Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 62: The Shadow Follows

Diane’s POV

Saturday morning had arrived with surprising swiftness. The week had passed in a blur of baby preparations, work calls, proposal preparations and anxious anticipation of Andrew’s visit. My mother had thrown herself into dinner planning with an intensity that seemed disproportionate to the occasion, creating elaborate shopping lists and debating menu options as if preparing for a state dinner rather than a simple thank-you meal.

"Are you sure we need all of this?" I asked, scanning the list she’d handed me as we pulled into the farmers market parking lot. "It’s just one dinner."

"We need fresh vegetables," she insisted, already climbing out of the car. "And herbs. Store-bought simply won’t do for a proper roast chicken."

Joan caught my eye in the rearview mirror and shrugged, amusement dancing in her expression. "Let her have this," she whispered as my mother marched ahead of us. "I think she’s enjoying having someone to fuss over."

The farmers market was bustling with weekend shoppers, the air fragrant with the scent of fresh produce and baked goods. My mother moved through the stalls with purpose, examining vegetables with a critical eye before selecting only those that met her exacting standards. Joan and I trailed behind her, carrying bags that grew heavier with each stop.

"What about these tomatoes?" Joan called, holding up a cluster of vibrant red heirlooms.

My mother pursed her lips, considering. "Those will do nicely for the salad," she conceded, adding them to our growing collection. "Now we need fresh rosemary and thyme."

An hour later, we’d checked off everything on her list: a plump, free-range chicken, an array of seasonal vegetables, fresh herbs, artisanal bread, and even a bottle of local honey for the morning’s breakfast. My feet ached from standing, and I was more than ready to head home.

"I think we have everything we need," I said, hoping to steer my mother toward the exit before she found something else to add to our haul.

She nodded, seemingly satisfied with our bounty. "Yes, this should do nicely. Andrew will be impressed with a proper home-cooked meal."

I bit back a comment about her continued fixation on impressing Andrew. Something about her interest in him still struck me as odd, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. Instead, I shifted my heavy bags and headed toward the parking lot, eager to get off my swollen feet.

The drive home started pleasantly enough. Joan had taken the wheel, with my mother in the passenger seat and me in the back with our market purchases. The radio played softly in the background as Joan navigated the weekend traffic, and I found myself drifting into thoughts about the evening ahead. What did Andrew want to discuss? Why had he sounded so urgent on the phone?

My mother’s sudden tension pulled me from my reverie.

"Joan," she said, her voice unnaturally tight. "I think that car is following us."

Joan glanced in the rearview mirror. "Which one?"

"The black sedan, three cars back," my mother replied, her eyes fixed on the side mirror. "It was behind us when we left the market, and it’s made every turn we have."

I twisted in my seat, trying to see past the cars directly behind us. A black car was indeed keeping pace with us, though from this distance, I couldn’t make out the driver.

"It’s probably nothing," I said, trying to sound reassuring despite the flutter of unease in my chest. "Lots of people are heading back from the market."

My mother shook her head. "No, I’ve been watching. It’s staying with us deliberately." There was something in her tone—not just concern, but a deeper anxiety that made my skin prickle.

"Let’s find out," Joan said decisively. She signaled and made an unexpected turn down a side street. "If they follow us down here, we’ll know it’s not a coincidence."

We all fell silent, watching the mirrors. Sure enough, the black sedan made the same turn, maintaining its distance.

"That’s... concerning," Joan admitted, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

"Try another turn," my mother suggested, her voice steady despite the fear I could see in her rigid posture.

Joan nodded, slowing down before making a sharp right onto a residential street. The black car slowed as well, then followed our turn.

"Call the police," Joan said, her voice clipped and professional—her lawyer voice. "Tell them we’re being followed."

I fumbled in my purse for my phone, my heartbeat accelerating. As I did, the black sedan suddenly accelerated, closing the distance between our vehicles with alarming speed.

"Joan!" My mother’s warning came just as the car swerved into the lane beside us, now driving parallel.

"I see it," Joan replied grimly, speeding up. "Diane, make that call. Now."

My fingers trembled as I tried to dial, my eyes drawn against my will to the car now level with us. The driver wore a dark hoodie pulled low, and a face mask that concealed everything but his eyes. Those eyes—cold and intent—locked with mine through the windows.

Time seemed to slow as I registered what was happening. The masked man raised his hand, and the unmistakable shape of a gun came into view, pointed directly at our car.

My breath caught in my throat, my body frozen in terror as those eyes held mine with chilling recognition. He knew me. I was certain of it.

"He has a gun!" I gasped, my voice barely audible over the thundering of my heart.

Joan cursed, accelerating hard and swerving to put distance between us and the threat. Behind me, my mother let out a soft, terrified whimper.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the black car veered away, accelerating past us and disappearing around the next corner with a screech of tires.

"What the hell was that?" Joan demanded, her voice shaking as she continued to drive, taking random turns to ensure we weren’t being followed again.

My hands wouldn’t stop trembling as the phone slipping in my sweat-slicked grasp.

I stretched my hand to pickup my phone and then slumped back in my seat, one hand instinctively covering my belly in a protective gesture. My babies. My twins. The thought of them in danger sent a fresh wave of terror through me.

"Who was that?" my mother asked, her voice small and shaken. "Why would someone follow us like that?"

Joan’s eyes met mine in the rearview mirror, and I knew we were thinking the same thing.

"Liam," I whispered, the name like poison on my tongue.

"But why show himself like that?" Joan argued, though her tone lacked conviction. "He’s been laying low since the restraining order. This is too brazen, even for him."

"Who else could it be?" My mother turned in her seat to look at me, her face ashen. "Who else would want to frighten you like this?"

I shook my head, unable to answer. The truth was, I didn’t know. Could it really be Liam who had sent someone to trail me now?

"Maybe..." I hesitated, a new possibility occurring to me. "Maybe it has something to do with whatever Andrew wanted to tell me."

Joan frowned, taking another turn that would lead us back toward her house. "What do you mean?"

"He called earlier this week, remember? He said it was important, but the connection was bad. He sounded...urgent."

My mother’s expression shifted subtly. "You think Andrew knows something about this?"

"I don’t know," I admitted. "But the timing seems strange, doesn’t it? Him trying to reach me with something urgent, and now this?"

Joan nodded slowly. "It’s worth asking him about tonight. But let’s not jump to conclusions. It could be completely unrelated."

We drove the rest of the way in tense silence, all of us scanning the road for any sign of the black sedan. By the time we pulled into Joan’s driveway, I felt drained, as if all the energy had been leached from my body.

"I think we should consider canceling dinner tonight," Joan said as she returned to the living room where my mother and I sat in shell-shocked silence. "At least until we know what’s going on."

I shook my head. "No. I need to talk to Andrew. If he knows something—anything—that might explain what just happened, I want to hear it."

"Diane," my mother said gently, "your safety is more important than dinner plans. Andrew would understand."

"I’ll be safe here," I insisted. "The house is secure, and we can ask Andrew to come earlier, while it’s still light out. Please," I added when I saw them exchange doubtful glances. "I need to know if there’s a connection."

After some debate, they reluctantly agreed. Joan called Andrew to ask if he could come at five instead of seven, explaining vaguely that something had come up. He agreed without hesitation, his concern evident even through Joan’s brief retelling of the conversation.

"He’ll be here in a few hours," she reported. "Now, let’s try to salvage what we can of this day. I think we could all use something calming to do."

My mother, still pale but recovering her composure, nodded. "I’ll start preparing the chicken. Cooking always settles my nerves."

I followed her into the kitchen, unwilling to be alone with my thoughts. As she worked, methodically washing and seasoning the chicken, I sat at the counter, watching her hands move with practiced efficiency.

"Mom," I said after a long silence, "you seemed... extra worried back there. Like maybe you knew something."

Her hands stilled briefly before resuming their work. "I was frightened, that’s all. Any mother would be terrified seeing a gun pointed at her child."

"It seemed like more than that," I pressed gently. "You’ve been on edge ever since the park the other day. What’s going on?"

She sighed, setting down the knife she’d been using to chop herbs. "I’m just worried about you, Diane. With everything that’s happened—Liam, the pregnancy, this mysterious benefactor who’s suddenly so involved in your life... It’s a lot to process."

I studied her face, sensing the half-truth in her words. "There’s something you’re not telling me."

Her eyes met mine, then flickered away. "This isn’t the time, Diane. Not after what just happened. You need rest, not more stress."

"Mom," I said firmly, "I’m pregnant, not helpless. If you know something that might help explain why someone just pointed a gun at us, I need to hear it."

She was saved from responding by Joan’s return to the kitchen."

My mother resumed her chopping with renewed vigor, the knife striking the cutting board with sharp, precise blows. "All the more reason to cancel this dinner and focus on keeping Diane safe."

"Or all the more reason to speak with Andrew as soon as possible," I countered. "If he knows something about this, we need that information."

We fell into an uneasy silence after that, each lost in our own thoughts as we went through the motions of preparing for the evening. My mother continued cooking, Joan checked and rechecked the security system that we had just recently fixed , and I attempted to rest on the couch, though sleep remained elusive.

The hours crawled by, each tick of the clock bringing us closer to Andrew’s arrival—and hopefully, answers. By four-thirty, the house was filled with the savory aroma of roasting chicken, a surreal contrast to the tension that still hung heavily in the air.