The Billionaire’s Fight For Redemption (Noah and Sierra) novel Chapter 145

Chapter 145

For a moment, I want to argue. To tell him I don’t need his help, that I can handle myself. But the truth is, I’m terrified. Whoever did this wanted me to know they could reach me. Anywhere.

My gaze sweeps over what’s left of my home. The chaos. The violation. Memories ripped apart and scattered across the floor. All that bravado I had crumbles in an instant.

Fuck! I want to scream.

Years of memories gone. Every photo, every piece of furniture I carefully chose, every bit of effort I put into making this place feel like a sanctuary… destroyed. My home and safe space completely ruined.

Tears burn behind my eyes, but I swallow them back. If it were just me and Lilly, I’d let go, sink to the floor, and sob until I couldn’t breathe. But with Noah and his men here, I can’t.

Lilly’s hand finds my shoulder, gentle but trembling. I clutch her arm like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. My heart feels splintered, every breath a fight not to fall apart.

“Sir,” one of the bodyguards calls, his voice steady but grim. “This feels deliberate… like someone was lashing out.”

Noah’s head turns slightly. “How so?”

“It’s the way everything’s been destroyed,” the man explains. “The slashed couch, the shattered frames, the overturned furniture… It wasn’t random. It’s like whoever did this was angry. Like they were taking it out on the house.”

A chill creeps up my spine. If that’s true, does that mean the same person who trashed my home is the one who wants me dead?

“So, you’re saying it’s the same person?” Lilly’s voice comes out small, barely above a whisper.

“Probably,” the guard says. “I’ve seen it before. When they fail to finish the job, they retaliate–find another way to make you feel vulnerable.”

No one speaks after that. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant creak of broken glass under boots.

Noah stands in the middle of what used to be my living room, his expression unreadable. His phone is in his hand, but he hasn’t made the call yet. His jaw flexes, eyes sharp and calculating.

He doesn’t say a word, but there’s something in his stillness that feels more dangerous than anger.

Then he turns to me. “You’ll stay with me.”

For a second, I think I misheard him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re not safe here,” he says evenly, but his voice has that edge, a controlled fury, the kind that makes my stomach twist. “You’ll stay at my place until this is handled.” 1

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