Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 59: Love Don’t Live Here

Liam’s POV

I sat in my office, staring at the wreckage of my birthday celebration. The unicorn was gone, but the humiliation remained, festering like an open wound. My fist still throbbed from where I’d slammed it against the desk. Another injury to add to the collection—physical pain to match the emotional. freewebnσvel.cѳm

My phone buzzed again. Sophie. I ignored it, just as I had for the past hour. Whatever concern or morbid curiosity drove her calls, I couldn’t handle it. Not now.

The thought of spending another minute in this building—with whispers following me through hallways, with pitying glances from staff who’d witnessed my humiliation—was unbearable. I needed an escape. A release.

I pulled out my phone and called Thomas.

"Yes, Mr. Ashton?" His voice was steady, professional. No hint that he might have heard about the morning’s disaster. Small mercies.

"I’m done for the day. Meet me at the parking garage in fifteen minutes."

"Of course, sir."

I gathered my essentials, leaving the stack of reports scattered across the floor. Vanessa knocked softly as I was shutting down my computer.

"Mr. Ashton, your three o’clock—"

"I thought I told you to cancel everything?" I cut her off, not looking up. "Cancel everything. I’m taking the rest of the day please."

She hesitated, and I could feel her studying me, trying to gauge my mood. "Yes, sir. Anything else?"

"No." I paused, then added, "Thank you, Vanessa. For... handling things."

She offered a small smile. "Of course, sir."

Fifteen minutes later, I was sliding into the back seat of the car, the leather cool against my heated skin. Thomas glanced at me in the rearview mirror.

"Where to, Mr. Ashton?"

I hesitated only briefly. "The Ritz-Carlton."

If Thomas found the destination unusual for a workday afternoon, he didn’t show it. "Yes, sir."

As we pulled away from Synergy Sphere headquarters, I watched the gleaming tower recede in the window. My empire. My prison. The thought brought a bitter taste to my mouth.

I reached for my phone again, scrolling past Sophie’s missed calls to find another name. Natasha. My thumb hovered over her contact for a moment before I pressed call.

She answered on the third ring. "Liam?" Her voice carried that familiar mix of surprise and pleasure. "This is unexpected."

"Are you free?" I asked, dispensing with pleasantries. "I need to see you."

A pause, then a low, knowing laugh. "For you? Always. Where and when?"

"The Ritz. Our usual suite. I’ll be there in twenty minutes."

"I’ll be there in thirty," she purred. "Happy birthday, by the way."

I stiffened. "How did you know?"

"Your birthday’s been in my calendar since the first time we met, darling. I never forget important dates."

Of course. Natasha was nothing if not thorough. It was one of the things I appreciated about her—her attention to detail, her ability to remember what I liked, what I needed.

"Don’t keep me waiting," I said, ending the call.

As Thomas navigated through the midday traffic, I leaned my head back against the seat, closing my eyes against the harsh sunlight. The morning’s humiliation played on repeat behind my eyelids.

By the time we pulled up to the hotel’s discreet side entrance, my jaw ached from clenching.

"Sir?" Thomas’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

"Wait here," I said automatically, then reconsidered. "Actually, no. You’re done for the day. I’ll take a cab home."

Thomas frowned slightly. "Are you sure, sir? It’s no trouble to wait."

"I’m sure. I don’t know how long I’ll be." I reached for the door handle, then paused. "Thank you, Thomas."

He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Have a good evening, Mr. Ashton."

The suite was exactly as I remembered it—plush, impersonal luxury designed for discretion. I’d taken the same room dozens of times over the past year, though lately less frequently. The demands of the company, the mounting tension with the board, had left little time for indulgence.

I loosened my tie as I paced the room, the day’s events churning in my gut like acid. Who had sent that unicorn? Who was making their move against me? The list of suspects was painfully long.

A soft knock interrupted my brooding. I checked my watch—exactly thirty minutes since my call. Always punctual, my Natasha.

I opened the door, and there she stood, a vision in a bandage black dress that hugged her curves to perfection. Her blood-red lips curved into a knowing smile, dark eyes sparkling with mischief and promise.

"Happy birthday, Liam," she murmured.

I didn’t respond with words. Instead, I pulled her inside, slamming the door shut with my foot as I pressed her against the wall. Her perfume—something expensive and exotic—filled my senses as I buried my face in her neck, my hands already working at the zipper of her dress.

She laughed softly, fingers tangling in my hair. "Someone’s eager."

"Shut up," I growled against her skin. "I don’t want to talk."

Her smile faded, replaced by a look of understanding. She knew the rules. No questions, no conversation beyond the necessary. Just release.

"Whatever you need," she whispered, and then her hands were on me, undoing my belt with practiced ease.

We didn’t make it to the bedroom. The first time was against the wall, frantic and hard, clothes half-removed, her legs wrapped around my waist. The second time was on the plush carpet, slower but no less intense. Only the third time did we finally reach the bed, sweat-slicked bodies collapsing onto the crisp hotel sheets.

I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling, my breathing gradually slowing. Beside me, Natasha propped herself up on one elbow, studying my face.

"Rough day?" she asked, breaking our unspoken rule of silence.

I shot her a warning glance, but she merely shrugged, unrepentant.

"You’ve never been quite so... aggressive before," she continued, trailing a finger down my chest. "Not that I’m complaining. But something’s got you wound tighter than usual."

I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "I told you, I don’t want to talk."

She sighed, stretching languidly. "Fine. Be mysterious." She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. "I should go anyway. I have a dinner reservation at eight."

The dismissal irked me, though I had no right to feel possessive. Natasha wasn’t mine—she was a distraction, a release valve, nothing more. And yet, the thought of her moving on to another engagement, perhaps another man, sent a flare of irrational anger through me.

"With who?" I asked before I could stop myself.

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Jealous, Liam? That’s not part of our arrangement."

I scowled, reaching for my discarded pants. "I’m not jealous. Just curious."

"Mmhmm." She stood, gloriously naked, and began gathering her clothes. "If you must know, it’s with a client. But even if it wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any of your business, would it?"

She was right, of course. We had an understanding—no strings, no expectations. I had no claim on her time or attention beyond what I paid for. The reminder stung more than it should have.

I reached for my briefcase, retrieving a thick envelope. "Here," I said, tossing it onto the bed. "For your time."

Natasha glanced at the envelope, then back at me, something flashing in her eyes that looked almost like hurt before it was quickly masked with nonchalance.

"Always the gentleman," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She slipped back into her dress, not bothering to pick up the envelope. "You know, Liam, money isn’t everything."

I laughed, the sound harsh even to my own ears. "Says the woman who charges by the hour."

Her eyes narrowed. "You’re the only one I see like this. The others are strictly professional—dinner, conversation, companionship. Not this." She gestured between us. "But you wouldn’t know that, because you’ve never bothered to ask."

I stared at her, momentarily taken aback. It had never occurred to me that I might be special in her lineup of wealthy clients. The thought was oddly discomfiting.

"Why me, then?" I asked, genuinely curious.

She smiled, a sad little curve of her lips. "Because you looked like you needed someone. And I’m a sucker for lost causes."

Before I could respond, she had scooped up the envelope, tucked it into her purse, and headed for the door.

"Goodbye, Liam. Happy birthday."

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving me alone with thoughts I didn’t want to examine too closely. Lost cause? The words echoed in my mind, uncomfortably accurate.

I finished dressing slowly, my earlier anger drained, replaced by a hollow exhaustion. Forty years old, and what did I have to show for it? A failing marriage, a company teetering on the edge, a best friend who could barely stand me, and sex with a woman who saw me as a charity case.

The weight of it all pressed down on me, suffocating in its intensity. I needed air, needed to get out of this suite with its rumpled sheets that still smelled of Natasha’s perfume and sex and desperation.