Chapter 3 The Devil's Diary

# Chapter 3: The Devil's Diary

My mind reeled as I stood surrounded by evidence of Darren's obsession. These weren't random photos—they chronicled years of my life, carefully curated and arranged chronologically around his study. The earliest appeared to be from my sophomore year of college, nearly seven years ago.

"This can't be happening," I whispered, backing away from the wall of my own face.

I bumped against his desk, sending a leather-bound book tumbling to the floor. It fell open, revealing handwritten pages filled with precise, elegant script.

A diary.

I knew I should leave. Get out of the house, call the police, do something rational. Instead, I picked up the journal with shaking hands and began to read.

*March 17*

*Saw her again today. The café on Seventh. She sketches when she thinks no one is watching. Charcoal smudges on her fingers. I wonder what she's designing. I wonder if she'd design something for me if I asked. She wouldn't. Not yet.*

*April 2*

*Father wants me to consider the merger with Westbrook Industries. I told him I have other investments in mind. He doesn't understand. Some acquisitions take time. Patience. The best ones always do.*

I flipped ahead, my heart hammering against my ribs.

*November 10*

*She lost the design competition today. The judges were blind. Her work transcends their mediocre tastes. I purchased her rejected collection anonymously. One day she'll understand the value of what she creates.*

With growing horror, I realized the diary entries spanned years. Years during which Darren Allen had apparently been watching me from afar, collecting moments from my life like souvenirs.

I turned to more recent entries.

*February 3*

*Father's ultimatum: marry by year's end or lose my position as heir. As if I care about his empire. But the timing might work in my favor. Her brother's diagnosis creates an opportunity. Peters will make the necessary arrangements.*

My stomach twisted. Jacob's illness—had it truly been coincidence? Or had Darren somehow engineered the circumstances that drove me to accept this arrangement? No, that was impossible. Even billionaires couldn't give someone cancer.

Could they?

I flipped to the entries after our wedding.

*Wedding day*

*It's done. She's mine now. Legally bound. The charade is tiresome but necessary. Her eyes when she looked at me—searching for something. Not pity. Curiosity, perhaps. When she touched my hand during the ceremony, it took all my control not to respond. Soon.*

*Three days after wedding*

*She cursed at the nurse today when the medication was brought late. Her anger—magnificent. Unfiltered. The way her eyes flash when provoked... I want to keep her locked in the top floor where only I can witness such moments.*

I nearly dropped the journal. This wasn't just obsession; this was something darker, more disturbed. I forced myself to read more.

*One week after wedding*

*The groundskeeper gave her roses this morning. White ones for the breakfast table. He claimed it was standard procedure. I've instructed Peters to arrange his transfer. If anyone else gives my wife flowers, I'll buy their entire business and burn it to the ground.*

The entries grew more frequent, more intense.

*I watch her sleep. She dreams violently sometimes, fighting invisible enemies. Does she dream of me? Does she sense me beside her? The doctors say I should maintain the facade a while longer. That revealing too much too soon might send her running. They don't understand—where would she go? The island is mine. The boats are mine. She is mine.*

My phone rang, startling me so badly I dropped the diary. Jacob's name flashed on the screen.

"Hello?" My voice sounded strange, distant.

"Nessa? Are you okay? You sound weird."

I swallowed hard. "I'm fine. Just... tired. How are you feeling?"

"Better than yesterday, which was better than the day before," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "The doctors are amazed at how I'm responding to treatment."

"That's wonderful," I managed, my eyes still fixed on the open diary at my feet.

"But that's not why I called. I got some strange news today."

My pulse quickened. "What kind of news?"

"Dr. Whitman—you know, the specialist who's been overseeing my case? He told me a team of global experts is flying in next week to consult on my treatment. Like, the top lymphoma specialists from Germany, Japan, and Israel. All expenses paid."

"That's... good, right?"

"Good? It's unheard of. These doctors usually have waiting lists years long. Whitman said it was arranged by the Allen Foundation."

By Darren. The man who was supposedly unable to communicate, let alone coordinate international medical consultations.

"Nessa? You still there?"

"Yeah," I said, my mind racing. "That's... quite a wedding gift."

"It's more than that," Jacob insisted. "Whitman let slip that this has been in the works for months. Before your wedding. Why would Darren Allen arrange cutting-edge treatment for a stranger's brother months ago?"

Before I could formulate a response, I heard a noise from the staircase—the soft mechanical whir of a wheelchair lift.

"Jacob, I have to go," I whispered urgently. "I'll call you later."

I ended the call and frantically replaced the diary on the desk, trying to remember exactly how it had been positioned. The wheelchair sound grew louder. Trapped, I looked around desperately for somewhere to hide.

The closet. I slipped inside just as the study door opened.

Through a crack between the closet doors, I watched Darren enter the room. Alone. No nurse, no assistant. He maneuvered his wheelchair with practiced ease, stopping at his desk.

For several minutes, he sat motionless, staring at the diary I'd hastily replaced. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached for it and opened to the last page.

He knew. Somehow, he knew I'd been here.

I held my breath as he picked up a pen and began to write, his movements fluid and precise—nothing like the supposedly helpless man I'd observed in his medical suite.

After finishing his entry, he closed the diary and placed it in a drawer, which he locked with a small key from his pocket. Then he wheeled to the wall of photographs, reaching up to straighten one I'd touched.

His expression was impossible to read—not blank like his "vegetative" state, but controlled, contained. Only his eyes betrayed any emotion, and what I saw there sent ice through my veins.

Hunger. Possession. Obsession.

He stayed for nearly an hour, reviewing documents on his computer, making phone calls in a low, authoritative voice that bore no resemblance to the whisper I'd heard in my bedroom. This was a man fully in command of himself and his empire.

Eventually, he checked his watch, pressed a button on his chair, and his entire demeanor changed. His shoulders slumped, his expression went slack, and he transformed back into the helpless patient I'd married.

The door opened, and a nurse entered. "There you are, Mr. Allen! You shouldn't wander off without supervision."

Darren gave no response, reverting completely to his vegetative performance.

"Let's get you back to your suite," she said kindly, taking control of his wheelchair. "Your wife might come visit you today."

As they left, I remained frozen in the closet, afraid to breathe until I was certain they were gone. When I finally emerged, my legs nearly buckled beneath me.

The reality of my situation crashed down like an avalanche. I was married to a man who had been stalking me for years, who was faking his medical condition, who had orchestrated this entire scenario to... what? Possess me? Control me?

I had to get to that diary again. Had to know what he'd just written.

The drawer was locked, but the key to understanding my husband's true intentions lay inside. I searched the desk for anything that might help me pick the lock.

A letter opener in the top drawer looked promising. After several minutes of careful maneuvering, I heard the satisfying click of the lock giving way.

The diary lay inside, its leather cover somehow more menacing now that I understood what it contained. With trembling fingers, I opened it to the last entry—the one Darren had just written.

*She's been here. Touched my things. Read these pages. I can smell her perfume in the air. Curious little wife, already breaking rules she doesn't know exist.*

*I wonder what she thinks now that she's seen the truth. Is she frightened? Angry? Both, I imagine. Both is good. Emotion is better than indifference.*

*The doctors warn her brother's condition has complications. The standard treatment won't be enough. How fortunate that I've already arranged alternatives. Will she be grateful when she understands what I've done? Or will she resent the debt she can never repay?*

*Either way, she won't leave. Not when Jacob's life hangs in the balance. And if she tries...*

The entry ended there, the threat unfinished but unmistakable.

My phone buzzed with a text message from an unknown number:

*"The diary belongs on the left side of the desk, Mrs. Allen. And my pen goes in the second drawer, not the first. We'll discuss your invasion of privacy over dinner tonight. 8 PM. Wear the blue dress."*

I dropped the phone like it had burned me, looking wildly around the room. There were no visible cameras, but clearly, I was being watched.

As if to confirm my suspicions, another text arrived:

*"Yes, Vanessa. I see everything."*

I fled the study, racing down the stairs and through my closet, not stopping until I reached the main hallway. A maid gave me a curious look as I passed, my face surely betraying my panic.

"Are you unwell, Mrs. Allen?"

"I'm fine," I lied automatically. "Just... late for an appointment."

I had no appointment, nowhere to go, no escape from this gilded prison. Jacob's treatment depended on my staying. And now I knew that his condition was worse than I'd been told—that Darren had deliberately withheld information about complications to ensure my continued compliance.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of anxiety. I considered running, but where would I go? How would Jacob get his treatment without the Allen fortune backing it? And what would Darren do if I tried to leave?

By evening, a kind of resigned determination had replaced my panic. I would confront him. Demand answers. Find out exactly what game he was playing.

At 7:55 PM, I stood before the mirror in my room, wearing the blue dress that had appeared in my closet that afternoon—a custom Valentino that fit as if made specifically for me. It probably had been.

At precisely 8 PM, there was a knock at my door. A butler stood waiting to escort me to dinner.

The dining room was transformed—candles everywhere, fresh flowers (not roses, I noted), and an intimate table set for two by the window overlooking the ocean. Classical music played softly in the background.

And at the head of the table, Darren waited in his wheelchair, still maintaining his facade of disability despite what I now knew.

The butler seated me across from my husband, then discreetly withdrew, leaving us alone.

For several long moments, we simply stared at each other—me openly hostile, him with that same blank expression I now recognized as carefully crafted deception.

Finally, I broke the silence.

"So," I said, my voice steadier than I expected, "shall we drop the pretense now, Darren? Or do you plan to keep up this charade all through dinner?"