The Billionaire's Dangerous Redemption (by Claire Winters) novel Chapter 161

161 The Monster at the Door

Hazel’s POV (1)

“Get your hands off me!” I twisted violently, desperate to break free from Alistair’s grip. His fingers dug deeper into my flesh.

“Just one night, Hazel. For old times’ sake.” His eyes were wild, unrecognizable. The alcohol on his breath made my stomach turn.

I slammed my knee upward, aiming for his groin. He dodged, but my blow landed hard on his thigh.

“You bitch!” He grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking my head back.

Pain seared across my scalp. With my free hand, I clawed at his face, my nails leaving angry red streaks across his cheek.

“Help!” I screamed as loud as my lungs would allow. “Someone help me!”

Alistair clamped his hand over my mouth, muffling my cries. I bit down hard on his palm. He howled, releasing me for a split second-just enough time to fumble for my keys.

My hands shook violently as I jammed the key into my door lock. Almost there-

Alistair slammed his body against mine, crushing me against the door. The key twisted in the lock. The door swung open. We both tumbled inside.

I scrambled to my feet, desperate to reach my phone on the coffee table. My fingers closed around it just as Alistair lunged for me again.

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator’s voice was distant, tinny.

“Help me! My ex is attacking-”

Alistair knocked the phone from my hand. It skidded across the hardwood floor.

“No one is coming to save you,” he snarled, advancing toward me.

A threatening growl erupted from the hallway. Buddy, my rescue German Shepherd, appeared with his teeth bared.

“Buddy, attack!” I commanded.

Buddy launched himself at Alistair, clamping his powerful Jaws around his arm. Alistair screamed, trying to shake the dog off.

I used the distraction to grab a lamp from the side table. When Alistair finally threw Buddy off, I swung with all my might. The ceramic base shattered against his shoulder.

“You’re insane!” he roared, his face contorted with rage.

“Get out of my apartment!” I backed toward the kitchen, hands feeling blindly behind me for something-anything-to defend myself with.

My fingers closed around a knife handle from the dish rack. I held it in front of me, my hands trembling but grip firm.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Alistair sneered, but I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Try me,” I spat back. “One step closer and I swear to God, I’ll use this.”

His gaze darted from the knife to my face, calculating his odds. Buddy circled him, still growling, ready to attack again.

Alistair lunged suddenly, not at me but toward my phone on the floor. He stomped on it with savage force. The screen shattered beneath his heel.

“Now no one’s coming to help you,” he said with sickening satisfaction.

What he didn’t know was that 911 calls remain connected even if the phone is damaged. I prayed the operator had heard enough to send help.

A sharp knock on my door made us both freeze.

“Ms. Shaw? Is everything okay in there?” It was Mr. Donovan from next door, his voice concerned.

“Call the police!” I shouted. “Please help me!”

Alistair cursed, looking trapped. The sound of multiple doors opening in the hallway told me other neighbors were emerging.

“Police! Open up!” A commanding voice came through the door just minutes later.

The color drained from Alistair’s face. He immediately began rubbing his eyes, messing

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161 The Monster at the Door

up his hair further, playing up his drunken state.

When the police burst through the door, they found me backed into a corner, clutching a knife, Buddy standing guard in front of me. Alistair had slumped to the floor, suddenly acting disoriented and confused.

“Officer, I… I don’t know what happened,” he slurred, his words deliberately thick. “I just wanted to talk to my wife.”

My hands shook with rage at his performance. “He attacked me. He tried to force himself on me.”

The officers separated us immediately. One tended to me while another dealt with Alistair, who continued his pitiful drunk act.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” the female officer asked gently.

I nodded, showing her my wrist where angry red marks were already darkening into bruises. “He pinned me against the wall. My dog defended me.”

“We’ll need statements from both of you,” she said. “And we’ll need photos of your injuries.”

At the station, I sat in a cold interview room, recounting the attack in painful detail. Across the hall, I could see Alistair through a window, dramatically hanging his head, occasionally wiping away fake tears.

“He’s faking,” I told the detective flatly. “He wasn’t that drunk at my door. He’s playing it up now to minimize what he did.”

The detective nodded. “We see this a lot. Don’t worry, Ms. Shaw. The evidence speaks for itself.”

Despite his performance, Alistair couldn’t hide the scratches on his face or the bite marks on his arm. My torn blouse, the bruises forming on my wrist and back, the destroyed phone-they all told the true story.

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