Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 49: Shadows

Liam’s POV

The moment Thomas dropped me off at my mansion, I stormed up the driveway, ignoring Marcus’s usual greeting from the security booth. The weight of humiliation pressed down on my shoulders as I punched the code to unlock the door. Immediately the front door threw open.

Inside, the vast emptiness of the house echoed my footsteps. I yanked at my tie, loosening the knot that suddenly felt like it was choking me. My fingers trembled with rage as I made my way directly to the bar in the living room, not bothering to turn on more than the ambient lights.

"Goddamn it!" I snarled, slamming my briefcase onto the marble countertop.

I grabbed a crystal tumbler and the bottle of whiskey, pouring myself three fingers without hesitation. The amber liquid burned down my throat, but I welcomed the sensation. Anything to dull the edge of this day’s disaster.

I paced the living room, my Italian leather shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. With each step, my fury intensified. The phantom meeting in Boston. The humiliation at the airport. The mocking laughter of strangers. All orchestrated by Diane.

My Diane. The woman who once looked at me with adoration now dedicating herself to my destruction.

I drained my glass and poured another, my mind racing through possible countermoves. She thought she was clever, but she had no idea who she was dealing with. I hadn’t built Synergy Sphere by backing down from challenges. I hadn’t climbed to the top of New York’s business elite by showing mercy to opponents.

Holbrook’s warning echoed in my head: "Don’t retaliate. Be the reasonable one."

I scoffed at the memory. Reasonable? After what she’d done? She’d destroyed my car, humiliated me in front of my employees, and now this elaborate scheme—sending me on a wild goose chase and turning me into a public spectacle.

No. Being reasonable wasn’t going to cut it anymore.

I settled onto the leather couch, swirling the whiskey in my glass, and made a decision. If Diane wanted to play games, I’d show her how they were really played. But I wouldn’t get my hands dirty. I needed information—ammunition I could use against her. I needed to know what she was planning next.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled through my contacts until I found Maxwell’s number. Maxwell wasn’t someone whose name appeared in my regular contacts. He wasn’t someone I invited to business dinners or charity galas. But he was someone who got things done when conventional methods wouldn’t suffice.

I hesitated for only a moment before pressing "call."

He answered on the second ring, his voice low and gravelly. "Mr. Ashton. It’s been a while."

"Maxwell," I said, keeping my tone even. "I need a favor."

"I assumed as much. You don’t typically call for pleasant conversation."

I ignored his sarcasm. "I need someone discreet. Professional. Someone who can shadow a person without being noticed."

A pause. "Surveillance?"

"Exactly."

"Target?"

I took another sip of whiskey, steeling myself. "My wife. Soon-to-be ex-wife."

Another pause, longer this time. "Divorce case?"

"Something like that."

"I’ll need details. Timeline. Locations."

"I’ll send what I know," I replied. "But I need someone on this immediately. Today, if possible."

"It’ll cost you."

"Money isn’t an issue."

Maxwell chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "It never is with you, Mr. Ashton. I’ll see what I can do. Give me an hour."

"Make it thirty minutes," I countered.

"Demanding as always," he muttered, but didn’t argue further. "I’ll be in touch."

The line went dead, and I tossed my phone onto the cushion beside me, draining the last of my whiskey . The liquid courage had steadied my nerves, hardened my resolve. This wasn’t just about the divorce anymore. This was about winning. About showing Diane that she couldn’t beat me at a game I’d mastered long before she even knew the rules.

* * *

True to his word, Maxwell texted me exactly twenty-eight minutes later.

*Contact: Jackson. 212-555-0187. Professional. Discrete. Available now.*

I didn’t waste time. I dialed the number immediately, standing up to fix myself another drink as it rang.

"Jackson," a clipped voice answered.

"This is Liam Ashton. Maxwell gave me your number."

"Mr. Ashton." The voice remained neutral, professional. "Maxwell briefed me. You need surveillance."

"That’s right," I confirmed, returning to the couch with my refreshed drink. "I need you to shadow someone. Keep track of their movements, their contacts. Report back to me daily."

"Target?"

"My wife. Diane Ashton." The name felt strange on my tongue now, bitter. "She’s staying with a friend, Joan Winters. Upper East Side."

"I’ll need a photo."

"I’ll text it to you immediately after this call."

"Any specific information you’re looking for?"

I considered this. What did I want to know about Diane? Everything. Who she was meeting. What she was planning. Any weakness I could exploit.

"I want to know who she meets with. Particularly men." The thought of Diane with someone else made my blood boil, though I had no right to that anger. "I want to know if she’s visiting any law firms besides Joan’s. I want to know if she’s meeting with anyone from Synergy Sphere or any competing companies."

"Understood." Jackson’s voice remained emotionless. "Any restrictions? Places I shouldn’t go?"

"Stay away from Joan’s house," I said firmly. "Joan is sharp, observant. She’ll notice if someone’s watching the house. Wait for Diane to leave, then follow her."

"Duration?"

"Indefinitely," I replied. "Until I tell you to stop."

"Payment terms?"

"Weekly. Cash. Maxwell knows my rates."

"That works."

"One more thing," I added, my voice dropping lower. "This cannot be traced back to me. Under any circumstances. I don’t know you. You don’t know me. Maxwell never made this connection."

"That’s standard procedure, Mr. Ashton." A hint of amusement colored his tone. "Discretion is what you’re paying for."

"Good. Then we understand each other."

"I’ll begin tomorrow. Expect the first report tomorrow evening."

"Perfect."

I ended the call and immediately searched through my phone’s gallery for a recent photo of Diane. I scrolled past countless images—business events, charity galas, vacation photos—until I found one. Diane at a gala night, stunning in a midnight blue gown, her black hair swept up elegantly, her smile radiant as she stood beside me.

My finger hovered over the send button as an unexpected wave of nostalgia hit me. She had been so beautiful that night. So proud to be on my arm.

I shook the thought away and sent the photo to Jackson with a brief message: "Diane Ashton. 5’7". Black hair. Early 30’s

With that done, I tossed my phone aside again and leaned back into the couch, letting the whiskey do its work. The tension in my shoulders began to ease slightly, replaced by a sense of regaining control. Yes, Diane had landed some blows. She had surprised me with her cunning, her ruthlessness. But the game was far from over.

I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew, my phone was ringing loudly beside me. I jolted awake, momentarily disoriented. Night had fallen completely, the living room now shrouded in darkness save for the ambient glow from the kitchen. My head throbbed, a combination of jet lag, stress, and whiskey creating a perfect storm of misery.

I squinted at my phone screen: Guerrero.

Shit.

I cleared my throat and answered, trying to sound alert. "Mr. Guerrero, good evening."

"Liam," Guerrero’s gruff voice came through, sounding distinctly unamused. "I’ve been trying to reach you for hours."

I glanced at the time: 9:45 PM. I’d been asleep for over three hours.

"I apologize," I said, sitting up straighter. "I was... dealing with some issues related to the Boston trip."

"Ah yes, Boston." His tone sharpened. "I understand you’re back already. The board was expecting you tomorrow, after the contract signing. What happened?"

I pinched the bridge of my nose, the humiliation of the day washing over me again. I couldn’t tell Guerrero the truth—that I’d been duped, sent on a wild goose chase by my vindictive soon-to-be ex-wife.

"There was a misunderstanding," I said carefully. "The meeting wasn’t properly scheduled. James wasn’t actually in Boston."

"A misunderstanding?" Guerrero repeated, his skepticism evident. "Liam, you told me you spoke to James personally. That he wanted to return the contract to Synergy Sphere."

"I thought I did," I replied, growing defensive. "It appears someone was impersonating him."

A long silence followed, thick with disapproval. When Guerrero spoke again, his voice had that dangerous calm that I knew preceded his worst outbursts.

"Liam, the board is growing concerned. First, your personal life becomes front-page gossip Then. we lose the Reign contract. Now you’re chasing phantoms in Boston?"

"It’s not what it seems—"

"Do you know what this looks like?" he cut me off. "It looks like you’re losing control. Of the company. Of yourself."

The accusation stung because it held a grain of truth. I was losing control, something I’d never tolerated in my life.

"I understand your concerns," I said, my voice tight. "But I assure you, I have everything under control. This was a minor setback. I’m already working on new strategies to—"

"Save it for the board meeting next week," Guerrero interrupted again. "And Liam? I suggest you come prepared with something substantial. The patience of the board is wearing thin."

The threat was clear, even if unspoken. My position was no longer secure.

"I understand," I replied stiffly. "You’ll have my full attention at the meeting."

"Good." His tone softened slightly. "And Liam... get your personal affairs in order. Quickly. The board doesn’t appreciate distractions."

The call ended, leaving me sitting in the dark, the weight of Guerrero’s warning settling on my shoulders like a lead cloak. The board was losing confidence in me. If I wasn’t careful, they could move to replace me—the very company I’d built from nothing, taken from a two-person operation to a Wall Street darling.

I wouldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t.

I stood up, suddenly energized by determination, and moved to my home office. Switching on the desk lamp, I pulled out a legal pad and began to write. Plans. Strategies. Counter-moves. By the time I’d filled three pages, a new path forward had emerged.

First, I needed to neutralize Diane. Once she was dealt with, I could focus fully on saving my position at Synergy Sphere. Jackson would provide the information I needed to anticipate her next move, maybe even find leverage to force a quick, quiet settlement.

Second, I needed to line up new deals—impressive ones that would restore the board’s confidence. I jotted down names of potential targets, companies that had been on our radar but that we hadn’t pursued aggressively.

Third, I needed allies. The board wasn’t unanimous in their concern; I still had supporters who recognized my value to the company.

I needed to shore up those relationships, remind them why I was irreplaceable.