Chapter 64: A Knock at Three A.M.

Three a.m. The pounding on the door was deafening.

Clara Whitmore curled under her blanket, fingers trembling. The shadows from that night at the villa still haunted her, and Grant Holloway's drunken aggression left her shaken.

"Clara!"

"I know you're home!"

His voice, thick with alcohol and stubbornness, sliced through the door.

She bit her lip hard, pressing a pillow over her head. But his voice clung like a persistent ghost.

Ten minutes passed. The banging didn't stop—it grew louder.

"Are you insane? It's the middle of the night!"

"I'm calling the cops!"

Neighbors' curses erupted around the hallway.

Barefoot on the cold floor, Clara yanked the door open.

"Grant!" she hissed.

The man leaned against the doorframe, tie loose, eyes bloodshot.

"Finally," he smirked.

"Leave."

"Let me in."

"Never."

Grant narrowed his eyes, raising his fist to strike the door again.

"Stop!" Clara seized his wrist. "What do you want?"

He shoved past her, reeking of whiskey.

She stumbled back until her spine hit the wall.

Grant swayed, then dropped to one knee.

"Come back," he rasped.

"No."

"Six months. Isn't that enough?"

"We're over." Her fingers twisted in her nightgown.

He surged up, gripping her wrist. "Then why keep my things?"

Her pupils shrank.

"You went through my stuff?"

"Answer me!"

"Let go!" She struggled wildly.

His grip tightened, madness swirling in his gaze. "You still love me. Admit it."

"You're drunk."

"I'm not!" he roared. "How much longer will you torture me?"

Clara went still, her voice icy. "Poor memory, Mr. Holloway. Weren't you the one who insisted on a clean break?"

Grant froze.

She wrenched free, but he pinned her against the wall.

"Don't touch me!" Her voice shook.

His breath burned against her skin, bitter with whiskey.