Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 63: Beyond the Doors

Diane’s POV

I checked my phone for the hundredth time, anxiety curling tight in my stomach. Would Andrew make it by five as promised? The black sedan that had followed me earlier was still fresh in my mind, an unsettling shadow trailing my thoughts. Every few minutes, my hand found my belly, as if my touch alone could shield the twins from whatever unseen danger lurked beyond Joan’s front door.

My phone chimed with a message.

Andrew. "Just wrapped up at the office. Ready to head your way for dinner. Could you send Joan’s address?"

"It’s Andrew," I murmured, reading the message aloud.

"Go ahead and send it to him," Joan said, barely looking up from where she was arranging the dining table.

I quickly typed out her address and hit send before setting my phone aside. Despite the terrifying events of the morning, dinner was still happening. A sense of normalcy—or at least the illusion of it—was necessary.

"The table’s set," Joan announced, stepping into the living room. "Your mother’s putting the finishing touches on dinner. It smells incredible."

I nodded, grateful. "She always did know how to cook. When Sophie and I were young, Sunday dinners were like feasts."

Joan sat beside me, her expression soften. "Are you sure you’re up for this? You’ve had one hell of a day."

I straightened. "I need answers, Joan. If Andrew knows something that can explain what happened this morning, I need to hear it."

She nodded, understanding.

I made my way to the bathroom, splashing cool water on my face before reapplying some light makeup. I didn’t want Andrew—or anyone—to see how shaken I truly was.

By the time I emerged, my mother was arranging a vase of fresh flowers on the dining table. She’d changed into a simple but elegant blouse and slacks, her hair neatly styled. The table itself looked perfect, an effort she hadn’t needed to make, but one I appreciated.

"You didn’t need to go to all this trouble," I said softly.

She adjusted a napkin with precision. "It’s no trouble. It’s important to make a good impression."

There was something in her voice—an odd intensity I couldn’t quite place. But before I could question it, Joan called from the kitchen.

"Come taste this sauce and tell me if it needs more salt!"

My mother hesitated, then, with one last assessing glance at the table, disappeared into the kitchen. Left alone, I wandered to the window, peering out at the quiet street. No black sedan. No suspicious vehicles. Just a peaceful neighborhood, golden light spilling over Joan’s manicured lawn.

A car engine purred in the distance, drawing my attention. A sleek silver vehicle pulled up in front of the house. My breath hitched as the driver’s door opened, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man. He wore a casual yet expensive blazer over a crisp button-down shirt.

Andrew. freēwēbnovel.com

I’d only seen him a handful of times—At the hospital after the accident and that one time at the hotel, fresh from my rampage at Liam’s office. Our relationship had existed more through phone calls and text messages than in person, making this dinner feel strangely intimate despite everything he’d done for me.

"He’s here," I called, stepping away from the window.

My mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. "Already? I thought we had a few more minutes."

"He’s early," I said, smoothing down my dress. "Maybe he’s as anxious to talk as we are."

Joan emerged from the kitchen, her lawyer face firmly in place—assessing, calculating. "Let me answer the door. I want to get a first impression without any preconceptions."

"Joan," I sighed, "he’s not on trial."

She gave me a tight, knowing smile. "Force of habit. Besides, it’s my house."

Before I could argue, my mother spoke, her voice firm in a way that made both Joan and me turn.

"Let me." Since both of you are busy arguing over who should get the door, so you don’t keep our guest waiting.

There was something in her tone—something resolute, unyielding. Joan hesitated, glancing at me before nodding.

"Fine," Joan conceded. "But I’ll be right behind you."

"And I’ll be right here," I added, staying near the staircase. My swollen feet and aching back made standing at the door less appealing than it might have been.

The doorbell chimed—a bright, cheerful sound that seemed out of place in the thick tension filling the house. My mother straightened, brushed an invisible speck from her blouse, and moved toward the door with purpose.

"Just a moment," she called pleasantly, reaching for the handle.

Then, time slowed.

The door swung open. I waited for my mother’s warm greeting, the hospitality she’d spent all afternoon preparing.

But it never came.

Instead, she froze. Her back stiffened, her fingers tightening around the door handle. A sharp, unnatural stillness overtook her body, and though I couldn’t see her face, something was terribly wrong.

"Mom?" I called, stepping forward.

She turned slowly and closed the door, her face drained of color, her eyes wide with unmistakable horror. For one heart-stopping moment, she looked at me—not with confusion, not with surprise, but with something far worse.

Recognition.

Then, before I could say another word, she bolted past me, nearly stumbling in her rush to escape. She disappeared upstairs, the sharp slam of a door echoing through the house.

"Mom!" I shouted, frozen in place.

Joan and I exchanged a stunned glance.

"What the hell just happened?" Joan whispered, moving toward me.

Andrew was still outside, probably unaware of the chaos his arrival had just unleashed.

"I have no idea," I admitted, my pulse roaring in my ears. "Go check on my mother. I’ll deal with Andrew."

Joan hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," I said, though uncertainty gnawed at me. "Go."

As Joan hurried upstairs, I inhaled sharply and moved toward the door. My mother had faced heartbreak, single parenthood, and struggles I could only begin to understand. And yet, she had never reacted like this.

What had she seen that had shaken her so completely?

My fingers trembled as I reached for the door handle. Upstairs, I heard Joan’s voice, urgent and concerned, followed by my mother’s muffled sobs.

A sound I had heard only a handful of times in my entire life.

And that terrified me more than anything else.

I pulled the door open fully, steeling myself for whatever had caused my mother’s horrified retreat.

To my greatest surprise Andrew was kneeling at the doorway, his head bowed down. As I called out to him, he raised his head slowly, tears glistening in his eyes.

"I’m sorry," he mumbled gently, reaching for my hand. "I’m so sorry."

Confusion washed over me. "Andrew? What are you sorry for? What the hell is going on?"

He remained silent, his eyes filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite place.

"Please, can you come inside at least?" I asked, ushering him in.

Andrew entered silently, moving to the sofa where he sat heavily, his head in his hands without uttering a word.

The silence was deafening. My body began to shiver, partly from the emotional strain and partly from the confusion of my mother’s strange outburst and Andrew’s behavior.

"Andrew," I called again, my voice wavering. "What is going on?"

When he didn’t respond, I started pacing the living room, trying desperately to wrap my head around what was happening. No one was talking. The tension in the air was suffocating.

Unable to bear it any longer, I walked back upstairs to find Joan still knocking at my mother’s door.

"Helena, please open the door," Joan was saying, her voice firm but gentle.

I moved beside Joan and gave the door a loud bang with my fist. "Mom! If you don’t open this door right now, I’m leaving the house and you won’t see me again!"

There was a moment of silence, then the soft click of the lock. The door opened slowly, revealing my mother’s tear-stained face. Joan excused herself with a concerned glance at both of us and went downstairs to talk to Andrew.

"Mom, what is going on? Please talk to me," I pleaded as I entered the room.

My mother only looked at me, tears streaming down her face as she continued sobbing.

"I’m losing my mind here, Mom. Please," I begged. "Andrew is here. You’ve been preparing all day for him, and now you put on this attitude? Do you two know each other?"

She remained silent, her eyes filled with pain and something else—guilt?

"Fine," I said, turning to leave. As I approached the stairs, my foot slipped, and I let out a startled shout as I grabbed for the railing.

My mother immediately rushed to help me, but I snatched my hand away from her grasp. "Let go! I’m fine," I snapped, still angry at her and the silent treatment.

She followed me down the stairs as I leaned close to the wall for support. Then I walked to take a seat on the couch.