Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 47: False Hope

Liam’s POV

I slumped in the backseat of Thomas’s Toyota, my head pounding like a jackhammer against my skull. The city blurred past the window, but I barely noticed it, too consumed by the wreckage Diane had left in her wake.

Holbrook was waiting for me in his office, expression grim as I stormed in. I must have looked like hell—sweat-stained shirt, hair disheveled, face contorted with rage.

"She destroyed my car," I spat before he could even speak. "My fucking car, Holbrook. Shattered the windows. Slashed the tires. Wrote ’FUCKING CHEAT’ across the hood in her goddamn lipstick."

Holbrook sighed, gesturing for me to sit. "Take a breath, Liam. Getting worked up won’t help matters."

"Won’t help?" I slammed my fist on his desk, my voice rising to a shout. "She’s systematically destroying everything I’ve built! First she comes to my office, threatens me in front of everyone, and now this? What’s next? Burning down my house?"

"Lower your voice," Holbrook said firmly. "And sit down."

Something in his tone made me comply, though I was still seething.

"Have you filed a police report?" he asked calmly, clicking his pen.

"Of course I have."

"Good. Did you tell them it was Diane?"

I hesitated. "No."

Holbrook nodded, making a note. "Any witnesses?"

"No," I admitted. "But it was her. Who else would do that?"

"Without witnesses, it’s just an accusation," Holbrook said. "But this actually works in our favor."

I stared at him. "How the hell does my sixty-thousand-dollar car being destroyed work in our favor?"

"It demonstrates erratic, vindictive behavior," he replied. "If she’s willing to do this, what else might she do? We can paint a picture of an unstable woman with a vendetta."

I leaned back, considering this. "That’s... actually not bad."

"The key is not to retaliate," Holbrook warned. "No matter how tempted you might be. Let her make the mistakes. Document everything. Be the reasonable one."

"What about what she said about financial irregularities?" I asked, lowering my voice. "She’s bluffing, right?"

Holbrook’s expression turned serious. "I hope so. But if there’s anything, anything at all that she could use against you, I need to know about it now."

I thought about the offshore accounts, the creative bookkeeping, the investments I’d kept off the books. Nothing illegal, just... aggressive tax planning. But in the hands of someone like Diane, with her newfound fury...

"It’s all standard business practices," I said finally. "Nothing that wouldn’t hold up to scrutiny."

Holbrook didn’t look convinced, but he nodded. "If you say so. But Liam, I’m serious—don’t retaliate. Don’t call her. Don’t go to Joan’s house. Don’t do anything that could make you look aggressive or unreasonable."

"Fine," I muttered, though the thought of letting Diane get away with destroying my car made my blood boil.

After reviewing our strategy for the upcoming divorce proceedings, I left Holbrook’s office feeling marginally more in control. Not good, but at least not on the verge of a breakdown.

The week that followed was one of the worst of my life.

The Reign Contract deal was well and truly dead. James wouldn’t return my calls. The board was asking questions about the lost opportunity. And everywhere I went at Synergy Sphere, I could feel the whispers, the stares. Everyone knew about Diane’s visit, about my car. The narrative was slipping from my grasp.

I threw myself into damage control, working sixteen-hour days, sleeping on the couch in my office more often than not. I had my new secretary, Daisy, reschedule all non-essential meetings.

‐-

Seven days after the incident with Diane coming to the office and destroying precious my car, I had finally come to the terms with of letting go. The house felt empty, cavernous. I wandered from room to room, a glass of scotch in hand, haunted by memories I couldn’t shake.

There, in the kitchen, the shadow of Diane cooking dinner, laughing as I snaked my arms around her waist. In the living room, the ghost of us tangled on the couch, watching movies, making plans. In our bedroom—now just my bedroom—the echo of intimacy, of whispered promises I’d broken.

I drained my glass and poured another, trying to drown the thoughts. This was her fault, not mine. She was the one who’d walked away. She was the one destroying everything.

The next morning, I woke up on the couch, my head splitting and my mouth tasting like something had died in it. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painfully bright. I squinted at my watch: 9:30 AM. Shit. I was late for work.

I dragged myself to the shower, standing under the scalding water for too long, trying to wash away the hangover and the lingering sense of emptiness. By the time I’d dressed and made coffee, it was after 10. I decided to work from home, at least for the morning. There were some contract reviews I could get through without going to the office.

I spread the documents across the dining table, trying to focus. The words swam before my eyes, and I had to read the same paragraph three times before it made any sense. I was just about to give up and head to the office when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I almost didn’t answer it. But something—maybe desperation for any good news—made me pick up.

"Liam Ashton," I said, my voice rough from the previous night’s scotch.

"Mr. Ashton," came a deep, authoritative voice. "This is James Dave."

I sat up straighter, suddenly alert. "Mr. Dave. This is unexpected."

"I’ll get straight to the point," Dave said. "I’ve been reconsidering our situation."

"Our situation?" I echoed, confused.

"The Reign project," he clarified. "I may have been... hasty in my decision to walk away."

My heart began to race. The Reign project—fifty million dollars, the deal that would have silenced the board’s growing concerns.

"I’m listening," I said carefully, not wanting to sound too eager.

"I’ve had second thoughts about the partner I chose," Dave continued. "There have been... issues. I’m considering returning the contract to Synergy Sphere."

I gripped the phone tighter, hardly daring to believe what I was hearing. "I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Dave. We’re absolutely still interested."

"Good," he replied. "But I need to move quickly on this. I’m currently out of town on business, but I’d like to meet with you personally to finalize details."

"Of course," I said immediately. "Name the time and place."

"I’ll be in Boston for the next few days. If you could fly out tomorrow, we could meet the following morning. Early, say 7 AM. I’ll have the contracts ready for signing."

Boston. Tomorrow. It was sudden, but for a fifty-million-dollar deal, I’d fly to the moon if necessary.

"I’ll be there," I assured him. "Just send me the details of where to meet."

"Excellent. I’m staying at the Ever green hotel. There’s a private conference room we can use. I’ll have my assistant email you the specifics."

"Thank you for reconsidering, Mr. James. You won’t regret it."

"Let’s hope not," he replied, and hung up.

I sat stunned for a moment, then let out a whoop of triumph, jumping up from the table. This was it—exactly what I needed to turn things around. With the Reign project back in our portfolio, the board would back off, investors would regain confidence, and I could focus on destroying Diane in the divorce without distractions.

I immediately called my travel agent and booked a first-class ticket to Boston for the following morning, then a suite at the Ever green hotel. Then I poured myself a celebratory drink—not scotch this time, but the expensive champagne I’d been saving for a special occasion.

As I sipped, I pulled out my phone again to call Mr.Guerrero, my most important board member.

"Hello Mr. Guerrero," I said when he answered, not bothering with pleasantries. "I’ve got good news."

"We could use some," Mr. Guerrero replied, his usual gruffness tinged with curiosity. "What is it?"

"The Reign project is back on," I said, unable to keep the triumph from my voice. "I just got off the phone with Dave. He wants to return the contract to us."

There was a pause. "That is unexpected," Mr. Guerrero said slowly. "What changed his mind?"

"Problems with the other partner, apparently," I said, shrugging even though he couldn’t see me. "Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re back in business. Fifty million, Sir."

"Well, that is good news," Guerrero agreed, sounding more enthusiastic. "When will it be finalized?"

"I’m flying to Boston tomorrow to sign the contracts the day after," I told him. "We can celebrate when I get back. Maybe dinner at Le Bernardin? Bring the whole board."

Guerrero chuckled. "Don’t count your chickens yet, Liam. But yes, if the deal goes through, we’ll celebrate properly."

After hanging up, I felt better than I had in weeks. This was the turning point I’d needed. Everything was going to be alright.