Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 132: The Inspection

Liam’s POV

The hot water cascaded over my head as I sat on the cold marble floor of my shower, my knees drawn up to my chest like some broken child. The steam rose around me, but it couldn’t wash away the stench of failure that seemed to cling to my skin.

If I had just listened. If I had just fucking listened to all the warnings, all the signs, all the people who tried to tell me I was destroying everything I touched.

The conference last week in court played over and over in my mind like a broken record. The judge’s stern face as he outlined the conditions. The home evaluation. The psychological assessment. The way Diane’s lawyer had looked at me like I was some kind of predator they needed to contain.

"Mr. Ashton, given the concerning allegations and incidents surrounding your behavior, this court is ordering a comprehensive evaluation of your fitness as a parent..."

The words echoed in my skull, mixing with the sound of the water hitting the shower floor. I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to stop the pounding headache that had been my constant companion since I’d finished that bottle of whiskey last night. Or was it two bottles? The empty containers scattered around my living room were testament to my latest attempt to drown my sorrows.

I had screamed at Anthony and Marcus last night. Really screamed. Called them useless, worthless, questioned why I even paid them when they couldn’t protect me from anything—not Jackson, not the press, not my own fucking stupidity.

But in this moment, sitting naked on my shower floor with water running down my face mixing with tears I didn’t even realize I was crying, I felt nothing but the crushing weight of everything I’d lost. My company. My wife. My children who I’d never even held. My dignity. My future.

The intercom crackled, Anthony’s voice cutting through my self-pity like a knife.

"Sir? There are some people here from social services. They say they’re here for an inspection." freēwēbnovel.com

My blood turned to ice.

"WHAT?" I screamed, scrambling to my feet so fast I nearly slipped on the wet marble. "What day is it? What fucking day is it?"

But Anthony’s voice was already gone, and I could hear the distant sound of the front door opening. They were here. The court-ordered home evaluation was happening right now, and I was sitting in my shower like a broken man, reeking of alcohol and despair.

I threw a towel around my waist, my hands shaking so badly I could barely hold onto the fabric. The mirror showed me exactly what I’d become—hollow-eyed, unshaven, looking every inch the unstable man they probably expected to find.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" I raced to the bathroom sink, grabbing my toothbrush and scrubbing frantically at my teeth and tongue. The taste of stale whiskey and vomit made me gag, but I kept brushing, desperate to eliminate any trace of last night’s breakdown.

I threw on the first clothes I could find, a button-down shirt and pants. My hands were shaking so violently I could barely button the shirt. In the mirror, I looked like exactly what I was: a man barely holding it together.

Racing down the stairs, I could see them through the foyer windows. Two women in professional attire, carrying clipboards and briefcases, looking every inch the government officials who held my future in their hands.

The living room was a disaster zone. Empty bottles, broken glass, cushions askew from where I’d thrown them in my rage. The smell of alcohol hung in the air like an accusation.

I moved like a man possessed, grabbing bottles and shoving them into cabinets, kicking glass shards under furniture, straightening cushions and trying to make everything look normal when nothing about my life was normal anymore.

Anthony appeared in the doorway, his face grave. "Sir, they’re—"

"I know, I fucking know!" I hissed, wiping sweat from my forehead. "Just... just let them in. I need thirty more seconds."

But thirty seconds wasn’t enough. Thirty lifetimes wouldn’t be enough to fix what I’d become.

The front door opened, and I heard their voices—professional, clipped, already making judgments. I took one last look around the room, straightened my shirt, and tried to arrange my face into something resembling composure.

"Mr. Ashton?" A middle-aged woman with graying hair and kind but sharp eyes extended her hand. "I’m Mrs. Davidson from Child Protective Services, and this is my colleague, Ms. Rodriguez. We’re here for the court-ordered home evaluation."

I shook her hand, hoping she couldn’t feel how badly mine was trembling. "Of course. Please, come in."

Ms. Rodriguez was younger, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to catalog every detail of the room. She was already writing notes on her clipboard, and we hadn’t even started.

"This is a beautiful home," Mrs. Davidson said, her tone neutral but observant. "How long have you lived here?"

"About Five years," I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

Ms. Rodriguez looked up from her notes, studying my face.

"We’ll need to see the rooms where the children would staying," Mrs. Davidson continued. "But first, let’s talk about your current living situation."

They settled onto my couch and I took the chair across from them, trying not to look as nervous as I felt.

"This is a lovely sofa," Ms. Rodriguez commented, running her hand along the arm. "It looks much newer than the rest of your furniture. Have you made recent changes to accommodate the children?"

My mouth went dry. "I... yes. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for them."

She made another note. The scratching of her pen sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"Mr. Ashton," Mrs. Davidson leaned forward slightly, "we need to discuss the recent incidents that have brought us here. The restraining order, the allegations of threatening behavior, the—"

"Those are all misunderstandings," I interrupted, then immediately regretted my tone. "I mean, I understand why they might seem concerning, but the situation with my wife is complicated. Divorce proceedings can bring out the worst in people."

"Including you?" Ms. Rodriguez asked pointedly.

The question hung in the air like smoke. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead again.

"I’ve made mistakes," I admitted carefully. "But I love my children. Everything I’ve done has been out of love and concern for them."

"Let’s see the children’s rooms," Mrs. Davidson said, standing abruptly.

I led them upstairs, my legs feeling like rubber. My heart was pounding so hard I was sure they could hear it. When we reached the spare bedroom I’d mentally designated for the twins, I opened the door to reveal... nothing. An empty room with beige walls, hardwood floors, and windows overlooking the back garden.

"This is where they would stay," I said, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears.

Mrs. Davidson stepped into the room, looking around at the complete emptiness. Ms. Rodriguez was writing furiously again.

"Mr. Ashton," Mrs. Davidson’s voice was carefully neutral, "there’s no furniture in here. No cribs, no changing area, no child-proofing..."

"I’m planning to set it up," I said quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I wanted to wait until... until I knew what the court decided. I didn’t want to presume anything. But I have plans. I’ve been researching the best cribs, the safest furniture..."

The lie felt pathetic even as I said it. The truth was, I’d been so consumed with fighting Diane, so focused on winning, that I’d never actually prepared for the reality of having my children in my home.

"When were you planning to make these preparations?" Ms. Rodriguez asked, not looking up from her notes.

"Soon. Very soon. I just needed to know the court’s decision first."

They exchanged a look that made my stomach clench. Mrs. Davidson walked to the windows, checking the locks, examining the outlet covers that weren’t there.

"Mr. Ashton, if the court were to grant you supervised visitation, where exactly would the children sleep? Where would you change them? Feed them?"

I stood in that empty room, feeling smaller and more inadequate with each passing second. "I... I would set everything up immediately. I could have everything ready within days."

"Days?" Ms. Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose. "For infant twins who would need immediate, proper accommodations?"

"Let’s see the kitchen," Mrs. Davidson said, her tone now distinctly cooler.

In the kitchen, despite my frantic cleaning, the smell of alcohol still lingered faintly in the air. Ms. Rodriguez opened the refrigerator, noted the lack of food suitable for children, opened cabinets that were mostly empty.

"Mr. Ashton," Mrs. Davidson’s voice was gentler now, almost pitying, "are you currently receiving any treatment for substance abuse or mental health issues?"

"I don’t have a substance abuse problem," I said quickly. "I have a drink occasionally, like anyone else."

The lie tasted bitter in my mouth. We all knew it was a lie.

They spent another twenty minutes going through my house, cataloging everything, asking questions I couldn’t answer without incriminating myself further. The empty room upstairs seemed to loom over everything, a glaring symbol of my complete unpreparedness for fatherhood.

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Ashton," Mrs. Davidson said as they prepared to leave. "We’ll be submitting our report to the court within the week."

I shook their hands again, maintaining my composure until the front door closed behind them. Then I collapsed onto the couch, burying my face in my hands

I’d failed. I knew I’d failed. Everything about that inspection screamed "unfit parent" and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

That’s when Marcus appeared in the doorway, his face set with grim determination. In his hand was an envelope.

"Mr. Ashton," he said formally. "I need to speak with you."

I looked up, seeing something in his expression that made my stomach twist. "What is it, Marcus?"

He stepped forward and placed the envelope on the table. "This is my resignation letter, sir."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "What?"

"I can’t continue working for you," he said, his voice steady but sad. "I don’t think it’s good for my mental health, and with your recent behavior... I think it’s best if I leave."

I stared at him, unable to process what I was hearing. "Marcus, you can’t—"

"Ever since that incident with the man who drugged Anthony and me, I haven’t been myself," he continued. "I live in fear every day, sir. Fear of what might happen next, fear of what you might do. I have a family to think about."

I stood up abruptly, my voice rising. "You can’t do this! Not now!"

"I’m sorry, sir. My mind is made up." Marcus turned toward the door. "I promise I won’t mention anything that’s happened here to anyone. But I can’t stay."

Anthony appeared in the doorway, looking stricken. "Marcus, please don’t do this. Maybe we can work something out..."

"No," Marcus shook his head. "I’ve already made arrangements. I start a new job on Monday."

I followed him toward the front door, desperation making me cruel. "You can’t just resign! You can’t just back out now just because things aren’t looking good, huh?"

I threw my hands in the air, my voice becoming shrill. "When things were good, you were happy to take my money! But now that I need loyalty, now that I need support, you’re running away like a coward!"

Marcus didn’t even turn around. He kept walking, his shoulders set with determination.

"MARCUS!" I screamed from the doorway. "You can’t abandon me! Not now! Not like this!"

But he was already walking toward the waiting car, his single bag in his hand. I stood there, hands on my hips, watching my loyal staff walking away. The betrayal burned in my chest like acid.

"What the fuck is wrong with everyone?" I yelled to no one in particular. "Why is everyone leaving me?"

Anthony appeared beside me, his massive frame somehow comforting. "Sir, please calm down. At least I’m still here."

I couldn’t speak. I could only stand there and watch Marcus’s taillights disappear down my driveway, taking with him another piece of the life I used to have.

I understood now. I understood perfectly.

I was the problem. I was the reason everyone left. I was the threat they all needed protection from.

And my children...my beautiful, innocent children who I’d never even held, they needed protection from me too.

I had become the monster in my own story, and there was no one left to save me from myself.

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