Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 100: The Great Chef

The ride to Joan’s house was quiet, my mother dozing against Dad’s shoulder in the backseat while I sat up front beside the driver. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t help noticing how naturally Dad supported my mother, his arm gentle but secure around her shoulders, his expression tender as he watched her sleep.

When we arrived, Andrew helped my mother upstairs to her bedroom while I followed slowly behind, my pregnant body making the climb more challenging than I cared to admit.

As Andrew settled my mother on the bed, adjusting pillows behind her back with practiced ease, I found myself wondering about their life before—before the gambling, before the abandonment. Had they always been this in tune with each other?

"I’ll go get your medications," Andrew said, pressing a kiss to my mother’s forehead. "You rest."

My mother caught his hand. "Stay," she pleaded softly. "Just a little longer."

I stepped forward. "I can get the medications," I offered. "You stay with Mom, Dad." The word came easier the second time, and the gratitude in Andrew’s eyes was worth the momentary awkwardness.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don’t mind."

I shook my head. "It’s fine. I need to move around a bit anyway. The twins get restless if I sit too long."

"Thank you, Diane," my mother said, her eyes warm with understanding.

As I turned to go, Andrew added, "I was thinking I might make some lunch for us all. Would that be alright?"

The hesitancy in his voice...this powerful businessman seeking permission to cook in what was technically not even my house...touched something in me. "That would be nice," I said. "There’s not much in Joan’s fridge, though."

"I’ll work with whatever’s there," he promised. "My specialty is making something wonderful out of very little."

I nodded and headed downstairs, retrieving the medications from the bag Andrew had placed on the kitchen counter. As I filled a glass with water to take upstairs, I watched through the kitchen doorway as Andrew surveyed the contents of Joan’s refrigerator with the serious concentration of a chef preparing for a high-stakes competition.

There was something both comical and endearing about seeing him roll up the sleeves of his expensive dress shirt, ready to cobble together a meal from Joan’s sparse bachelor supplies. This man—my father—was full of contradictions. The high-powered executive who could command a room with his presence, now playing caretaker with obvious joy.

Upstairs, I gave my mother her medications and the water, then settled into the chair beside her bed.

"He’s trying so hard," my mother observed quietly, following my gaze toward the door where Andrew had disappeared. "He always was a good cook, you know. Before everything happened."

"I didn’t know that," I admitted.

She smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. "Oh yes. Sunday mornings were his domain. He’d make these amazing breakfasts...pancakes with fresh berries, eggs Benedict, Belgian waffles. You would sit at the counter on booster seats, helping sprinkle toppings." Her smile faded slightly. "You were so young when he left. I don’t suppose you remember any of that?"

I shook my head. "Not really. Just... impressions. Feelings more than memories." fгeewёbnoѵel.cσm

"He loved you girls so much," she said softly. "That never changed, even when everything else did."

I wasn’t quite ready to fully accept that version of the past, but I nodded anyway. "Get some rest, Mom. I’ll go see if he needs any help downstairs."

As I turned to leave, my phone rang. I glanced at the screen—an unfamiliar number with our city’s area code. "Hello?" I answered, stepping into the hallway to avoid disturbing my mother.

"Mrs. Ashton? This is Detective Caleb with the city police department."

My heart rate quickened. "Yes?"

"I’m calling about the report you filed some weeks ago regarding a man following you and your attorney."

"Yes, thank you for calling back so quickly."

"We’ve been investigating based on the description provided by the café owner and the photos you gave us," the detective continued. "We traced the suspect to an address on the east side of town."

"You found him?" I asked, hope rising.

"Not exactly," Detective Caleb said grimly. "The location was an abandoned building being used as a temporary base. The suspect appears to have fled, but..." he hesitated.

"But what?" I prompted, a chill running down my spine.

"We found something concerning. A photograph of you pinned to the wall with a red X drawn across your face. No fingerprints, no evidence of who this person is or who might have hired them. It appears to be professionally done...someone who knows how to avoid leaving traces."

My free hand instinctively moved to protect my belly. "What does this mean? Am I in danger?"

"We’re taking this very seriously, Mrs. Ashton. Can you think of anyone who might wish you harm? Anyone with a vendetta against you?"

"My husband," I replied without hesitation. "Liam Ashton."

"We’ll be speaking with Mr. Ashton, of course," Detective Caleb assured me. "In the meantime, I strongly recommend you take precautions. Avoid being alone and stay in secure locations."

"I understand," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thank you for letting me know."

As I ended the call, I realized Andrew was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a concerned expression on his face.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

I descended the stairs slowly, one hand on the banister for support. "That was the police," I explained, keeping my voice low so my mother wouldn’t overhear. "They’ve been investigating the man who followed me and Joan this some week ago."

Andrew’s expression darkened. "What did they say?"

I repeated the detective’s information, watching as anger and concern battled for dominance on my father’s face.

"I can call the police chief," he offered immediately. "Put pressure on them to fast-track this investigation."

I shook my head. "I appreciate that, but let’s let them handle it their way for now. I don’t want to complicate things." Changing the subject, I gestured toward the kitchen. "How’s lunch coming along?"

Andrew gave me a look that said he knew exactly what I was doing but would allow it. "I’ve managed to create something from Joan’s bachelor supplies. Nothing fancy, but it should be nutritious."

I followed him into the kitchen, where he’d somehow transformed Joan’s meager ingredients into what looked like a respectable meal—vegetable sauce simmering in a pot and potatoes boiling in another.

"I’m impressed," I admitted. "Joan mostly survives on takeout and frozen dinners."

Andrew chuckled. "I’ve made do with less. When you were still small and sophie was just a baby, your mother was on a bed rest. I became quite adept at creative cooking."

Another glimpse into a past I’d never known—my father as a young dad, taking care of his family, preparing for Sophie’s arrival. It didn’t fit with the narrative I’d constructed of him over the years.

"Would you take this up to your mother while I finish the potatoes?" he asked, carefully ladling some of the sauce into a bowl.

I nodded, taking the tray he prepared. As I carried it upstairs, I couldn’t help but think about what Detective Caleb had said—a photo of me with a red X across my face. A clear threat, methodically planned by someone professional enough to cover their tracks.

Liam was behind it...I had no doubt. But why escalate things this way? What was he hoping to achieve? The thought of him hiring someone to follow me...possibly to harm me...sent a fresh wave of fear through me.

By the time I reached my mother’s room, I’d managed to compose myself, not wanting to worry her. She was still awake, her eyes lighting up as I entered with the tray.

"Is that your father’s cooking I smell?" she asked, a smile playing on her lips.

"It is," I confirmed, setting the tray on her lap. "Apparently he’s quite the chef."

"He always was," she said fondly. "It was one of the first things that attracted me to him, you know. A handsome man who could cook? I didn’t stand a chance."

I laughed softly, settling into the chair beside her bed. "I had no idea."

My mother took a small bite of the sauce, closing her eyes in appreciation. "Oh, he hasn’t lost his touch," she murmured.

"You really still love him, don’t you?" I asked quietly.

She opened her eyes, meeting my gaze steadily. "I never stopped," she admitted. "I was angry with him for so long...hurt, betrayed, abandoned. But underneath all that, yes, I loved him." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "Love isn’t always simple, Diane. Sometimes it persists even when you wish it wouldn’t."

Her words struck a chord deep within me...not about Andrew, but about Sophie. Despite everything, despite the betrayal that had torn us apart, there was still love there, buried beneath layers of hurt and anger.

Before I could respond, Andrew appeared in the doorway with his own plate and another for me. "Mind if I join you ladies?" he asked, his tone light but his eyes seeking permission.

"Please," my mother said, patting the edge of the bed beside her.

Andrew settled onto the bed, balancing his plate carefully. He took a bite of his food, then made an exaggerated face of disappointment. "I’ve lost my touch," he declared dramatically. "This would never have passed muster in our old Sunday brunches."

My mother laughed...a genuine, musical sound I hadn’t heard in ages. "Oh, stop it. It’s delicious and you know it."

"You’re just being kind," he insisted, winking at me conspiratorially. "Our daughter is too polite to tell me the truth, but we both know this sauce is missing something."

"The only thing missing," my mother retorted, "is that ridiculous apron you used to wear. The one with ’Kiss the Cook’ emblazoned across it."

Andrew’s eyes widened in mock offense. "That apron was a work of art! Hand-embroidered by my dear mother."

"It was hideous," my mother countered, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "And you know it."

"Perhaps," Andrew conceded. "But it did earn me lots of kisses from a certain beautiful woman who claimed to hate it."

My mother blushed, and I found myself looking away, feeling like I was intruding on a private moment. The easy banter between them, the shared history...it was both strange and wonderful to witness.

"When you’re feeling better," Andrew continued, his tone softening, "I’m taking you on a proper date. Somewhere fancy. I want to see you in that red dress...the one that makes every head turn."

"Andrew!" My mother swatted his arm playfully, her cheeks flushing deeper. "That dress is twenty years old. It probably doesn’t even fit anymore."

"Then we’ll buy you a new one," he insisted. "Even more stunning than the last."

As they continued their playful argument about my mother’s wardrobe, I ate quietly, observing the easy chemistry between them. This was a side of my mother I’d never seen—light, flirtatious, almost girlish in her interactions with Andrew. And my father...the genuine warmth and affection in his eyes as he looked at her was undeniable.

For just a moment, I allowed myself to imagine what life might have been like if things had gone differently...if Andrew had overcome his gambling addiction before it tore our family apart, if we’d grown up with both parents in a home filled with Sunday brunches and playful banter.

The fantasy was interrupted by a sharp kick from one of the twins, bringing me back to reality...to the present, with all its complications and dangers. I thought again of the photograph with the red X, and of Liam’s escalating threats.

Life wasn’t simple. Families weren’t perfect. Love was complicated and sometimes painful.

But sitting there, watching my parents rediscover each other after decades apart, I felt a small spark of hope. If they could find their way back to each other after everything they’d been through, maybe there was hope for the rest of us too.

Maybe, just maybe, we could all find a way to heal.