Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 151: The Last Good Deed

Liam’s POV

The weeks following my sentencing blurred together in a haze of pain and humiliation. What had started as isolated incidents of violence had evolved into a pattern of torture. Every day brought new forms of cruelty, new ways for my fellow inmates to remind me of my place in the prison.

I was the man who’d had almost ran over his pregnant wife and also got an innocent woman murdered.

Even though I had tried to stop it. But it doesn’t matter. What mattered was perception, and in the eyes of everyone around me, I was something lower than dirt.

The beatings had become routine. Sometimes it was Thompson and his crew, sometimes it was other inmates I didn’t even recognize. They would corner me in the showers, in the yard, in the narrow corridors between cell blocks.

Each attack was more vicious than the last, as if they were competing to see who could inflict the most damage.

My ribs, barely healed from the last beating, were broken again. My left eye was swollen shut more often than not. I’d lost three teeth and could barely chew solid food.

The medical staff had stopped showing sympathy weeks ago, they’d seen too many inmates like me, men who’d committed crimes that put them at the bottom of the prison food chain.

But it wasn’t just the physical violence that was breaking me. It was the psychological warfare, the constant reminders that I was less than human.

Today, like every day, I shuffled to the cafeteria with my head down, trying to make myself invisible. The routine was always the same: get my tray, find an empty table in the corner, eat as quickly as possible, and get out before anyone noticed me.

But they always noticed.

I’d barely sat down when I felt the familiar presence looming over me. Thompson was there, flanked by three other inmates whose names I didn’t know but whose faces I’d come to fear. They all wore the same expression, a mixture of disgust and predatory satisfaction.

"Well, well," Thompson said, his voice carrying easily across the cafeteria. "If it isn’t our favorite killer."

I kept my head down, focusing on the food. Maybe if I ignored them, they’d get bored and move on. Maybe today would be different.

It wasn’t.

Thompson’s massive hand slammed down on the table, making my tray jump. The sound echoed through the cafeteria, and I could feel dozens of eyes turning our way. Some inmates looked away quickly, not wanting to get involved. Others watched with interest, eager for the entertainment.

"I’m talking to you, killer," Thompson said, his voice taking on that dangerous edge I’d learned to dread. "When someone’s talking to you, you look at them."

I raised my head slowly, meeting his cold stare. My left eye was still swollen from yesterday’s beating, and I could only see him clearly through my right one.

"That’s better," he said with a cruel smile. "Now, boys, doesn’t our friend here look hungry? I think he needs more food."

Before I could react, one of his companions grabbed my tray and flipped it over, sending the contents cascading across the floor. eggs, stale bread, and watery orange juice splattered across the concrete, creating a disgusting mess around my feet.

"Oops," Thompson said, his voice dripping with mock concern. "Looks like you dropped your breakfast. Better clean that up."

I stared at the mess, my stomach clenching with dread. This was a game they’d played before, and I knew how it ended. They wanted me to get down on my hands and knees and eat off the floor like an animal. They wanted to strip away the last bit of my dignity.

"I’m not hungry," I said quietly, my voice barely audible.

Thompson’s expression darkened. "What did you say?"

"I said I’m not hungry," I repeated, a little louder this time.

The backhand came so fast I didn’t have time to brace for it. His massive fist caught me across the cheek, sending stars exploding across my vision. I tasted blood in my mouth, fresh and metallic.

"You’ll eat when we tell you to eat," Thompson snarled. "And you’ll eat how we tell you to eat. Now get down there and lap it up like the dog you are."

I looked around the cafeteria, hoping someone—anyone—might intervene. But the guards were conveniently absent, and the other inmates were either looking away or watching with anticipation. I was completely alone, just like I’d always been.

The memory hit me like a physical blow, transporting me back to that day in the woods when I was fifteen. Rebecca’s laughter echoing through the trees. Jeffrey’s cruel smile as he’d ordered his friends to strip me naked. The way they’d left me there, humiliated and broken, while they walked away without a backward glance.

"Please," I whispered, the word escaping before I could stop it. "Just leave me alone."

But Thompson wasn’t Jeffrey, and this wasn’t high school. This was prison, where weakness was blood in the water and predators circled endlessly.

"Did you hear that, boys?" Thompson announced to his companions. "The killer is begging. Just like his victims probably did."

The words hit me like a sledgehammer. I thought about Sophie, about whether she’d begged for her life in those final moments. I thought about Danielle, too young to understand what was happening but old enough to be terrified. The guilt crashed over me in waves, drowning out everything else.

"Get down on your knees," Thompson commanded. "Eat off the floor like the animal you are."

I looked at the mess around my feet—the congealed eggs, the soggy bread, the puddle of orange juice mixed with dirt and debris. My stomach turned, but I could see the violence building in Thompson’s eyes. If I didn’t comply, the beating would be worse than usual. And lately, I’d started to wonder if one of these beatings might be my last.

Slowly, my knees shaking, I began to lower myself toward the floor.

"That’s it," Thompson said, his voice filled with satisfaction. "Show everyone what you really are."

But as I knelt there, staring at the disgusting mixture of food and filth, something inside me finally snapped. Not with rage or defiance, but with a kind of exhausted acceptance. This was my life now. This was what I’d become. And maybe, just maybe, it was exactly what I deserved.

I’d spent so many years trying to prove I was better than everyone else, trying to show the world that I wasn’t that scared, powerless boy from the woods. I’d built an empire, married a beautiful woman, fathered children, accumulated wealth and influence. And in the end, it had all been a lie.

I was still that frightened fifteen-year-old, still that victim who’d been humiliated and discarded. The only difference was that now I’d become the monster who’d hurt others the way I’d been hurt.

The realization was simultaneously devastating and liberating. For the first time in decades, I could see myself clearly, without the layers of justification and self-deception I’d built up. What I saw wasn’t pleasant, but it was honest.

I was a broken man who’d broken everyone around him. I was a father who’d never hold his children again. I was a husband who’d destroyed the best love he’d ever known. I was a brother-in-law who’d orchestrated the murder of a woman who’d died protecting his child.

But maybe—just maybe—I could still do one last good thing. Maybe it wasn’t too late to find some small piece of redemption.

I stood up slowly, ignoring the food scattered around my feet. Thompson’s face darkened with rage at my defiance.

"I didn’t tell you to get up," he snarled.

"I know," I said quietly. "But I’m not going to do this anymore."

The beating that followed was the worst yet. Thompson and his friends took turns, their fists and feet finding every vulnerable spot on my body. Other inmates gathered in a circle, cheering and placing bets on how long I’d remain conscious.

But this time, I didn’t fight back. I didn’t try to protect myself or beg for mercy. I simply endured it, accepting each blow as part of the price I had to pay for the choices I’d made.

When it was over, I lay on the cafeteria floor in a pool of my own blood, several ribs cracked, my face swollen beyond recognition. The guards finally appeared, their timing conveniently perfect now that the show was over.

"Alright, break it up," one of them called halfheartedly. "Show’s over."

They helped me to my feet and half-carried me to the medical wing, where the same tired nurse examined my injuries.

"You’re lucky they didn’t kill you."

"Maybe next time," I mumbled through my swollen lips.

"Is that what you want? To die in here?"

I thought about her question as she cleaned my wounds. Was that what I wanted? To let them beat me to death in this concrete tomb, to finally escape the weight of my guilt and shame?

The answer came to me with startling clarity: No. Not yet.

I still had one last thing to do. One final act that might somehow balance the scales, even if only slightly.

That evening, after returning to my cell, I sat on my narrow cot and stared at the concrete wall. The pain in my ribs made it hard to breathe, and my left eye was completely swollen shut.

I thought about Dylan and Danielle, about the children I’d held in my arms just weeks ago. They were so young, so innocent, so full of potential. They deserved better. They deserved to know that in the end, I’d tried to do something right.

I thought about Diane, about the woman who’d loved me despite my flaws, who’d given me everything and asked for so little in return. She’d moved on, found someone who could love her the way she deserved. But she was still dealing with the mess i left behind.

And I thought about the secret I’d been carrying, the account that represented the last remnants of my former life. Money that could make a real difference for my family, if I could find a way to get it to them.

I knew what I had to do.

The next morning, I made my way to the phone bank and dialed a number I’d memorized years ago but never expected to use again. The phone rang three times before a familiar voice answered.

"Holbrook & Associates."

"I need to speak with Richard Holbrook," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "It’s urgent."

There was a pause. "May I ask who’s calling?"

"Liam Ashton."

The silence stretched on for so long I thought she might have hung up. Finally, she said, "Please hold."

I waited, my heart pounding, wondering if Holbrook would even take my call. After everything that had happened, after the way I’d humiliated him and destroyed his reputation, he had every right to refuse.

"Liam." His voice was cold, professional. "I have to say, I’m surprised to hear from you."

"I know," I said, my voice breaking slightly. "I know you have every reason to hang up on me. But please, Richard, I need to see you. There are things I need to tell you, important things."

"I’m not your attorney anymore, Liam. I can’t—"

"I’m not asking you to represent me," I interrupted. "I’m asking you to help me do one last good deed. Something that might actually make a difference."

There was another long pause. When Holbrook spoke again, his voice was different—still guarded, but with a hint of curiosity.

"You sound... different. What’s happened to you in there?"

I almost laughed at the question. What hadn’t happened to me? I’d been beaten, humiliated, stripped of everything I’d once thought made me valuable. I’d been forced to confront the monster I’d become and the trail of destruction I’d left behind.

"I’ve learned some things about myself," I said simply. "About what I am and what I’ve done. And I want to try to make some small part of it right."

I could hear him thinking, weighing his options. Finally, he sighed.

"Alright, Liam. I’ll come see you. But this is the last time. After this, we’re done."

"I understand," I said, relief flooding through me. "Thank you, Richard. You don’t know what this means to me.

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