Liam’s POV
The afternoon sun sliced through the windows of my ho office as I reviewed the quarterly projections for the third ti. The numbers blurred before my eyes, my concentration shot to hell.
I’d been working since dawn, desperately trying to prepare sothing impressive for the board eting—sothing that would make Guerrero eat his words and remind everyone why I was indispensable to Synergy Sphere.
The vibration of my phone against the desk pulled from my thoughts. Jackson’s na flashed on the screen. I snatched it up, suddenly alert.
"Jackson," I answered, keeping my voice neutral despite the anticipation coursing through . "Do you have sothing for ?"
"Mr. Ashton," his asured voice ca through. "I’ve been following your wife as instructed. She made an interesting stop today."
I leaned back in my chair, fingers drumming against the armrest. "Where?"
"morial Hospital. Arrived around 9 AM with an older woman. They were inside for approximately an hour and a half."
My drumming fingers stilled. "Hospital? What departnt?"
"I couldn’t determine that without raising suspicion. Hospital policy prevents staff from disclosing patient information."
I cursed under my breath. The hospital visit could an anything—a routine check-up, an ergency, or sothing else entirely. My mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was Diane ill? Had the stress of our divorce caused so kind of breakdown?
"Was she acting strangely?" I demanded. "Did she seem unwell when she left?"
"No, sir. In fact, quite the opposite. She appeared... happy. Relaxed, even. She and the older woman went directly to the Park very close to the clinic afterward and had what looked like a picnic lunch."
"A picnic," I repeated flatly, the image out of place with everything I’d been feeling. While I’d been drowning in whiskey and rage, Diane had been enjoying a leisurely lunch in the park? "Did they et with anyone?"
"No, sir. Just the two of them. They talked and laughed for about an hour." There was a slight hesitation in Jackson’s voice. "There was one mont when I nearly got made, though. The older woman—she spotted . Or at least, I think she did. Started staring in my direction. I cleared out before she could get a good look."
I frowned, irritation flaring. "You’re supposed to be a professional, Jackson. Getting spotted by a civilian on day one doesn’t inspire confidence."
"Sir, with all due respect, this woman wasn’t your average civilian. Had eyes like a hawk. I’ve shadowed targets for fifteen years, and I know when soone’s got instincts. She spotted in an instant while engaged in conversation."
Sothing clicked in my brain. "Describe this woman."
"Mid to late fifthies, elegant. Silver-streaked dark hair in a neat bob. About 5’6". Carries herself like soone important—back straight, chin up. Nothing flashy but clearly expensive."
Helena. Diane’s mother. The original ice queen herself.
"That’s my mother-in-law," I said, mories of Helena’s perpetual disapproval flooding back. She’d never ward to , especially after the thing with So...I paused. Always watching with those calculating eyes, as if waiting for to reveal my true colors. Don’t underestimate her."
"Ah," Jackson said, a new respect in his voice. "That explains it."
"Did you get anything else? Any information about why they were at the hospital?"
"Nothing concrete. They left with what looked like so papers or photos that your wife kept looking at. Put them in her purse very carefully."
Test results, perhaps? Or dication prescriptions? My mind raced with possibilities.
"Sir, if I may say so—this isn’t exactly the kind of intel you’re paying for. Following soone to lunch in the park isn’t going to get you leverage."
His tone grated on my already frayed nerves. "Then do better," I snapped. "I don’t need a play-by-play of my wife’s social calendar. I need sothing concrete—sothing I can use."
"Understood. I’ll keep following her. See where she goes, who she talks to."
"Focus on any etings with n," I instructed, the familiar burn of jealousy flaring despite my best efforts to suppress it. "Or with anyone from Synergy Sphere. And I want to know if she visits any lawyers other than Joan."
"Got it. I’ll report back soon unless sothing significant develops."
The call ended, and I tossed my phone onto the desk, shoving away from it to pace the room.
Hospital. Park Picnic. None of it made sense. Diane should be miserable, stressed, falling apart without . Instead, she was having goddamn picnics in the park with her mother, looking "happy".
After what she’d done to in Boston? While I was scrambling to save my company, my reputation, my legacy?
The unfairness of it hit like a physical blow. My hand curled into a fist and slamd against the wall before I’d even registered the impulse. Pain exploded across my knuckles, the impact leaving a small dent in the plaster.
"Fuck!" I snarled, cradling my hand as blood began to well from split skin.
I stared at my bleeding knuckles, watching as crimson droplets splattered onto the hardwood floor. The pain clarifying sohow, cutting through the fog of rage and confusion.
Lowering myself back into my chair, I extended my fingers slowly, wincing at the throbbing ache. Nothing broken, but I’d have one hell of a bruise. An appropriate companion to my wounded pride.
What was Diane doing at that hospital? The question gnawed at , more persistent than the pain in my hand. Was she sick? Injured? Or was it sothing else entirely?
For a fleeting mont, concern cut through my anger—genuine worry for the woman I’d once loved more than anything. But it dissipated quickly, replaced by bitterness. Whatever Diane was dealing with, she’d chosen to handle it without . She’d chosen to cut out of her life entirely.
Fine. Let her have her secrets and her picnics. Let her laugh with her mother while my world burned around . In the end, I’d still win. I always did.
I reached for my phone again, scrolling to another contact.
"Holbrook," the gruff voice of my divorce attorney answered.
"It’s Liam. I need information."
"What kind of information?" Suspicion laced his tone.
"Diane’s dical records."
A sharp intake of breath. "Liam, that’s not just unethical, it’s illegal. I can’t—"
"I’m not asking you to break the law," I interrupted. "But there are legal ways to find out if there’s sothing in her dical history that might impact the divorce proceedings."
"Such as?"
"Such as ntal health issues. Substance abuse. Anything that might give us an advantage in court."
Holbrook sighed heavily. "Liam, we’ve discussed this. Pursuing this kind of scorched-earth strategy will only hurt you in the long run. The judge—"
"The judge will see a woman who manipulated and humiliated her husband," I cut in, my voice rising. "A woman who sent on a wild goose chase across the country just to make look like a fool. She’s not playing by the rules, Holbrook. Why should I?"
"Because you’re the one with more to lose," he replied bluntly. "Your reputation. Your company. Your lifestyle. Diane’s already lost what mattered to her—her marriage, her trust, her security. People with nothing to lose are dangerous opponents."
His words hit uncomfortably close to ho. I’d said similar things myself when negotiating against desperate competitors.
"Just look into it," I insisted, softening my tone. "Discreetly. There might be sothing we can use."
Another sigh. "I’ll see what I can do. Legally," he emphasized. "But Liam, I strongly advise against this approach. We should be working toward a reasonable settlent, not escalating the conflict."
"Noted," I replied coldly. "Let know what you find."
I ended the call and leaned back in my chair, my injured hand throbbing in ti with my heartbeat. Outside, the afternoon light was fading, shadows lengthening across the floor. I hadn’t eaten all day, had barely slept the night before, but hunger and exhaustion seed distant concerns compared to the gnawing need to understand what Diane was planning.
Why the hospital? Why the air of happiness that Jackson had described?
And more importantly, what was she hiding from ?
I pulled up my email on my phone, scrolling through dozens of unread ssages from the office. Crisis after crisis demanded my attention, but I couldn’t focus on any of it. Not with these questions burning through my mind.
In that mont, I made a decision. I wouldn’t wait for Jackson’s reports or Holbrook’s legal maneuvering. I needed answers now.
I dialed Thomas, my driver.
"Sir?" he answered promptly.
"I need you at the house in twenty minutes," I instructed.
"And I need you to be discreet about where we’re going."
"Of course, sir. May I ask the destination?"
I hesitated for only a second. "The Upper East Side. Joan’s residence."
"Very good, sir. Twenty minutes."
I ended the call and stared at my bleeding knuckles again rage forming within , I watched as the blood began to dry, forming dark, flaky patterns across my skin. A plan was forming—very deceptive and reckless perhaps, but necessary. I would see Diane myself. Try to demand answers even if it ans pretending to care and if she proves stubborn. Threaten her.
After all, if you want sothing done right, you do it yourself.
But first, I needed to clean up this blood.
After a while I thought about it, how will I explain how I knew about her visiting the hospital. It would give her the thought that I’m shadowing her and that won’t be good.
I called Thomas back and told him there’s a change of plan. He should not bother coming again. He can take the rest of the day off.
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