Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 72: The Game Isn’t Over yet

Liam’s POV

The morning interview had ended, but the damage was done. I sat in the dim living room, the empty tumbler dangling from my fingertips, my ribs throbbing in painful synchrony with my heartbeat. The room felt too large, too empty, the shadows in the corners growing longer as afternoon settled in.

Pregnant. With twins. My twins.

The revelation should have flooded me with something—joy, perhaps, or at least a sense of responsibility. Instead, all I felt was the cold, hard weight of another complication in an already catastrophic situation.

I reached for my phone, grimacing as the movement sent fresh pain lancing through my side. After a moment’s hesitation, I dialed Holbrook’s number. This couldn’t wait any longer. The fallout from Diane’s morning interview would be immediate and merciless.

He answered on the fourth ring, his voice clipped and professional. "Liam? I was about to call you."

"Did you see it?" I demanded, not bothering with pleasantries.

A pause, followed by a weary sigh. "The interview? Yes, I saw it. Half the city saw it."

"She blindsided me, Richard." My voice sounded strange to my own ears—strained, almost desperate. "Twins. She’s having twins, and she went public before telling me."

"I know," Holbrook replied, and I could hear rustling of papers in the background. "It’s... not ideal from a legal standpoint."

"Not ideal?" I laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that sent another spike of pain through my ribs. "She’s painted me as some kind of monster who would use his own children as pawns. Who would harm her. She’s turned public opinion against me before I even knew I was going to be a father, If truly they are mine."

"Liam," Holbrook said, his tone measured, cautious. "We need to reassess our strategy. Diane has changed the playing field significantly with this disclosure."

"What are you suggesting?" I asked, though I already knew the answer.

"We need to come to an agreement. A more generous one than we’ve been offering." He cleared his throat. "The optics are bad, Liam. Very bad. A pregnant woman, carrying twins, afraid of her husband... it’s not a narrative that plays well in court or in the court of public opinion."

I stood abruptly, ignoring the pain, and stalked to the bar to pour another drink. "So you want me to capitulate? To just hand over everything she’s asking for because she’s pregnant?"

"I’m saying we need to be strategic," Holbrook countered. "Right now, you’re being portrayed as a villain. If we continue with our aggressive approach, it will only reinforce that perception."

I knocked back the whiskey, welcoming the burn. "I’m not backing down, Richard. Not now. Not after this."

"Liam—"

"She thinks she can manipulate me with this pregnancy announcement? Use her children as leverage in the divorce negotiations? No. If anything, we push harder."

Silence stretched between us, heavy with Holbrook’s disapproval. Finally, he spoke, his voice flat. "That would be a mistake. A serious one."

"What would you have me do instead?" I demanded. "Sign over half my company? Give her the house? Let her walk away with everything I’ve built?"

"I’d have you recognize the reality of your situation," he replied, an edge creeping into his tone. "You’re injured. You’re under scrutiny from your board. And now you’re about to be a father to twins with a woman who has publicly stated she fears you might harm her or use the children against her, even if you keep trying to deny being the father."

His words hit like physical blows, each one more accurate than the last. I sank onto a barstool, suddenly exhausted.

"We can still salvage this," Holbrook continued, his voice softening slightly. "But it requires a different approach. Conciliation, not confrontation. We need to show that you’re willing to be reasonable, that you care about the wellbeing of Diane and your unborn children."

"And if I’m not feeling particularly reasonable right now?" I asked, my voice low.

Another sigh. "Then I suggest you find a way to get there, and quickly. Because the alternative is a protracted, ugly battle that you’re increasingly likely to lose."

I rubbed my face with my free hand, feeling the stubble that had accumulated over the past few days of self-imposed isolation. "I’ll think about it."

"Don’t think too long," Holbrook warned. "Time isn’t on your side anymore."

After we hung up, I sat motionless for several minutes, staring at nothing, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts. Rage and resentment warred with a creeping sense of defeat, a reluctant recognition that Holbrook might be right. The game had changed, and not in my favor.

The afternoon stretched interminably as I paced my home, restless despite the pain in my ribs. Diane’s face haunted me—the practiced vulnerability she’d displayed during the interview, the way her hand had rested protectively over her obviously big stomach, the calculated tears that had glistened in her eyes as she spoke of her fears.

My fears. She’d made me the villain of her narrative, the threat she needed protection from. The irony was bitter and sharp—I was the one who had been humiliated, driven to the edge of professional ruin, and yet somehow she had positioned herself as the victim.

I found myself drawn back to the bar, pouring another drink to dull the edges of my anger. The whiskey burned satisfyingly, a physical sensation to counteract the emotional storm. I was on my second glass when I decided to call Jackson. Whatever information he had might provide some clarity, some advantage in this increasingly chaotic situation.

"Mr. Ashton," Jackson answered promptly. "I was wondering if you’d call tonight."

"Your update," I said tersely. "What do you have for me?"

"Quite a bit, actually." His voice held a note of satisfaction. "Your wife has been busy today."

"Clearly," I muttered. "I just watched her on national television announcing her pregnancy."

"Ah, so you saw that." There was something in his tone—amusement, perhaps?—that set my teeth on edge. "Then you know she’s been making moves."

"What else?" I demanded, impatience flaring. "What have you observed beyond what’s now public knowledge?"

"Well," Jackson began, dragging the word out, "there was an incident at the farmers market earlier today. Your wife, her mother, and the lawyer friend were followed by a black sedan."

I straightened, sudden interest displacing some of my anger. "Followed? By whom?"

"By me," Jackson said simply. "Gave them quite a scare before speeding off."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by his initiative. "You followed them?"

"In the black sedan, yes. Followed them from the market, then got close enough to make my presence known. Even showed them I was armed—nothing serious, just enough to put the fear of God in them."

"Armed?" I repeated, a small, vindictive smile playing at my lips. "You threatened them?"

"Just a glimpse of a gun," Jackson replied casually. " freёnovelkiss.com

A surge of satisfaction warmed me, momentarily drowning out the pain and frustration of the day. Let Diane be afraid. Let her feel some fraction of the turmoil she’d caused me.

"Good," I said, taking another sip of whiskey. "Maybe that will make her think twice before her next publicity stunt."

"That was my thinking," Jackson agreed. "A good scare might make her more amenable to your terms. More willing to settle quickly, quietly."

"Exactly," I nodded, though he couldn’t see me. "So what happened after?

Your wife seems genuinely frightened."

The image pleased me—Diane cowering in Joan’s house, jumping at shadows, wondering if someone was watching her. It was a petty satisfaction, beneath me perhaps, but after everything she’d done, I couldn’t bring myself to feel guilty.

"Well done," I said, feeling more in control than I had all day. "This might be exactly what we needed to counter her little television performance."

"Happy to be of service," Jackson replied, a hint of smugness in his tone. "Though I should mention, this kind of direct intervention falls outside our initial agreement. There will be additional charges."

I frowned, my momentary good mood souring slightly. "Additional charges? For driving past them in a car?"

"For active intimidation," Jackson corrected. "Our agreement was for surveillance only. This was a tactical operation that carried additional risk."

"Fine," I agreed reluctantly. "What’s the damage?"

Jackson named a figure that made me wince, but I didn’t argue. The satisfaction of knowing Diane was afraid was worth the cost.

"Consider it done," I said. "Anything else I should know?"

"Just that your wife seems determined to keep a low profile for now. My guess is she’ll be reluctant to venture out again anytime soon after today’s scare."

"Perfect," I murmured, a plan already forming in my mind. "Keep shadowing her. I want to know the moment she leaves, where she goes, who she meets with."

"Of course," Jackson replied. "Though I’d recommend against another direct confrontation so soon. She might involve the police if it happens again."

The suggestion set off a warning bell in my mind. "Did you do anything that could connect back to me? Anything that could be traced?"

"I’m a professional, Mr. Ashton," Jackson said, sounding mildly offended. "The car was rented under a false name, paid for with cash. I wore a nose mask. There’s nothing to connect the incident to either of us."

"Good," I said, relief washing through me. "The last thing I need is Diane filing a police report naming me as a suspect."

"Exactly. Which is why any future... interventions... should be carefully planned and spaced out. We don’t want to create a pattern that suggests harassment."

I nodded to myself, reluctantly impressed by Jackson’s methodical approach. "Agreed. For now, just continue surveillance. I’ll let you know if I want to escalate things again."

"Understood. I’ll be in touch with my next report tomorrow."

As I hung up, I felt a grim satisfaction settling over me. Diane thought she’d won with her television appearance, her tearful confession, her claims of fearing for her safety. She had no idea that in doing so, she’d only provoked me to fight harder, to become the very threat she claimed to fear.

Let her be afraid. Let her wonder if every shadow concealed a watcher, if every strange car contained a threat. Maybe then she’d understand what it felt like to have your life thrown into chaos, to have everything you’d built stripped away by someone you once trusted.

I poured another drink, my third, and raised it in a mock toast to the empty room. "Well played, Diane," I murmured. "But the game isn’t over yet."

The whiskey burned down my throat, a physical echo of the anger still smoldering inside me. She had changed the rules by announcing the pregnancy, but I was nothing if not adaptable. If Holbrook wanted a more conciliatory approach, fine—I could present that face to the world, the concerned father-to-be anxious to resolve matters amicably.

But behind the scenes, I would continue to apply pressure, to remind Diane that crossing me carried consequences.

My phone buzzed again—Guerrero, no doubt calling to discuss the fallout from Diane’s interview. I silenced it without a second thought. I knew he was out for my blood, probably wants to gloat about Diane’s interview and I’m not willing to indulge him or his many threats.

I lifted my glass again, twirling it. As I sat on the couch waiting for Sophie’s arrival.