I'm At The Police Station

“How is it inappropriate?” The thug sneered, turning his eyes toward me. The anger in his gaze flared as he stepped closer. “So you’re the one who threw that glass at me?”

I kept my chin up, refusing to show the fear rising in my chest. “It was an accident. I apologize.”

“Apologize?” He spat on the floor, his face twisting in rage. “You think a simple sorry fixes this? You’re looking for trouble!”

He raised the heavy metal rod, ready to swing it directly at my head.

Hazel and I did not wait to be hit. We moved at the exact same moment. We grabbed two thick, heavy beer bottles from the counter. Without hesitating, we hurled them straight at him.

The glass shattered against his shoulder, sending foam and shards flying.

Seeing us strike back, the rest of his gang lost their patience. They lunged forward, brandishing their weapons.

In the narrow space of the bar, the situation dissolved into chaotic violence. Hazel and I used every ounce of strength we had to defend ourselves against our attackers. We swung heavy bottles, ducked under their clumsy swings, and kicked away anyone who got too close. We held our ground, refusing to let them overpower us.

Just as the thugs gathered for a coordinated rush, the sharp wail of sirens echoed from the street. Red and blue lights flashed through the shattered windows.

The police burst through the doors, shouting commands and forcing everyone to the ground.

Neither Hazel nor I had a single scratch on us. A few of the thugs, however, lay on the floor clutching bloody cuts from the broken glass. Within minutes, the officers handcuffed the gang and escorted all of us out into the cold night.

At the Westhaven District Police Station, they seated us in a sterile, fluorescent-lit room. An officer took our statements, listening to our side of the story.

“Look, we know those guys started it,” the officer said, closing his folder. “But you two participated in a physical brawl. That means we have to detain you. You need someone to come down here and bail you out.”

Hazel sighed, leaning back in her cold metal chair. She was an orphan with no family and no reliable connections in Ridgeton. Apart from me, she had no one in this city to call for help.

My own social circle was just as pathetic. My restrictive marriage to Damian had isolated me from the world. I spent my days either trapped inside the Ashford residence or tucked away in my quiet office. I had no close friends left to turn to in a crisis.

After going through my contacts in my head, I settled on one name: Simon Cross. He was kind, and he was a doctor. He might help.

I dialed his number. The phone rang three times before someone picked up.

Silence met my ear. There was no greeting, no breathing, just an empty line.

I cleared my throat, feeling awkward. “Doctor Cross? I am so sorry to bother you at this hour. But I need your help. I am at the police station right now. Can you please come and bail me out?”

The silence on the other end stretched, growing heavier by the second. I felt a knot tighten in my stomach.

“Doctor Cross, please,” I whispered, begging.

“Adeline Vance!”

The voice that cut through the speaker was not Simon’s. It was cold, deep, and immediately recognizable.

Damian.

My heart leaped into my throat. Panic flooded my chest, making it hard to breathe. Why was my husband answering Simon’s private phone in the middle of the night?

“Damian…” I stammered, my mind scrambling for any logical explanation. “You… why do you—”

“Address,” he commanded, cutting me off with a sharp, icy tone.

“Westhaven District Police Station,” I blurted out on instinct.

The line went dead.

Hazel stared at me, her jaw dropping. “Why did you call Simon instead of your husband in the first place? You just love making things complicated, don’t you?”

I rubbed my temples, feeling a massive headache coming on. “When I left the villa, Damian was drunk. I assumed he had passed out on the sofa. How was I supposed to know he was with Simon?”

Exactly thirty minutes later, the heavy glass doors of the station slid open.

Damian walked into the bustling precinct.

The busy room seemed to quiet down the moment he stepped inside. Even in a simple black suit, his tall, lean frame and sharp features made him look like a masterpiece painting. His cold presence was commanding, radiating an aura of authority that did not belong in a gritty police station.

Because his face was featured on the city’s financial headlines every single day, the officers recognized him at once. The chief and several deputies hurried over, bowing slightly and offering polite, respectful greetings.

Hazel nudged my shoulder with her elbow. “Okay, I get it now,” she whispered, her eyes fixed on him. “I understand why you are so obsessed with him. Damian is a masterpiece. What woman would not want to be Mrs. Ashford? You get to look at that face and sleep with him every night.”

I rolled my eyes at her. “Weren’t you begging me to divorce him just two hours ago?”

“People change their minds,” she muttered back, not even bothered.

Damian ignored the fawning officers, focusing on the paperwork. He signed the release forms, paid the heavy fines, and secured our immediate discharge without uttering a single unnecessary word.

As we walked toward the exit, the detaining officer followed us to the door.

“Next time you face trouble like that, call us,” he warned, though his tone was much softer now. “Don’t take matters into your own hands.”

“Of course. Thank you, officer,” we both said, smiling politely.

As soon as we stepped onto the concrete steps, Hazel leaned in and murmured, “If we didn’t take matters into our own hands, the police would have been scraping our bodies off the bar floor.”

I opened my mouth to agree, but a sudden, icy shiver ran down my spine.

I looked up.

Damian stood beside his massive black jeep. The streetlamps cast long, dark shadows across his face. His hands were tucked into his pockets, and his dark, piercing eyes were locked directly onto me. The fury radiating from him made the cold night air feel even more freezing.