Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex

Chapter 137: Welcome to Hell

Liam’s POV

The fluorescent lights buzzed across the concrete walls of my cell. Three days. It had been three days since Judge Thompson’s gavel had sealed my fate, three days since I’d been processed, fingerprinted, photographed, and stripped of everything that had once defined me.

Holbrook had visited yesterday, his face a mask of barely contained fury and professional embarrassment. The conversation replayed in my mind like a broken record, each word a fresh wound.

"You’re all over the news, Liam," he’d said, his voice tight with controlled anger. "Congratulations. You’re trending on every social media platform. ’Disgraced CEO Sentenced to three years in prison,’’Pregnant Wife’s Courage Pays Off.’ Pick your favorite headline."

I’d sat across from him in the sterile visiting room, wearing the orange jumpsuit that had become my uniform, feeling smaller and more insignificant than I’d ever felt in my life.

"The worst part," Holbrook had continued, leaning forward with fury in his eyes, "isn’t just that you lied to me. It’s that you made me look like a fool in front of Judge Thompson. Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to stand in that courtroom, unprepared, while evidence I’d never seen before was presented against my own client?"

"Do you know what they’re saying about me? About how I couldn’t protect my own client because he kept me in the dark about his criminal activities?"

"I’m sorry," I’d whispered, the words pathetic even to my own ears.

"Sorry doesn’t fix my reputation, Liam. Sorry doesn’t undo the damage you’ve caused. I’ve been practicing law for twenty-five years, and I’ve never been blindsided like that."

He’d stood to leave, then turned back one final time. "You’re on your own now. Don’t contact me again."

And now here I was, alone in a six-by-eight concrete box, listening to the sounds of prison life filtering through the thin walls. Shouting voices, slamming doors, the constant echo of footsteps on concrete floors. This was my world now. This was my life for the next three years.

I hadn’t eaten since arriving. The food they served looked like something you’d scrape off the bottom of a shoe, and my stomach had been in knots since the moment those handcuffs clicked shut. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Diane’s face in that courtroom, not angry, not vindictive, just infinitely sad. The mother of my children, looking at me like I was a stranger she pitied.

My children. Dylan and Danielle whom I had just learnt their names. Two babies I’d never held, never fed, never soothed to sleep. They would grow up knowing their father as the man who went to prison, the man who tried to hurt their mother. The shame of it was suffocating.

The cell felt like it was shrinking around me. At home, my walk-in closet had been bigger than this entire space. The narrow cot with its thin mattress, the small shelf that held my few possessions, it was like being buried alive.

A loud clang echoed through the block as doors began sliding open. Recreation time. I’d been dreading this moment since yesterday, when another inmate had casually mentioned that shower time was when "new fish" got their proper welcome.

"Ashton!" The guard’s voice boomed outside my cell. "Rec time. Move it."

My hands shook as I gathered my small towel and the bar of industrial soap they’d given me. The other inmates were already filing out of their cells, a sea of orange jumpsuits and hard faces. I tried to make myself invisible, keeping my eyes down as I followed the crowd toward the communal showers.

The shower room was a nightmare of exposed pipes, moldy tiles, and smell of disinfectant mixed with human sweat. Steam rose from the few functioning showerheads, creating an almost hellish atmosphere. I found an empty spot near the corner and turned on the water, grateful for anything that might wash away the film of fear and despair that seemed to coat my skin.

The water was lukewarm at best. I closed my eyes and let it run over my face, trying to pretend I was somewhere else, anywhere else. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine I was in my marble bathroom at home, with its rainfall showerhead and imported soaps.

The soap slipped from my trembling hands, clattering to the wet floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the entire room. I froze, staring down at it, knowing I had to pick it up but suddenly terrified to bend down. Every prison movie I’d ever seen flashed through my mind, every crude joke about dropping soap in the shower.

I had no choice. I crouched down, reaching for the soap, when I saw them. A pair of feet, positioned directly behind me. Not moving. Just... waiting.

Terror shot through me like ice. I straightened up slowly, my heart hammering against my ribs, and turned around to face whatever was waiting for me.

The man standing behind me was massive. Not just tall, but thick with muscle, his arms covered in tattoos that seemed to tell stories of violence and survival. His face was scarred, with eyes that held the kind of coldness that came from years of seeing and doing terrible things.

"Well, well, well," he said, his voice a low rumble that carried despite the sound of running water. "Look what we got here, boys."

I became aware that other inmates had formed a loose circle around us, their conversations dying as they turned their attention to the show that was about to begin. The few guards I could see seemed to have suddenly found other things to occupy their attention.

"You’re him, ain’t you?" the big man continued, stepping closer. Water dripped from his shaved head as he studied my face with the intensity that made my blood run cold. "The famous CEO. Liam Ashton. Man, you’re even prettier in person than you were on TV."

My mouth went dry. "I... I don’t want any trouble."

He laughed, a sound devoid of any humor. "Trouble? Nah, man. Trouble would be if you’d just stolen some money or cheated on your taxes. What you did? That ain’t trouble. That’s something else entirely."

The circle of inmates tightened around us. I could see their faces now, some curious, some angry, all of them eager for entertainment. This was better than television for them.

"See, we got all kinds in here," the big man continued, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "Murderers, drug dealers, armed robbers, kidnappers. Hell, I probably done worse things than most people can imagine." He gestured around the circle. "These boys too. We ain’t angels, none of us."

He paused, letting his words sink in while the other inmates murmured their agreement.

"But you know what we all got in common? We got limits. Lines we don’t cross. And trying to run over your pregnant ex wife and also try to strip her of everything without remorse?" He shook his head slowly, like he was genuinely disappointed. "That’s a line so far past anything decent that it makes us all look like choir boys."

"I didn’t—" I started to protest, but he cut me off with a gesture.

"Nah, man. Don’t even try that shit. We all saw the news. We all heard what your wife said in that interview. How you tried to run her down with your car while she was carrying your babies. Your own fucking kids, man."

The crowd was getting agitated now, their voices rising with anger and disgust. Someone spat at my feet.

"That’s low," another inmate called out. "Lower than low."

"And then," the big man continued, his voice rising above the others, "then you tried to take her babies away from her. After everything you put her through, you wanted to traumatize her some more after cheating on her—with her fucking sister."

He was right in front of me now, close enough that I could smell the prison soap on his skin, see the network of scars that crisscrossed his knuckles.

"So here’s how this is gonna work," he said quietly, his voice somehow more menacing at low volume. "Your three-year sentence? I’m gonna make it feel like thirty. Every day you’re in here, I’m gonna make sure you remember what you did. What you tried to do."

He started to turn away, then stopped, looking back at me with something that might have been pity if it hadn’t been mixed with so much contempt.

"On second thought," he said, "don’t watch your back. Watch your front."

The first punch caught me in the stomach, driving all the air from my lungs and doubling me over. Before I could recover, another fist slammed into my face, snapping my head back and sending me stumbling against the shower wall.

"This is for being an arrogant asshole!" someone shouted, and then they were all on me.

Fists came from every direction. I tried to cover my head with my arms, but there were too many of them. They took turns, making sure everyone got a piece. Someone grabbed my hair and slammed my face into the tile wall. Another drove his knee into my ribs.

"You piece of shit!"

"Fucking coward!"

"How’s it feel, rich boy?"

The voices blended together into a chorus of rage. These men...murderers, drug dealers, thieves, had found someone they could feel morally superior to, and they were savoring every moment of it.

A fist caught me in the left eye, and I felt something give way with a wet, tearing sensation. The pain was immediate and overwhelming. My vision went dark on that side, the world becoming half-blind and distorted. noveldrama

Someone spat in my face, the saliva mixing with blood from my split lip. The humiliation was almost worse than the physical pain. I’d gone from penthouse to gutter in the span of a few months, and now I was being beaten by men who saw me as less than human.

Finally, mercifully, it stopped. The circle of inmates began to disperse as guards approached, their voices raised in mock authority. "Break it up! Back to your cells!"

But I could see the guards’ faces. They weren’t concerned. They weren’t rushing to help. They were letting this happen, maybe even enjoying it. After all, I was the rich guy who’d hurt his pregnant ex wife in the worst possible way. I wasn’t exactly generating sympathy.

I lay there on the wet shower floor, tasting blood and defeat. My left eye was already swelling shut, the tissue around it puffy and tender. Every breath sent sharp pains through my ribs. Blood from my nose mixed with the shower water, swirling down the drain.

"Get up," one of the guards said without much concern. "Shower’s over."

I struggled to my feet, my legs shaky and unsteady. The world tilted and spun around me, my one good eye having trouble focusing. Somehow, I managed to wrap the thin towel around my waist and stumble back toward my cell.

The walk through the prison felt like a parade of shame. Other inmates lined the hallways, some laughing, some offering crude commentary about my appearance. Word had already spread about what had happened in the showers.

"Look at that shiner!"

"Somebody’s gonna be eating soup for a while!"

"Welcome to the big house, pretty boy!"

My cell felt different when I returned to it. What had seemed like a coffin before now felt like sanctuary. I collapsed onto the narrow cot, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my battered body.

That’s when the true horror of my situation hit me. This wasn’t a temporary setback. This wasn’t something I could fix with money or influence or legal maneuvering. This was my life now. Three years of this. Three years of being the target, the outcast, the man every other criminal could look down on.

I curled up on the thin mattress, my good eye leaking tears I couldn’t control. The swelling around my left eye had already gotten worse, the flesh puffy and hot to the touch. I probably looked like a monster.

That’s when I heard it—a sharp metallic CLANG that made me jump despite myself. Someone had slammed something against my cell bars, the sound echoing through the concrete space like a gunshot.

I looked up to see another inmate standing outside my cell, an older man with graying hair and arms like tree trunks. He was holding a metal cup, which he’d apparently used to bang against my bars.

"Having trouble sleeping, princess?" he asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.

I didn’t answer, just stared at him with my one functional eye.

"Cat got your tongue? Or maybe it’s hard to talk with your face all fucked up like that." He laughed. "Don’t worry, sweetheart. It gets easier. Eventually."

He studied me for a moment, taking in my swollen eye, my split lip, the way I was curled up like a wounded animal.

"You know what’s funny?" he continued, settling in for what was clearly going to be a longer conversation. "I been in here fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years. You know what I did to get here?"

I remained silent, but he continued anyway.

"I killed a man. Beat him to death with my bare hands over a poker game gone wrong. And you know what? Even I think what you did was fucked up. A woman who had fone nothing but loved you, man. That’s some next-level evil shit right there."

He paused, letting that sink in.

"But here’s the thing about prison," he said, his voice taking on an almost educational tone. "It’s got its own sense of justice. Its own way of balancing the scales. And you, my friend, you got a debt to pay. A big fucking debt."

Another inmate appeared beside him, younger but with the same predatory gleam in his eyes.

"Yo, is this him? The cheat and baby killer?" the younger man asked.

"Attempted baby killer," the older man corrected. "But yeah, this is our celebrity."

They both stared at me like I was an exhibit in a zoo.

"Man, he’s even uglier than I expected," the younger one said, then burst into laughter. "Look at that eye! Looks like he went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson!"

"Nah," the older man replied, grinning. "Mike Tyson would’ve been kinder."

"Bet you’re wishing you’d treated your wife better now, huh?"

The comments came fast and furious, each one designed to humiliate and demoralize. And they were working. I felt myself shrinking, becoming smaller and more pathetic with each cruel joke.

But it was the older inmate who delivered the final blow.

"You know what the really funny part is?" he said, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Your wife—Diane, right? She’s out there right now, probably tucking your kids into bed, giving them the love and stability they deserve. And where are you?"

He gestured around my cell.

"You’re in here, looking like you got hit by a truck, surrounded by men who think you’re lower than dog shit. And this is just day one, pretty boy. You got three more years of this coming."

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause, like he’d just delivered the punchline to the world’s cruelest joke.

"Sleep tight, daddy," someone called out as the group began to disperse. "Tomorrow’s gonna be even better."

As the voices faded and the footsteps died away, I was left alone with my pain and my thoughts.

I touched my swollen eye, wincing at the pain. My reflection in the small metal mirror attached to the wall showed a stranger—a broken, beaten man who bore only a passing resemblance to the confident CEO I’d once been.

Three years. One thousand and ninety-five days. Assuming I survived them all.

I thought about Diane, probably at home right now in whatever safe space she’d created for herself and our children, as the inmate had said. Kissing tiny foreheads. Being the parent I would never have the chance to be.

The tears came again, but this time I didn’t try to stop them. There was no one to see, no one to judge. Just me and the concrete walls and the crushing weight of everything I’d lost.

In the distance, I could hear someone screaming—whether from pain, rage, or madness, I couldn’t tell. Soon, I thought, that might be me.

Welcome to hell, indeed.