Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 129: Salvation or Rejection

Liam’s POV

I sat in the silence of my living room, the weight of the past few days pressing down on me. The couch that had once been my throne now felt like a prison, holding me captive in my own thoughts.

The mansion felt enormous. I’d built this empire, this life, and for what? To sit here alone while my children...my own flesh and blood, entered the world without me?

My phone buzzed against the table, cutting through the quietness. A text message. From Jackson.

"Mission can’t be accomplished. Target is holding a baby. We try again."

The blood drained from my face as I read the words over and over, each reading making the reality more terrifying. Jackson was out there, watching, waiting, and my babies were in the crosshairs of a mess I had created.

"No, no, no," I muttered under my breath, frantically dialing Jackson’s number. The phone rang once before going to a restricted line message. I tried again. Same result.

"Jackson, please don’t fucking do anything to hurt my kids," I whispered to the empty room, my voice breaking on the words.

My hands shook as I scrolled through my contacts, finding Maxwell’s number. I knew the rules—never contact Maxwell directly and direct contact was forbidden unless it was a genuine emergency.

This was beyond an emergency. This was my children’s lives.

Maxwell answered on the second ring, his voice carrying that familiar gravelly tone that had always made my skin crawl.

"This is highly irregular, Mr. Ashton," he said without preamble.

"It is," I said, my voice hoarse with desperation. "Jackson’s gone rogue.

There was a pause, long enough that I wondered if the line had gone dead.

"Jackson’s recent behavior has been raising concerns," Maxwell finally said, his voice thoughtful. "There have been... incidents.

"Of course, he’s been leaving behind loose ends, and unprofessional conduct." I care about my children’s safety and I don’t want him to make mistakes that would cost my children’s lives.

Handle him. Make sure nothing traces back to me and take away anything that he has linking to me, and make sure he doesn’t touch my family.

"You know the cost of me handling things personally," Maxwell said quietly.

Whatever it takes," I replied without hesitation. "As far as you keep my children safe and no harm comes to them. And call off the other target too—Just... end this whole thing."

"Consider it handled."

The line went dead, leaving me in the suffocating silence of my living room once again. I set the phone down with trembling hands, trying to convince myself I’d done the right thing. Jackson was a threat now, a loose cannon who could destroy everything. Maxwell would handle it cleanly, professionally.

But the thought of what "handling it" meant made my stomach churn.

I reached for the whiskey bottle on the side table, pouring myself three fingers and downing it in one burning gulp. The alcohol did nothing to steady my nerves or quiet the voice in my head that kept asking the same question: How had it come to this?

That’s when the news report started.

The television had been playing in the background, volume low, just white noise to fill the emptiness. But suddenly, the reporter’s voice cut through my thoughts like a knife.

"—Diane Ashton, newly appointed CEO of Synergy Sphere, was discharged from Memorial Hospital today with her newborn twins—"

I looked up sharply, my eyes focusing on the screen just as the footage began to play. And there they were.

Diane emerged from the hospital entrance, looking radiant despite the exhaustion that was surely weighing on her. But it wasn’t her that made my breath catch in my throat—it was the bundle in her arms. A tiny baby, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, so small and perfect it made my chest tighten with an emotion I couldn’t name.

Sophie walked beside her, carrying another bundle—this one in pink. My daughter. My son. My children.

"Oh God," I whispered, standing up so quickly the room spun around me. I reached toward the television screen with trembling hands, as if I could somehow reach through the glass and hold them. "My babies. My beautiful babies."

The camera captured everything—the way Diane held our son protectively against her chest, the gentle way Sophie cradled Danielle, the proud smile on Helena’s face as she cleared a path through the reporters. They were a family. A complete, loving family.

And I wasn’t part of it.

The tears came without warning, hot and relentless, streaming down my face as I watched the footage play over and over. The reporter’s voice faded into background noise as I focused on every detail I could see.

"They’re perfect," I sobbed, sinking back onto the couch as my legs gave out. "They’re absolutely perfect."

The dream from the other night came flooding back...the garden, the laughter, the way they had run to me calling "Daddy!" with pure love and trust in their voices. Those blurred faces in my dream suddenly felt so real, so close, and yet impossibly far away.

I reached for the screen again, my fingers pressing against the cold glass. "I should be there," I whispered. "I should be holding you, protecting you, telling you how much I love you."

But I wasn’t there. I was here, alone in this empty mansion, watching my family through a television screen like a stranger.

The footage ended, moving on to other news, but I kept staring at the blank screen, hoping they would show it again. Hoping for another glimpse of my children.

Sleep, when it finally came, was fitful and filled with more dreams. This time, I was running through that same garden, calling out for them, but I could never quite catch up. Their laughter echoed around me, but they remained just out of reach, their figures becoming more and more blurred until I woke with a gasp.

---

The next morning brought no relief. I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone for what felt like hours before finally working up the courage to dial Diane’s number.

It rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, she answered, her voice cautious and tired.

"Liam?"

"Diane," I said, my voice coming out as barely more than a whisper. "Thank you for answering."

There was a pause, and I could hear the faint sound of a baby crying in the background. One of our children. My throat tightened with emotion.

"What do you want, Liam?" Her voice was guarded, weary.

"Diane," I said, my voice breaking on her name. "I want to see them," I said, the words rushing out before I lost my nerve. "Please, I’m begging you. Just let me hold my babies. It’s killing me to know they’re out there and I’m not part of their lives."

There was a long pause, and for a moment I thought she might hang up.

"Whose fault is that, Liam?" she finally asked, her voice quiet but sharp.

"Mine," I admitted immediately, the word tearing from my throat. "It’s my fault. All of it. I’m sorry, Diane. I’m so fucking sorry for everything I’ve done, everything I’ve put you through.

"I gave you so many chances to turn a new leaf," she said, and I could hear the exhaustion in her voice. "Even at the dinner...even then, I was willing to try. But you ruined it. Bad things always happen around you, Liam. I want to keep my children safe."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "You can’t use them against me," I snapped, my voice rising despite my attempts to stay calm. "You don’t have the right to keep me away from my own children just because you’re angry with me."

"Liam, you see? This is exactly what I’m talking about—"

The line went dead. She’d hung up on me.

"Please, Diane," I said to the empty room, my voice breaking. "Please don’t keep me away from them."

But she was gone. The silence stretched out around me, heavy and suffocating. I had blown it again. Even when I was trying to be reasonable, trying to apologize, I couldn’t help but lash out. It was like a disease in me, this need to control, to win, to be right even when I was wrong.

I sat there for a long moment, letting the weight of my failure settle over me. The crushing realization that I might never see my children, never hold them, never be part of their lives. Then I made a decision.

I had to do something. I couldn’t just sit here and accept this.

I stormed out of my bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time.

As I headed toward the door, I nearly collided with Anthony, who was standing near the entrance talking in hushed tones on his phone. The moment he saw me, he quickly ended the call, his expression shifty.

"Sir," he said, straightening up. "I didn’t hear you coming."

"Who were you talking to?" I asked, though part of me didn’t really care. I had bigger problems than my bodyguard’s personal life.

"Just... personal business," Anthony replied, his face flushed.

I waved him off. "Be careful with women," I said, thinking of Natasha, of Sophie, of all the ways I’d been betrayed by people I’d trusted. "They’ll destroy you if you let them."

Anthony nodded, his expression serious. "I understand, sir."

"I’m going out," I told him as he moved to follow me. "Stay here. I need to handle this alone."

"Sir, I don’t think—"

"Stay," I said firmly. "What’s the worst that could happen?"

I drove to the most expensive baby store in the city, filling my cart with everything I could think of...clothes, toys, blankets, bottles, a high-end stroller that cost more than most people’s cars.

I ordered flowers to be delivered to Joan’s house, along with a box of Diane’s favorite chocolates. If I couldn’t win her back with words, maybe I could win her over with gestures.

The drive to Joan’s house felt endless, every red light an eternity, every turn bringing me closer to either salvation or complete rejection.

By the time I pulled up outside Joan’s house, my car was so full of gifts I could barely see out the rear window. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart, and walked up to the front door.

Joan answered on the second knock, her expression immediately hardening when she saw me.

"Liam," she said, her voice flat. "What are you doing here?"

"I want to see Diane," I said, trying to keep my voice calm and reasonable. "And my children. Please, Joan. I just want to meet them."

"You know what the judge said about causing trouble," Joan replied, her arms crossed over her chest. "You need to leave."

"I’m not causing trouble," I insisted, gesturing toward my car. "I brought gifts. For the babies. For Diane. I just want to see my family."

I began unloading the car, carrying bags and boxes to Joan’s front porch. Baby clothes, toys, blankets, everything I could think of that my children might need. Joan watched me with a mixture of exasperation and something that might have been pity.

"Go call Diane," I said, setting down the last of the gifts. "Tell her I’m here. Tell her I just want to see my children."

"Diane isn’t here," Joan said firmly.

"You’re lying," I accused, my voice rising. "You’re hiding her from me. You’re keeping me from my children."

"I’m not lying." Joan shot back.

"They’re my children!" I shouted, my careful composure finally cracking. "You can’t keep me away from them forever!"

Joan’s expression softened slightly. "I’ll make sure they get the gifts, Just keep them by the porch" she said. "That’s the least I can do. But if you keep this up, if you cause any more trouble, I’ll ask you to take everything back."

"I just want to see my family," I said, my voice breaking. "I just want to hold my babies."

That’s when a man appeared behind Joan—tall, broad-shouldered, with the kind of presence that immediately commanded attention.

"Is this man bothering you?" he asked Joan, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Joan, who is this?" I demanded, but she was already stepping back.

"Please go inside," the man told Joan softly, and she obeyed without question. He stepped outside and slammed the door in my face with a finality that left no room for argument.

I stood there on the porch, surrounded by the gifts I’d brought for my children, feeling like the ground had given way beneath my feet.

I was nothing to them. A stranger. A threat to be managed.

I walked back to my car on unsteady legs, leaving the gifts behind. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely get the key in the ignition. I had come here hoping to see my children, to maybe hold them for just a moment, and instead I’d been treated like a criminal.

The drive back to the mansion passed in a blur. I didn’t acknowledge Marcus when he waved from the security booth. I didn’t respond to Anthony’s greeting when I walked through the front door. I just needed to get to my room, to lock the door, to try to process what had just happened.

But as I was climbing the stairs, my phone buzzed with an email notification. Bank of Panama. My offshore account.

I stopped halfway up the stairs, my heart sinking as I read the subject line: "Account Frozen - Regulatory Investigation."

My hands began to tremble as I opened the email. All of my offshore accounts—the ones I’d hidden from Diane, from the IRS, from everyone—had been frozen pending investigation.

"No, no, no," I whispered, wiping my face with my palm as if I could wipe away the reality of what I was seeing. "This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening."

Diane had the documents. She knew about the accounts now, and she was using them to destroy me completely.

The phone slipped from my hands, clattering down the stairs. I tried to sit down before I fell, but my legs gave out entirely. I collapsed onto the steps, my whole body shaking with the realization of what this meant.

I was ruined. Completely and utterly ruined.

A sound escaped from my throat—a sound I didn’t recognize, somewhere between a scream and a sob, raw and desperate and completely broken.

"AHHHHHHHH!" The sound echoed through the house, bouncing off the walls and coming back to me amplified.

Anthony came running, his phone in his hand, his face creased with concern as he looked up at me collapsed on the stairs.

"Sir! What happened? What’s wrong?"

But I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t explain. I could only feel the walls closing in around me, the weight of my choices crushing down until I could barely breathe.

I stood up abruptly, my vision blurring with rage and desperation, and slammed my fist into the wall beside me. The pain was immediate and sharp, but it felt good. It felt like something real in a world that had become a nightmare.

I hit the wall again. And again. Each blow sent shockwaves of pain up my arm, but I welcomed it. Physical pain was something I could understand, something that made sense when nothing else did.

"Sir, stop!" Anthony was beside me now, trying to grab my hands as blood began to flow from my knuckles. "You’re hurting yourself!"

"I want to be left alone!" I roared, pulling away from him. "Everyone just leave me the fuck alone!"

Blood was flowing freely now, staining the cream-colored wall with dark red streaks. My knuckles were torn and swollen, but I could barely feel them over the crushing weight in my chest.

"Let me help you clean that up," Anthony said softly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.

"No," I said, my voice breaking. "No, I want to be left alone. Please. Just... please leave me alone."

He hesitated for a moment, clearly torn between his duty to protect me and his respect for my wishes. Finally, he nodded and backed away, leaving me alone on the stairs with my blood and my desperation.

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