Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex

Chapter 148: I’m Guilty

Liam’s POV

The echo of the visiting room door slamming shut echoed through my chest like a funeral bell. I stood there for what felt like hours, staring at the metal door through which Diane had disappeared with our children,still unable to fully process that those beautiful babies were mine.

"Move it, Ashton!" The guard’s voice cut through my stupor. "Visitation’s over."

I shuffled back to my cell block, my legs moving mechanically while my mind remained trapped in that moment when Diane’s face had crumpled with rage and betrayal. The look in her eyes when I’d confessed about Sophie... it wasn’t anger. It was something worse. It was the death of whatever tiny shred of respect or pity she might have still harbored for me.

"I hope you rot in this prison."

Her words played on repeat in my head as I made my way through the familiar corridors. Other inmates glanced at me with curious expressions, word traveled fast in here, and I could already see the whispers starting. Whatever small acceptance I’d managed to earn over the past months was about to evaporate.

I barely made it to my cell before the tears started again. Great, heaving sobs. I collapsed onto my narrow cot, pressing my face into the thin pillow to muffle the sound. The last thing I needed was to give the other inmates more ammunition against me.

But the tears wouldn’t stop. They came in waves, each one carrying a different weight of regret. For Sophie, who had died protecting my children while I was the one who had ordered her death. For Diane, who had loved me with everything she had while I destroyed that love. For Dylan and Danielle, who would grow up knowing their father as a monster.

"Yo, Liam! You in there, man?"

I recognized Michael’s voice outside my cell. Over the past few months, he’d become something close to a friend, as close as you could get in a place like this. He was serving time for armed robbery, but he had a daughter on the outside who was about Dylan’s age, and we’d bonded over our shared regret about the children we’d failed.

"Yeah," I called back, trying to steady my voice. "I’m here."

"You coming to the yard? We got that workout session planned, remember?"

I’d forgotten. For the past two months, I’d been meeting with Michael and a couple of other guys...Rico and Tony...for evening workouts. It was one of the few things that helped me feel human again, pushing iron and talking about life outside these walls.

"Give me a minute," I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

I changed into my workout clothes and made my way to the yard.

Michael was already there, loading plates onto a barbell. He looked up as I approached, and I saw his expression change as he took in my face.

"Damn, brother. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

"Something like that," I muttered, taking my position at the bench. noveldrama

Rico and Tony joined us, and we fell into our usual routine. I tried to focus on the familiar burn in my muscles, the satisfaction of pushing myself past my limits. For a few minutes, I almost managed to forget where I was and why I was there.

"So how’d the visit go?" Michael asked between sets. "You were pretty excited about seeing your kids."

The weight I was lifting suddenly felt impossibly heavy. I lowered the bar back to the rack with shaking hands.

"It was..." I started, then stopped. How could I explain what had happened? How could I tell them that I’d just confessed to ordering the murder of my ex-wife’s sister?

"Complicated," I finally said.

Rico laughed. "Ain’t they always? My baby mama brings my son to see me last month, spends the whole time telling me about her new boyfriend. Like I need to hear about how good this dude is with my kid, you know?"

"At least she still brings him," Tony added. "My ex won’t even answer my letters anymore."

They were trying to be supportive, sharing their own stories of complicated relationships with the outside world. But their problems seemed so small compared to what I’d just done. Their exes were angry or disappointed or had moved on. Mine was learning that I was a murderer.

"The thing is," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "my sins have finally caught up with me. It’s time to pay the price for what I’ve done."

Michael set down his weights and looked at me with concern. "What are you talking about, man? What sins?"

Before I could answer, a commotion erupted from the other side of the yard. Shouting voices, the sound of bodies colliding, the distinctive wet thud of fists connecting with flesh.

"Fight!" someone yelled, and suddenly half the yard was running toward the disturbance.

We dropped our weights and joined the crowd forming around two inmates who were going at each other with savage intensity. It was Peterson and Valdez, two lifers who’d been feuding for months over some perceived disrespect. Blood was already streaming from both their faces as they grappled and threw wild punches.

"Get him! Get him!" The crowd was worked into a frenzy, some cheering for Peterson, others for Valdez. Money was changing hands as bets were placed on the outcome.

Guards were rushing over, but they were taking their time about it. Fights were entertainment here, and unless someone was about to die, the guards often let things play out for a while.

Peterson landed a solid right hook that sent Valdez stumbling backward. The crowd roared its approval. But Valdez recovered quickly, charging forward and tackling Peterson to the ground. They rolled around in the dirt, each trying to gain the upper hand.

"Twenty commissary on Peterson!" Rico shouted over the noise.

"You’re on!" another inmate replied.

I watched the violence unfold with a strange detachment. Six months ago, I would have been horrified by this display. Now, after everything I’d been through, it seemed almost routine. Just another day in paradise.

Finally, the guards moved in with their batons and pepper spray. The combatants were separated, both bloody and breathing hard. The crowd began to disperse, the entertainment over.

"Damn, that was brutal," Michael said as we walked back toward our weights. "Valdez is gonna be in solitary for a week."

"Peterson too," Tony added. "Idiots. Fighting over some stupid comment about someone’s girlfriend."

As we resumed our workout, I found myself thinking about the fight. About how quickly things could escalate from words to violence. About how easily a moment of anger could destroy everything.

Just like it had for me.

The next few days passed in a blur of routine. Meals in the cafeteria, work detail in the laundry, brief periods of recreation. But I moved through it all like a zombie, barely aware of my surroundings. My confession to Diane had opened a floodgate of guilt and self-recrimination that I couldn’t shut off.

On Thursday morning, I was lying on my cot staring at the ceiling when I heard my name called over the prison intercom.

"Ashton, Liam. Report to the warden’s office immediately."

The warden’s office was a place you didn’t want to be called to. It usually meant bad news, a disciplinary hearing, a problem with your case, or word from the outside world that you didn’t want to hear.

I made my way through the administrative wing, my stomach churning with anxiety. The secretary, a stern-looking woman in her fifties, barely looked up as I entered.

"Have a seat," she said, gesturing to a plastic chair. "The warden will see you in a moment."

I sat there for what felt like hours, watching the clock on the wall tick by. Finally, the inner door opened and Warden Rodriguez appeared. He was a compact man with graying hair and eyes that had seen too much.

"Ashton," he said, his voice neutral. "Come in."

His office was spartanly furnished but neat. A few framed certificates on the walls, a photo of what looked like his family, stacks of paperwork on his desk. He gestured for me to sit across from him.

"You’ve got a court date," he said without preamble, sliding a document across the desk. "Next Tuesday. You’re being transported to the courthouse at 8 AM."

I stared at the paper, my hands shaking slightly. "What for?"

"Says here you’re being charged with conspiracy to commit murder. Something about a contract killing." He leaned back in his chair, studying me. "Want to tell me what that’s about?"

My mouth went dry. "I... I confessed to something during a visit. To my ex-wife. About ordering a hit on her sister."

Rodriguez’s eyebrows rose slightly. "And you confessed to this why?"

"Because it was the truth," I said simply. "Because I couldn’t live with it anymore."

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. Finally, he shook his head.

"In twenty years of running this facility, I’ve seen a lot of stupid things. But confessing to murder when you’re already serving time? That’s a new one."

"I had to," I said. "She deserved to know the truth."

"And now you’re looking at life without parole," he said bluntly. "Was it worth it?"

I thought about Diane’s face, about the pain in her eyes when I’d told her. About Dylan and Danielle, who would now grow up knowing their father was not just a criminal, but a killer.

"Yes," I said quietly. "It was."

The days leading up to my court date passed in a haze of anxiety and dread. Word of my upcoming trial had spread through the prison like wildfire, and I could feel the shift in how the other inmates looked at me. The tentative acceptance I’d earned was gone, replaced by a familiar combination of disgust and predatory interest.

Michael, Rico, and Tony stopped sitting with me at meals. When I tried to join them for our usual workout, they found excuses to be elsewhere. The isolation was crushing, but I understood it. Even among criminals, there were lines you didn’t cross. Ordering the murder of an innocent woman was one of them.

Only one person still spoke to me—an older inmate named Eddie who was serving a life sentence for multiple murders. He’d been here longer than anyone, and his perspective on prison politics was... unique.

"You know what your problem is?" he said one evening as we sat in the common area. "You think you’re different from the rest of us. You think because you wore a suit and lived in a big house, your crimes are somehow worse."

"Aren’t they?" I asked.

He laughed, a sound like sandpaper on wood. "Son, I’ve killed seven people. With my bare hands. You think ordering a hit makes you special?"

"But I—"

"But nothing. You’re just another murderer now. Same as me, same as half the guys in here. The only difference is you’re having trouble accepting it."

---

Tuesday morning arrived with all the inevitability of a terminal diagnosis. I was awakened at 5 AM, given a cold breakfast, and then led to the transport area where a prison bus waited. The shackles around my ankles and wrists were heavier than usual, and the chain around my waist made every movement awkward.

The ride to the courthouse was silent except for the rumble of the engine and the occasional radio chatter from the guards. I stared out the reinforced window at the world I’d once been part of, people driving to work, children walking to school, life continuing as if nothing had changed.

But everything had changed. For me, at least.

The courthouse was a grand building of stone and glass, its architecture designed to inspire respect for the law. As we pulled up to the secure entrance, I could see news vans already gathered outside. Someone had leaked the story.

"Looks like you’re famous again," one of the guards commented as we made our way through the back entrance.

The courtroom was smaller than I’d expected, but it was packed. I recognized some faces from the media, but most were strangers drawn by the spectacle of a fallen CEO facing murder charges. In the back, I caught a glimpse of Diane, but she looked away as soon as our eyes met.

Judge Harrison was an elderly man with steel-gray hair and eyes that seemed to see straight through you. He reviewed the charges with the mechanical precision of someone who’d done this thousands of times.

"Mr. Ashton," he said finally, "you stand accused of conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree. How do you plead?"

The courtroom fell silent. Every eye was on me, waiting for my response. I thought about Holbrook, who’d refused to represent me. About the public defender who’d been assigned to my case and had begged me to plead not guilty. About the legal strategies that might save me from a life sentence.

But I also thought about Sophie, who’d died protecting my children. About Diane, who’d loved me despite everything. About Dylan and Danielle, who deserved better than a father who lived in denial.

"Guilty," I said, my voice clear and steady. "I’m guilty."

The courtroom erupted in shocked murmurs. The judge banged his gavel for order.

"Mr. Ashton, do you understand the consequences of this plea? You are facing life imprisonment without the possibility of parole."

"I understand, Your Honor."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Very well. Given the severity of the crime and your guilty plea, I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole. You will be remanded to the custody of the state immediately."

The gavel came down with a finality that echoed through my soul. Life. No parole. No second chances. No possibility of ever holding my children again, of ever making amends for what I’d done.

As the bailiff approached with additional shackles, I turned to look at Diane one last time. She was crying, but they weren’t tears of grief. They were tears of closure, of justice finally being served.

The walk back to the prison bus was a blur of camera flashes and shouted questions. I kept my head down, trying to block out the chaos. But I could hear the reporters clearly enough.

"Mr. Ashton! Do you have anything to say to the victim’s family?"

"Any regrets about your confession?"

"What message do you have for your children?"

I had no answers. No profound words of wisdom or remorse. I was just a broken man who’d finally faced the truth about himself.

The ride back to prison was different from the morning trip. Heavier somehow. The weight of my life sentence pressing down on me like a physical force. I would die in that concrete box, surrounded by men who rightfully despised me.

When we arrived back at the facility, word had already spread. The other inmates were waiting, their faces a mixture of anger and anticipation. They’d been watching the news, following the story of the CEO who’d just been sentenced to life for ordering a murder.

"Well, well," I heard someone say as I was led back to my cell block. "Look who’s back."

I recognized the voice. It was Thompson, the same massive inmate who’d welcomed me to prison with a beating on my first day. He was flanked by his usual crew, all of them wearing expressions of predatory satisfaction.

"Heard you got life," Thompson continued, matching my pace as the guards led me down the corridor. "Heard you confessed to having someone killed. That true?"

I didn’t answer, but my silence was answer enough.

"Boys," Thompson announced to the growing crowd of inmates, "we got ourselves a real live murderer here. Not just some guy who got caught up in a bad situation. This piece of shit ordered a hit on an innocent woman."

The crowd was getting uglier by the second. Even the guards seemed less interested in maintaining order than usual.

"You know what we do to baby killers and wife beaters in here," Thompson said, his voice taking on a ceremonial quality. "But a guy who has innocent women murdered? That’s a whole different level of evil."

Before I could react, his fist connected with my jaw, sending me stumbling backward. The shackles around my ankles made it impossible to maintain my balance, and I went down hard on the concrete floor.

The beating that followed was worse than my first day. Much worse. These men weren’t just asserting dominance or teaching me my place. They were delivering what they saw as justice. And maybe they were right.

I tried to fight back, tried to protect myself, but the shackles made it impossible. Fists and boots came from every direction. I heard ribs crack, felt my nose break, tasted blood in my mouth. Through it all, I thought about Sophie, about how she must have felt in her final moments.

When it was over, I lay on the floor in a spreading pool of my own blood. The crowd began to disperse, their bloodlust temporarily satisfied. I could hear Thompson’s voice one last time.

"This is just the beginning, killer. You got the rest of your life to look forward to this."

The guards eventually helped me to my feet and half-carried me to the medical wing. The nurse, a tired-looking woman in her forties, examined my injuries.

"Broken nose, at least two cracked ribs, possible concussion," she muttered, making notes on a clipboard. "You’re lucky they didn’t kill you."

"Maybe next time," I said through swollen lips.

She looked at me with something that might have been pity. "There’s always a next time in here. Especially for guys like you."

As she cleaned my wounds and applied bandages, I stared at the ceiling and thought about my children. Dylan and Danielle, who would grow up without me. Who would be better off without me. Who would inherit a world where their father was remembered as a monster.

I thought about Diane, who would finally be free to build the life she deserved. She’d marry Noah, give the children a real father, maybe have more babies who wouldn’t carry the taint of my DNA.

And I thought about Sophie, who’d died because of my jealousy and rage. Beautiful, kind Sophie, who’d given her life to protect children who weren’t even hers.

The tears came again, but this time they were different. Not tears of self-pity or regret, but tears of acceptance. This was my life now. This was what I deserved.

I was led back to my cell as the sun was setting. The cell felt different now...not like a temporary accommodation, but like a tomb. My tomb.

As I lay on my narrow cot, staring at the ceiling, I could hear the familiar sounds of prison life around me. Conversations, arguments, the occasional laugh. Life going on, even in this place.

But I was no longer part of it. I was the monster in the corner, the man who’d had everything and thrown it all away for nothing.

Michael walked past my cell but didn’t stop. Rico and Tony did the same. Even Eddie, my one remaining friend, seemed to have decided that association with me was too dangerous.