Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 60: Shadow of Past Betrayal

Liam’s POV

Night had fallen by the time I stepped out of the hotel, the city lights glittering against the darkened sky. I waved off the doorman’s offer to call a car, opting instead to hail a cab from the street. Some irrational part of me wanted the anonymity, the normalcy of flagging down a taxi like any other person.

A yellow cab pulled up almost immediately, and I slid into the back seat, giving the driver my address before leaning back, eyes closed.

The sensation of being watched prickled at the back of my neck. I opened my eyes to find the driver staring at me in the rearview mirror, his gaze oddly intense.

"What?" I snapped, unnerved by his scrutiny.

He didn’t respond, merely turned his attention back to the road. Something about him seemed vaguely familiar—the set of his shoulders, the shape of his profile—but I couldn’t place him. Probably just another face in the crowd of people I passed daily without noticing.

We drove in silence for several blocks, but instead of heading toward my neighborhood, the cab veered onto a side street, then another, taking us away from the main thoroughfare.

"Hey," I leaned forward, rapping on the partition. "You’re going the wrong way."

Still, the driver said nothing. Alarm bells began to ring in my head as he accelerated, taking us deeper into an industrial area I didn’t recognize.

"Stop the car," I demanded, reaching for the door handle. Locked. "I said stop the car!"

Without warning, the cab lurched to the side of the road, braking hard enough to throw me forward against the partition. Before I could recover, the driver was out of his seat, and my door was yanked open.

I clutched my briefcase to my chest, instinct telling me to protect what little I had with me. "What the hell do you want?" I growled, trying to mask my fear with anger. "If it’s money—"

The blow came out of nowhere, a fist connecting with my jaw with enough force to snap my head back. Stars exploded behind my eyes, pain radiating through my skull.

"Remember me now, Ashton?" The voice was rough, laced with a bitter hatred that sent a chill down my spine.

I blinked, trying to clear my vision, to place the face that loomed over me. Middle-aged, weathered, with hard eyes that burned with a personal vendetta. But no, I didn’t recognize him.

"I don’t—"

Another punch, this one to my stomach, driving the air from my lungs. I doubled over, gasping.

"You ruined me," he snarled, grabbing my collar and dragging me from the cab onto the pavement. "Took everything I had with your fancy talk and false promises."

Understanding began to dawn through the haze of pain. Not a random mugging. This was targeted, personal. One of the countless people I’d stepped on during my climb to the top.

"Listen," I wheezed, still struggling for breath. "Whatever happened, we can work something out—"

He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Work something out? Like you worked things out with the Randall acquisition? Left me and fifty others without jobs, without pensions, while you walked away with millions?"

The Randall deal. Three years ago. A hostile takeover that had indeed resulted in significant layoffs, but had been necessary for Synergy Sphere’s expansion. Business, not personal. Except to the people whose lives had been upended.

"That wasn’t—" I began, but he cut me off with a vicious kick to my ribs. Pain exploded through my side, sharp and sickening.

"Save it," he spat. "I don’t want your excuses. I want you to know what it feels like to lose everything."

He reached down, wrenching my briefcase from my grip. I tried to hold on, but another blow to my already injured hand sent fresh agony shooting up my arm. A crack, followed by numbing pain that told me something had broken.

"Please," I gasped, humiliation burning through me at having to beg. "There’s nothing valuable in there—"

But he wasn’t listening. With one final, contemptuous kick, he turned and climbed back into his cab, tossing my briefcase onto the passenger seat.

"Happy birthday, you bastard," he called out the window as he drove away, leaving me bleeding and broken on the cold pavement.

For a long moment, I couldn’t move, the pain in my ribs and hand too intense. I lay there, staring up at the night sky, barely visible through the city’s light pollution. Forty years old, and here I was, beaten and robbed in some godforsaken corner of the city I’d thought I owned.

Slowly, painfully, I dragged myself to my feet. My suit was torn and dirty, blood staining the sleeve from a cut I hadn’t even noticed getting. My jaw throbbed, and each breath sent daggers through my side.

I patted my pockets, relieved to find my phone still there. With trembling fingers, I pulled it out and called the one person I knew would come, no questions asked.

"Thomas? I need your help."

His voice was steady, reliable. "Where are you, sir?"

I looked around, trying to get my bearings. "I’m not sure. Some industrial area. I can see..." I squinted at a street sign in the distance. "Cathedral Street, I think."

"I know it. Stay where you are. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes."

True to his word, the car pulled up exactly fifteen minutes later. Thomas got out, his eyes widening as he took in my battered appearance.

"Mr. Ashton," he breathed, hurrying to my side. "What happened? Should I take you to the hospital?"

I shook my head, wincing at the movement. "No hospitals. Too many questions. Just take me home. And call Dr. Jason, have him meet us there."

Thomas hesitated, clearly wanting to argue, but years of service won out. "Yes, sir."

The drive home passed in a blur of pain and humiliation. Thomas kept glancing at me in the rearview mirror, concern etched across his features, but he knew better than to press for details.

By the time we reached my house, the initial shock had worn off, leaving me with a clearer assessment of my injuries. Bruised ribs, possibly cracked. A broken finger or two. Various cuts and bruises, none life-threatening but all excruciatingly painful.

Dr. Jason was waiting for us, his face carefully neutral as Thomas helped me into the house. A private physician to the wealthy and discreet, Jason had treated everything from my stress-induced migraines to the occasional injury from overzealous sports or, in one memorable instance, an allergic reaction to some food.

"Mr. Ashton," he greeted me, medical bag in hand. "Let’s get you somewhere comfortable so I can examine you."

In my bedroom, Jason’s practiced hands moved efficiently, cataloging injuries, cleaning wounds, splinting my broken fingers. Two ribs were indeed cracked, requiring tight bandaging but little else beyond time and rest to heal.

"You’ll need to take it easy for a few weeks," he advised, packing up his supplies. "The ribs will be painful, but they’ll heal if you don’t overexert yourself. The hand will take longer—three weeks minimum. I’ve dropped some painkillers, but use them sparingly."

I nodded, too exhausted to respond verbally.

"And Mr. Ashton?" Jason paused at the door. "I don’t know what happened, and I don’t need to know. But perhaps consider avoiding whatever situation led to this... incident."

After he left, I lay back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling of my bedroom. The same ceiling I’d stared at just that morning, when my phone had cheerfully reminded me it was my birthday. A lifetime ago, it seemed.

Forty years old. Beaten, betrayed, and broken. The thought brought a twisted smile to my swollen lips. If this was what the beginning of my fifth decade looked like, what fresh hell did the rest of it hold?

And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure I had the strength to fight back.

As the doctor left, Thomas handed me a glass of water and a plate of food he had quickly put together. The smell of toast and eggs barely registered through the dull throbbing in my jaw. I swallowed a painkiller with a sip of water, then forced myself to take a few bites, if only to appease him.

"You should get some rest, sir," Thomas said quietly, watching me with the kind of concern that made my skin crawl.

I set the plate aside. "I’ll be fine, Thomas. You can go home."

He hesitated, clearly debating whether to push back, but he knew me too well. Knew that I wouldn’t tolerate hovering, wouldn’t allow anyone—especially him—to see me weak for too long.

"Call if you need anything," he finally said, gathering the dishes.

I gave a noncommittal nod, waiting until I heard the door close behind him before exhaling sharply, pain splintering through my ribs at the movement.

Alone.

The way I preferred it.

And yet, as I lay back against the pillows, staring into the darkened room, the silence felt heavier than usual.

Memories clawed their way to the surface—the driver’s voice, dripping with venom. The sharp crack of bone. The way he’d laughed, so full of bitterness and rage.

How many others were out there? How many people had I left in the wreckage of my ambition?

For the first time in years, an unfamiliar feeling crept into my chest, coiling tight.

Not fear. Not regret. Something worse.