Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 70: Home Wrecker

Sophie’s POV

"You have to do this," I whispered to my self.

"For Diane."

The words sounded hollow, but they were all I had. My plan was simple, if desperate: I would go to Liam’s house, record his confession, and get proof of his intentions to harm Diane, then find anything, documents, pictures, that would help Diane win.

It wasn’t much, but it was all I could think to do. Maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to protect her, even if she never forgave me.

I grabbed my phone, keys, and big bag, trying to ignore how my hands trembled. The weight of what I was about to do pressed down on me like a physical burden. Liam wasn’t just manipulative—he was dangerous. The casual way he’d spoken about hurting Diane had chilled me to my core.

As I opened my apartment door, I froze. The hallway was empty, but something felt wrong. A prickling sensation crawled up my spine as I locked my door and headed toward the elevator. By the time I reached the building’s entrance, my anxiety had heightened to outright dread.

I pushed open the door and stepped outside into the bright afternoon light—and straight into a nightmare.

"There she is! The backstabbing bitch!"

The shout came from my left, and I turned to see a small crowd gathered around my car. My breath caught in my throat as I spotted what they’d done to it. The once-pristine car was now covered in angry red and black spray paint:

HOMEWRECKER!

SISTER BETRAYER!

WHORE!

The words screamed at me from every surface of my car, each letter a fresh wound to my already battered heart. Several people still lingered nearby, their faces contorted with disgust as they spotted me. I recognized a few as neighbors from my building, but others were strangers, drawn by the commotion.

"How could you do that to your own sister?" A woman I vaguely recognized from the apartment complex across the street stepped forward, her face flushed with anger.

"I saw the interview. Your sister is pregnant with twins, and you slept with her husband? What kind of monster are you?"

Before I could respond, someone else shouted, "Shame on you!" A half-empty coffee cup sailed through the air, splattering lukewarm liquid across my blouse. I gasped, stumbling backward.

"Please," I managed, raising my hands in a desperate plea. "You don’t understand—"

"We understand perfectly!" Another woman pushed to the front of the small crowd. "My sister did the same thing to me, and I never recovered. People like you destroy families!"

More debris came my way—a crumpled fast-food wrapper, a half-eaten sandwich, someone’s empty water bottle. Each projectile was accompanied by another insult, another accusation. I ducked, shielding my face with my bag as I made a desperate dash for my vandalized car.

My fingers fumbled with the keys as tears blurred my vision. A rotten tomato splattered against the driver’s side window just as I yanked the door open. I threw myself inside, slamming the door shut as several more objects thudded against the exterior.

"Go back to hell where you belong!" someone shouted as I started the engine with trembling hands.

Through the smeared windshield, I could see faces contorted with righteous anger, people who’d never met me or Diane, who knew nothing of our story beyond what they’d seen in a single interview. Yet they felt entitled to punish me, to be the arbiters of justice in a situation they couldn’t possibly understand.

Not that I didn’t deserve it. I did. But the public humiliation, the hatred radiating from complete strangers—it was overwhelming.

I pulled away from the curb, tires squealing, as several more objects bounced off my car. In the rearview mirror, I could see people shouting, some following for a few steps before giving up. One woman was filming the entire scene on her phone. By tonight, my humiliation would be all over social media—another trophy in the court of public opinion.

I drove blindly, tears streaming down my face, until I was several blocks away. The sobs that had been building in my chest finally broke free, and I pulled over into an empty parking lot, unable to see through my tears. I collapsed against the steering wheel, my body shaking with the force of my grief and shame.

"Oh God," I choked out between sobs. "What have I done? What have I done?"

The reality of my situation crashed over me in waves. I had betrayed my sister in the worst possible way. I had torn apart her marriage, her life, her trust. And now, the whole world knew. The interview had aired, and I was being cast as the villain—deservedly so.

For ten minutes, I couldn’t stop crying. Every breath hurt, every heartbeat a reminder of my betrayal. When the tears finally subsided enough for me to see clearly, I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Mascara streaked down my cheeks, my eyes were swollen and red, and my hair was a disheveled mess. I barely recognized myself.

"Pull yourself together," I whispered. "You need to fix this. You need to help Diane."

I took several deep breaths, then reached for some tissues in the glove compartment to clean myself up as best I could. As I did, I noticed the crude words painted across my dashboard: SISTER FUCKER. They’d broken into my car to vandalize the interior too.

A fresh wave of humiliation washed over me, but I pushed it down. I deserved this. All of it. But Diane didn’t deserve what Liam was planning.

Once I’d composed myself enough to drive, I continued my journey, painfully aware of the stares and pointing from other drivers and pedestrians who noticed my vandalized car. At a red light, a woman in the car next to mine rolled down her window to take a picture.

I turned my face away, fighting back more tears. The light changed, and I drove on, desperate to get away from the prying eyes and judgment.

Eventually, I found a secluded spot in a strip mall parking lot. I needed to clean off the worst of the graffiti if I was going to make it to Liam’s without drawing more attention. I parked behind a row of dumpsters and got out, surveying the damage fully for the first time.

It was even worse than I’d initially thought. Every surface was covered in hateful words. Someone had drawn crude anatomical diagrams on the hood. The windshield was partially obscured by streaks of ketchup and what looked like egg yolk.

I went to the trunk, where I kept a small emergency kit with some paper towels and bottled water. It wasn’t much, but it would have to do. I began scrubbing at the windshield first, needing to at least be able to see properly for the drive to Liam’s.

As I worked, a man in his sixties approached from the nearby hardware store, his expression a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Looks like you’ve had a rough day," he said, stopping a few feet away.

I tensed, expecting more accusations, more judgment. "I don’t want any trouble," I said quietly, not meeting his eyes.

"No trouble," he replied, his voice gentler than I expected. "Just thought you might need some help. I’ve got some cleaning supplies in my truck that might work better than water."

I looked up then, surprised by the offer. His face showed no recognition, no disgust—just the concern of one human for another in distress.

"Why would you help me?" I asked, my voice cracking. "You don’t know what I’ve done."

He shrugged. "Don’t need to know. Nobody deserves to drive around in a car looking like that, no matter what they did."

For a moment, I was tempted to accept. Then I glanced down at the words HOMEWRECKER and WHORE emblazoned across my car door, and shame flooded me anew.

"I do deserve it," I whispered. "But thank you."

The man looked uncomfortable, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Well, offer stands if you change your mind. I’ll be loading up my truck for another fifteen minutes or so."

I nodded, unable to speak past the lump in my throat. He hesitated a moment longer, then walked away, glancing back once with an expression I couldn’t read.

Alone again, I returned to my futile cleaning efforts. The water and paper towels barely made a dent in the spray paint, though I managed to clear enough of the windshield to drive safely. The hateful words remained stark against the white paint of my car—a mobile billboard announcing my sins to the world.

After twenty minutes of scrubbing, I gave up. My hands were raw, my blouse soaked, and the car still looked like a monument to my betrayal. It would have to do. I climbed back inside, trying to ignore the graffiti on the dashboard and steering wheel.

As I drove toward Liam’s house, my phone rang. My mother’s name flashed on the screen. My finger hovered over the decline button—I couldn’t handle any more confrontation today—but something made me answer. Maybe it was desperate loneliness, or the childish hope that she might offer some comfort.