blood."

Tears blurred her vision. "So you took me instead?"

"No." Drystan stepped closer. "He offered you. Begged me to take you in place of his punishment. And I agreed."

Her world shattered.

Everything she thought she knew about herself, her family, her past—gone.

She dropped the file, chest heaving. "You're lying."

"I don't lie, Isabella," he whispered, cupping her chin. "I manipulate. I destroy. I break. But I do not lie."

She wrenched away from his touch. "You could've told me sooner."

"I needed you to feel the betrayal first," he said. "Raw. Real. That's the only way to understand this world."

Her knees gave out.

And he caught her.

Not gently. Not roughly.

Just enough to keep her from breaking completely.

"You still think I'm the monster," he murmured, lips brushing her ear. "But sometimes the villain is the only one telling the truth."

He picked her up and carried her back up the stairs.

She didn't protest.

She was too hollow.

Too ruined.

He brought her to a different room this time—a darker one, with velvet walls and a black canopy bed that looked like it belonged in a dream.

Or a nightmare.

He laid her down like glass and didn't say a word as he poured her a drink. Whiskey. A burn for a burn.

She took it with shaking hands.

"What now?" she whispered.

Drystan sat beside her. Not touching. Just watching.

"Now," he said, voice low and brutal, "you learn who you really belong to."

She looked at the ring.

The weight of it.

The meaning of it.

The part of her that still believed she could survive this…

...was dying.

And something darker was being born in its place.