Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex
Chapter 121: The Eruption

Chapter 121: The Eruption

Liam’s POV

I sat there in stunned silence, water dripping from my hair onto my expensive suit, watching Diane’s retreating figure as she stormed away from our table. The cold shock of the water had nothing on the ice-cold realization washing over me—I had lost her. Completely and utterly lost her.

The other diners were staring now, their whispered conversations creating a buzz of judgment that made my skin crawl. I could feel their eyes boring into me, could practically hear their thoughts "There’s the man whose pregnant wife just threw water in his face."

I reached for my napkin with trembling hands, dabbing at my face and neck, trying to salvage what little dignity I had left. But as I moved to stand up, something strange happened.

A rumble. Deep in my gut.

At first, I thought it was just the stress—my body’s way of processing the emotional devastation of the evening. But as I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet, the rumbling intensified, accompanied by a sudden, urgent pressure in my lower abdomen.

"What the hell?"

I made it three steps toward the exit before another wave hit me, this one stronger, more insistent. My stomach churned violently, and I could feel sweat breaking out across my forehead despite the restaurant’s cool air conditioning.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, quickening my pace toward the door. The last thing I needed was an audience for whatever was happening to my digestive system.

I reached my car, gesturing for Thomas to unlock the car from afar. My hands shaking now not just from anger but from the increasingly urgent signals my body was sending me. As I reached for the door habdle to unlock the door, another massive rumble rolled through my intestines like thunder.

"Oh God. Oh no."

The realization hit me like a freight train. This wasn’t stress. This was something else entirely. Something immediate and catastrophic.

I abandoned the car door and spun around, scanning the restaurant’s exterior desperately. There—a small sign indicating restrooms around the side of the building. I broke into what could generously be called a jog, though it was more of a desperate, clenched-buttocks shuffle.

Each step sent new waves of pressure through my system. My face was burning with a combination of humiliation and physical distress as I rounded the corner of the building, my driver trailing behind me with obvious confusion.

"Sir, is everything—" Thomas started to ask.

"STAY BACK!" I barked, my voice coming out higher pitched than intended as another earth-shaking rumble nearly brought me to my knees.

The restroom door seemed miles away. Ten feet had never felt like such an insurmountable distance. I could feel my body betraying me with each shuffling step.

I reached for the door handle just as my body decided it was done waiting.

The explosion was immediate and catastrophic.

It started as a violent eruption that seemed to shake the very foundations of my being, followed by what could only be described as a liquid avalanche. The sound—dear God, the sound—was like a combination of a broken garbage disposal and a cappuccino machine having a mechanical breakdown.

I barely made it through the door before the second wave hit, this one somehow even more forceful than the first. My legs gave out, and I collapsed onto the toilet seat just as my digestive system decided to recreate the eruption of Mount Vesuvius.

"Jesus Christ," I gasped between waves, my face buried in my hands. Sweat was pouring down my back, soaking through my shirt as my body continued its violent purge.

I tried to piece together what could have caused this disaster. Had the restaurant food been bad? Had I eaten something earlier? No, I’d been too nervous about the dinner to eat much of anything all day.

Another volcanic eruption shook the bathroom, followed by what sounded like a water balloon exploding. I was dimly aware of someone entering the restroom, but I was too focused on not dying to pay much attention.

"DUDE!" came a voice from the urinals. "What the HELL is going on in there?"

I wanted to respond, to explain, to apologize, but all that came out was a strangled groan as another wave of liquid chaos erupted from my system.

"Seriously, man, can you keep it down? That’s disgusting!" the voice continued, clearly horrified. "I’m trying to take a leak here!"

"Keep it down?" If I could control this, did he think I’d be choosing to experience it in a public restroom?

"Sorry," I managed to croak out between explosions.

"Sorry? SORRY?" The man’s voice was reaching hysteria levels. "It sounds like you’re power-washing the toilet in there! Some of us are trying to maintain our appetite for the rest of our lives!"

I heard rapid footsteps as he fled the bathroom, probably scarred for life by the audio experience I was providing.

The worst part wasn’t even the physical distress—though that was considerable—it was the gradual, horrible realization of what might have caused this. The water. Diane’s water glass. The way she’d looked at me when she threw it in my face, that cold satisfaction in her eyes.

She’d laced my water. My own wife had drugged me.

But I couldn’t focus on that revelation for long.

I lost track of time in that bathroom. It could have been minutes or hours—time became meaningless when you’re experiencing what felt like your internal organs attempting to escape through your rectum.

Every time I thought it was over, that I could finally stand up and attempt to restore some dignity to the situation, another wave would hit.

By the time it finally began to subside, I was completely spent. My entire body felt like I’d run a marathon while being repeatedly punched in the stomach. My clothes were soaked with sweat, my hair was disheveled, and I was pretty sure I’d aged about ten years in the span of however long I’d been trapped in this porcelain prison.

I attempted to clean myself up, but my hands were shaking so badly I could barely manage the basics. My reflection in the bathroom mirror was horrifying—pale, sweaty, with dark circles under my eyes that made me look like I’d been through some kind of medieval torture.

When I finally gathered the courage to attempt standing, my legs nearly gave out. I had to grip the sink for support, my knees wobbling like a newborn deer trying to walk.

Just as I reached for the door handle, preparing to make my escape from this bathroom of horrors, the rumbling started again.

"No, no, no," I whispered desperately, but my body had other plans.

I spun around and collapsed back onto the toilet.

I wanted to die. Right there, in that bathroom stall, I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole. The humiliation was complete and total.

When I finally emerged from the bathroom, I looked like I’d been through a natural disaster. My suit was wrinkled and stained with sweat, my hair was plastered to my head, and I could barely walk upright.

Thomas rushed to my side as I stumbled toward the car, his face a mask of professional concern mixed with obvious confusion.

"Sir, are you alright?" Thomas asked, reaching out to steady me as I swayed on my feet.

I couldn’t speak. I could barely think. All I could do was lean heavily on my driver as he helped me into the backseat of the car.

The drive home was a blur of nausea and continued intestinal distress. I had to have Thomas pull over twice so I could stumble into roadside bushes for emergency episodes. Each time, Thomas stood guard with his back turned, maintaining what little dignity he could for his employer.

When we finally reached the mansion, I could barely get out of the car under my own power. My legs felt like they were made of jelly, and the world kept spinning every time I moved too quickly.

"Help me inside," I managed to croak to both of them— Anthony and Marcus who was sitting close to the relaxing bench by the main building as we arrived stood up to help. I managed to gesture to Thomas to go home to his family.

For once, my "professional nappers" actually proved useful. They each took one of my arms and essentially carried me into the house, depositing me gently on the living room couch.

"Sir, what happened?" Marcus asked, his face creased with worry. "Should we call a doctor?"

I opened my mouth to explain—to tell them about Diane, about the dinner, about the water she’d thrown in my face and what I suspected she’d put in my food. But when I tried to speak, nothing came out except a weak croak.

My throat felt like sandpaper, my mouth was cotton-dry, and my entire body felt like I’d been hit by a truck. I was completely dehydrated and utterly exhausted.

"Medicine," I finally managed to whisper. "Stomach... diarrhea medicine."

Anthony nodded immediately. "I’ll get the first aid kit. Marcus, can you grab some water?"

They bustled around efficiently while I lay there like a broken shell of a man, trying to process what had just happened to me.

Anthony returned with anti-diarrhea medication and a glass of water. I took the pills gratefully, though my hands were shaking so badly he had to help me get them to my mouth.

"Should we call—" Marcus started to ask.

"No," I cut him off weakly. "No doctors. Just... let me sleep."

Within minutes of taking the medication, exhaustion overtook me completely. I fell asleep right there on the couch, still wearing my sweat-stained suit, too weak to even consider moving to my bedroom.

---

I woke the next morning feeling like I’d been run over by a freight train. My head was pounding with a migraine that felt like someone was taking a sledgehammer to my skull, and my entire body ached like I’d been beaten.

Slowly, carefully, I made my way to the kitchen. Each step sent waves of pain through my head, and I had to grip the walls for support. I managed to brew some tea and make myself a simple breakfast, though even the smell of food made my stomach queasy.

As I sat at the kitchen table, mechanically forcing down small bites of toast, the events of the previous evening came flooding back with crystal clarity.

I reached for my phone with trembling fingers and dialed Diane’s number.

Straight to voicemail.

I tried again. Voicemail.

A third time. Voicemail.

I hung up and immediately called again.

Voicemail again.

"Answer your goddamn phone!" I screamed into the device, but there was no response.

I set the phone down and stared at it, feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in my life. The silence of the mansion pressed in around me, making me feel like I was suffocating.

"I need company," I muttered to myself. "I need someone before I lose my fucking mind."

I scrolled through my contacts until I found Natasha’s number. My finger hovered over the call button for a moment before I pressed it.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

I hung up and tried again immediately.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.

"Of course she’s not picking up," I said bitterly to the empty kitchen. "How could she pick up when she’s probably too busy fucking my enemy?"

The words came out more poisonous than I’d intended, dripping with a jealousy I didn’t want to acknowledge.

But the truth was, Natasha was always about the money. Always had been, always would be. And now that Guerrero could apparently pay her bills, she had no use for me.

But God, she was beautiful. Hot. Extremely sexy in a way that made my blood burn just thinking about her. The way she moved, the way she looked at me when we were together, the way she let me have complete control...

Despite everything...despite being dehydrated, exhausted, and emotionally destroyed, I felt myself getting aroused just thinking about her.

Natasha was the most incredible woman I’d ever been with, and I’d been with plenty. Models, business partners’, socialites...none of them compared to her fire, her youth, her raw sensuality.

I reached down and adjusted myself, looking down at my growing erection with a mixture of amusement and frustration.

"Be a good boy down there," I muttered. "This is neither the time nor the place."

But my mind kept drifting back to her. The way she tasted like vanilla and sin. The way she made those little sounds when I touched her just right. The way she always seemed to be dripping wet for me, ready and eager for whatever I wanted to do to her.

Just as I was getting lost in the memory, another realization hit me like a cold slap to the face.

"Where the hell is Sophie?"

I sat up straighter, my arousal immediately forgotten as panic began to set in. When was the last time I’d seen her? When was the last time she’d answered her phone?

"This is too much," I said aloud, pushing my breakfast away with a shaking hand. "This is all too much."

First Diane, then Jackson, then the police, then Guerrero, then Holbrook hanging on one foot with me, then last night’s humiliation, and now both Natasha and Sophie had vanished from my life, I’m loosing my children. It felt like everyone was abandoning me, like I was watching my entire world crumble piece by piece.

I pressed my palms against my temples, trying to think clearly through the pounding in my head. Where I had missed it? Then realization dawned on me, those documents are still out there, whoever has it, is waiting for the perfect time to finish me completely.

I reached for my phone again and called my body guard. "Anthony," I said, my voice tired. "Come inside, I need you to help me check something."

The exhaustion in my bones was instantly replaced by a cold, calculating fury. I marched toward the camera room Anthony following behind me with obvious confusion.

"Sir, what are you—"

"The CCTV footage," I said, settling into the chair behind my desk and pulling up the security monitoring system on my computer. "I need to check something. Your military background means you should be able to spot discrepancies, right?"

Anthony nodded, still looking disoriented but trying to focus. "Yes, sir. What exactly are we looking for?"

"I need to go back," I muttered, scrolling through the footage timestamp. "Back to when my sister inlaw was here."

The name tasted bitter in my mouth as I said it.

"Here," I said, finding the date I was looking for. "This is when she came over."

We watched the footage in silence, fast-forwarding through the mundane moments—Sophie arriving, us having dinner, going upstairs. Everything looked normal, innocent even.

But Anthony’s sharp military-trained eyes caught something I would have missed entirely.

"Stop," he said suddenly, pointing at the screen. "Rewind that section."

I did as he instructed, watching more carefully this time.

"There," Anthony said, his voice tense with recognition. "Look at camera seven. The angle."

I stared at the screen, not seeing what he was seeing. "What about it?"

"Watch what happens next," he said grimly.

We continued watching, and then I saw it. The camera shifted slightly, moved just enough to change its viewing angle. And then, several minutes later, it moved back to its original position.

My blood turned to ice in my veins.

"That’s not possible," I whispered. "Those cameras don’t move on their own and I’ve check this footage before."

"No," Anthony confirmed, his voice grim. "They don’t. Someone manually adjusted them."

The pieces clicked together in my mind with horrifying clarity. Sophie’s overnight visit.

She had been in my house, had access to everything, while I lay unconscious and defenseless.

"That little bitch," I breathed, the words coming out like venom. "That conniving, manipulative little bitch."

The rage that filled me was unlike anything I’d ever experienced as things began to fall into place. It was pure, white-hot fury that seemed to burn through every nerve in my body. I had trusted her. Into my bed. Into my life. And she had betrayed me in the most intimate way possible by giving those documents to Diane, using that to probably reconcile with her sister.

"Sir?" Anthony said carefully, clearly sensing the dangerous shift in my mood.

I stood up abruptly, my chair rolling backward and hitting the wall with a crash. My hands were shaking—not with fear this time, but with rage so intense I could barely contain it.

Sophie had my documents. The evidence that could destroy me, ruin everything I’d built, was in the hands of someone who clearly wanted to see me burn because of what we had done to her sister.

How had I been so careless? So stupidly, blindly trusting? How could I not fucking see the signs Sophie was no longer on my side? I had let my guard down, allowed myself to be vulnerable, and now I was paying the price.

"That’s why she disappeared," I said, more to myself than to Anthony. "That’s why she went into hiding. She has everything."

My mind was racing now, calculating the damage, trying to figure out how much time I had before she used whatever she’d stolen against me. The offshore accounts, the illegal dealings, the property transfers—it was all there, documented in excruciating detail.

I waved off Anthony and told to leave, I needed to be alone.

As soon as he shut the door behind him, I picked up my phone with trembling hands, scrolling through my contacts until I found the one I needed. The one person who could fix this mess, permanently.

Jackson answered on the second ring, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Well, well. This is unexpected. Calling me so soon after our little visit?"

"I have a job for you," I said without preamble, my voice cold and steady despite the fury coursing through me.

"A job?" Jackson chuckled. "You’re full of surprises, Liam."

"This time, you do it right," I said, cutting through his amusement. "No mistakes. Nothing traces back to me. And I’ll pay you in full so you don’t have to come to my house pointing guns at me."

There was a pause, and when Jackson spoke again, his tone was more serious. "Since we both understand each other now, I think we can proceed. Who’s the target this time? Another one of your secret lovers gone rogue?" He laughed at his own joke.

I didn’t find it amusing. Without a word, I pulled out my phone and sent him a photo.

"I want that person in the photo to disappear," I said, my voice deadly calm. "As soon as you lay your eyes on her. Make it clean and not traceable."

Another pause. Longer this time.

"How much will you need to get this done without mistakes?" I asked.

Jackson quoted his price—higher than usual, probably because of the personal nature of the target and the difficulty he had earlier, I didn’t bother to negotiate. Money was the least of my concerns right now.

"Stay on the line," I instructed, immediately transferring the funds from my phone. The transaction went through instantly.

"Don’t contact me until the job is done," I said, and hung up before he could respond.

I set the phone down on my desk and stared at it for a long moment, feeling a strange sense of calm settle over me. It was done. Let them feel the pain of what they are making me go through.

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