Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 66: The Interview

Liam’s POV

Three days. Three days since I’d been beaten within an inch of my life by a faceless man from my past who.had turned me to his personal punching bag. Three days of lying in bed, watching shadows creep across my ceiling as pain radiated through my body with each breath. The bruises had bloomed across my skin in violent purples and sickly yellows, a physical manifestation of my spectacular fall from grace.

I gingerly touched my bandaged ribs as I descended the stairs toward the dining room. Dr. Jason had warned against movement, but isolation was driving me mad. The silence of the house pressed in on me from all sides, giving me too much space to think, to remember.

Thomas had been stopping by daily, bringing groceries and checking that hadn’t died in my sleep.

The maid had laid out dinner before leaving for the evening—some kind of poached fish with vegetables. Bland, easily digestible food for the invalid. I lowered myself carefully into my chair, wincing as my broken fingers brushed against the table’s edge. The painkillers were wearing off, but I resisted taking more. The fog they created was worse than the pain.

I’d been absent from work all week. A reluctant call to Vanessa and a brief, humiliating conversation with Guerrero had secured me some time to "recover from a minor accident." The official story was food poisoning followed by a fall. The truth—that I’d been assaulted by a disgruntled ex-employee—was locked away, another secret to add to my growing collection.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me, the screen lighting up with yet another name I didn’t want to see. Richards from the board. I silenced it, just as I had silenced the dozen calls before. They’d heard something, no doubt. Perhaps rumors of my "accident" had begun circulating, whispers of weakness spreading through the corporate ecosystem like blood in shark-infested waters.

Let them talk. Let them wonder. I’d return soon enough, stronger for having been broken.

The fish tasted like nothing in my mouth, but I forced myself to eat. Recovery required sustenance, regardless of appetite. As I raised another forkful to my lips, my phone buzzed again—this time with Sophie’s name flashing across the screen.

She had been persistent today, calling repeatedly since this morning. Six missed calls, no voicemails. Whatever she wanted, I wasn’t in the mood. The last person I needed to see was her, with her demands and complications and reminders of everything that had gone wrong.

I hesitated, then silenced it. Whatever crisis she was having would have to wait. I had my own demons to wrestle.

My phone vibrated again, this time with a text notification. Sophie again. I nearly ignored it, but something—instinct perhaps—made me glance at the preview.

"Turn on the news NOW. Diane is doing an interview about everything."

The fork clattered against the plate as my hand went suddenly numb. Everything? What the hell did "everything" mean?

I stood too quickly, sending a bolt of pain through my cracked ribs that nearly doubled me over. Grimacing, I made my way to the living room, my heart pounding against my injured chest in a painful rhythm of panic.

The remote. Where was the damn remote? I scanned the pristine living room, spotting it on the far end of the coffee table. As I rushed forward, my foot caught the edge of the couch, sending me sprawling. I landed hard on my injured side, a cry of pain tearing from my throat as white-hot agony exploded through my ribcage.

"Damn it," I wheezed, forcing myself to roll onto my side. "Damn it all to hell."

With trembling hands, I pulled myself up onto the couch, every movement sending fresh waves of agony through my body. I fumbled for the remote that had fallen nearby, finally managing to turn on the television.

The screen flickered to life, and there she was. Diane. My wife. Sitting in some cozy living room setting with that reporter—Jessica something from the Daily Chronicle. My blood ran cold at the sight of her, looking both vulnerable and resolute, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

"—has been trying to restrict me from our joint accounts," Diane was saying, her voice steady despite the emotion evident on her face. "Money that was meant for our future, for our family. When I tried to access those funds during the separation, I was denied."

"So not only emotional betrayal, but financial as well," the reporter prompted, her face a mask of practiced sympathy.

"Yes," Diane replied, her voice hardening. "Liam wanted to make sure I had nothing when I left him. No money, no dignity, no support."

I felt the blood drain from my face. She was destroying me, piece by piece, in front of the entire country. Every word a carefully placed knife between my ribs.

"No," I whispered, struggling to sit upright. "No, no, no. This can’t be happening."

My phone began buzzing incessantly now, calls coming in one after another. Board members, business associates, people who’d smell blood in the water and were circling to witness my downfall. I ignored them all, transfixed by the horror unfolding on my screen.

"And now, you’re in the middle of divorce proceedings. How has that been?" the reporter asked.

Diane took a visible breath, composing herself. "Difficult. Liam is fighting me on every front, trying to deny me what’s rightfully mine. But I’m not backing down."

The reporter nodded, then paused, changing directions. "Diane, there have been rumors about your health recently. You’ve been seen at medical appointments, and there was an incident at a farmers market."

I leaned forward, ignoring the pain that shot through my side. Something in the reporter’s tone had shifted, and Diane’s posture had changed as well, becoming more deliberate.

"Yes," she said, her voice suddenly stronger. "That’s actually something I wanted to address today."

She straightened in her seat, one hand moving to rest on her stomach, and I felt my world tilt on its axis.

"I’m pregnant. With twins."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumbled backward, collapsing onto the couch again, my mind unable to process what I’d just heard.

"Pregnant?" I whispered to the empty room. "Twins?"

"And Liam is the father?" the reporter asked, her surprise seeming genuine despite the calculated nature of the question.

"Yes," Diane confirmed. "Though he doesn’t know yet. I’ve been keeping it secret, for my own protection and for the protection of my children."

I couldn’t breathe. The room spun around me as pieces clicked into place with sickening clarity. The hospital visits. The picnic. Jackson had reported to me.

"This is impossible," I muttered, running my good hand through my hair. "She can’t be... she would have told me."

But even as I said the words, I knew they weren’t true. Of course she wouldn’t have told me. Not after what I’d done. Not after Sophie.

My mind raced back to that day at the farmer’s market. Diane had been there. I’d seen her across the crowded stalls, laughing with that woman, Joan.

"I feared what he might do if he knew about the pregnancy," Diane continued on screen, her voice breaking slightly. "How he might use it against me, or try to control me through my children."

The accusation in her words stung worse than any physical blow I’d received. Did she truly believe I was capable of harming her? Of using my own children as pawns?

But hadn’t I proven myself capable of exactly that kind of betrayal? Hadn’t I shown her the worst parts of myself, over and over again?

My attention drawn back to the television where Diane was still speaking, her eyes glistening with tears.

"I want other women in similar situations to know that they’re not alone," she was saying. "That it’s okay to speak up, to fight back, to demand what’s rightfully theirs."

The reporter nodded sympathetically. "One final question. What are your plans after the divorce?"

Diane’s expression softened, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I want to start over. Get a place of my own, focus more on my career. Most importantly, I want to secure the future of my children."

My children. The words echoed in my head, alien and impossible.

"And the settlement?" the reporter pressed.

"I’m fighting for what’s rightfully mine," Diane replied, one hand resting protectively on her stomach. "Not just for me, but for my babies. I need enough to give them the life they deserve, the security they deserve. After what Liam has done, I won’t settle for less."

The interview concluded, the camera pulling back as the reporter thanked Diane for her courage, for sharing her story. I sat in stunned silence as commercials began to play, the cheerful jingles jarringly discordant with the chaos in my mind.

With shaking hands, I switched off the television and struggled to my feet. The painkillers had worn off completely now, each movement a fresh agony. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the storm raging inside me.

I should have just ended her life when I had the chance. I just don’t want to soak my hands in blood.

Pregnant. Diane was pregnant with my children. Twins. And she’d hidden it from me, feared me, painted me as a threat to her and our unborn children.

I made my way to the bar in the corner of the living room, my movements stiff and awkward. The doctor had warned against alcohol with the medication, but at that moment, I couldn’t bring myself to care. I poured three fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler and drank it in one burning gulp.

The liquor hit my stomach like acid, but I welcomed the burn. It was something to focus on besides the crushing weight of realization.

I had lost everything. Not just my wife, my company, my reputation—but now my children as well. Children I hadn’t even known existed until moments ago.

My phone rang again, and I glanced at the screen. Guerrero. No doubt he’d seen the interview too. I silenced it, then turned the phone off completely. Whatever fallout was coming, I couldn’t deal with it tonight.

I poured another drink, then made my way painfully back to the couch. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the silence, counting down to my complete and utter destruction.

"Was Diane trying to trap me with this pregnancy thing... or is it real?" As I made my way slowly up the stairs to my bedroom, leaving the remaining dinner and empty scotch glass behind. For the first time in my adult life, I had no plan, no strategy, no clear path forward.

And the uncertainty terrified me more than any enemy ever could.