Hell Hath no fury like a billionaire's Ex-Chapter 112: Worst Nightmare

Liam’s POV

The rage consumed me like wildfire as I stormed straight to the bar, my hands shaking with fury. I grabbed the first bottle I could reach...expensive scotch that I’d been saving for a special occasion...and poured a generous amount into a tumbler. Without hesitation, I threw my head back and downed the entire glass in one burning gulp.

My heart hammered against my ribs so violently I could hear my own ragged breathing echo through the mansion’s living room. Each inhale came out as a harsh rasp, and my eyes felt like they were bleeding red with the intensity of my fury.

"GUERRERO!" I roared again, "how dare you!?"

I patted my pockets frantically, searching for my phone, ready to call that backstabbing bastard and give him a piece of my mind. But my pockets were empty. Where the hell...

Then I remembered. I’d dropped it on my study desk after Vanessa’s call. Cursing under my breath, I stumbled back through the hallway, my legs unsteady from the alcohol and adrenaline coursing through my system. The alchohol was already working its way through my bloodstream, making the edges of my vision slightly blurry.

I snatched the phone from my desk and immediately dialed Guerrero’s number, my finger jabbing at the screen with more force than necessary. The phone rang once, twice, three times before going to voicemail.

"Damn you, Guerrero," I muttered, ending the call and immediately hitting redial.

Again, straight to voicemail.

"I’m going to kill you!" I screamed at the phone, my voice cracking with rage. "ARGHHH!"

I threw myself onto the living room couch, the leather creaking under my weight. The phone felt heavy in my hands as I stared at Guerrero’s contact information, contemplating whether to leave a threatening voicemail or try calling again. But what was the point? The coward was clearly avoiding me.

I let my head fall back against the cushions, staring up at the ceiling of my living room. How had it come to this? I’d always been able to navigate difficult situations, always found a way to come out on top. That was my specialty...turning disasters into opportunities, finding leverage where others saw only problems.

So why was this different? Why did I feel like I was drowning instead of swimming? Why was I losing control of everything that mattered to me?

The missing documents haunted me more than anything else. Who had taken them? How had they gotten away from my safe? Those papers contained everything that could destroy me if they fell into the wrong hands. And now they were out there, somewhere.

I closed my eyes, trying to think clearly through the fog of alcohol and rage. There had to be a way out of this mess. There always was. I just needed to think, to strategize, to...

But the exhaustion was overwhelming. The combination of stress, alcohol, and sleepless nights was taking its toll. Despite my racing thoughts, I could feel my eyelids growing heavy. The couch was surprisingly comfortable, and the whiskey had created a warm, numbing sensation throughout my body.

I didn’t intend to fall asleep. I was just going to rest my eyes for a moment, just long enough to clear my head and figure out what to do. But the darkness crept in around the edges of my consciousness, and before I knew it, I was drifting off into an uneasy sleep.

"Liam... you think you can sly me?"

The voice cut through the darkness like a blade, followed by a low, wicked laugh that made my blood run cold. I stirred on the couch, my brain foggy from the alcohol and the disorienting transition from sleep to consciousness.

I thought I was dreaming—had to be dreaming. The voice sounded far away and distorted, like it was coming from underwater. I rubbed my eyes, trying to clear the haze, assuming it was just another nightmare brought on by stress and whiskey.

But as my vision slowly adjusted to the dim lighting, I realized with growing horror that I wasn’t alone.

There was a shadow sitting directly across from me on the other end of the living room. The main lights were off, leaving only the standing lamp beside my couch to cast a pool of light around where I lay. Everything beyond that circle was shrouded in darkness, but I could make out the silhouette of someone sitting in one of my armchairs, watching me.

My heart began to race again, but this time it wasn’t from anger...it was from pure, primal fear.

I was still drowsy, still trying to process what I was seeing, when the sharp crack of a gunshot shattered the silence. The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, and I jerked fully awake, my entire body going rigid with terror.

"Sit up, you idiot!" the voice commanded from the shadows, harsh and commanding.

I scrambled to an upright position, my hands shaking as I gripped the edge of the couch. "Who are you?" I demanded, though my voice came out as more of a croak. "What do you want?"

The figure in the shadows let out a mocking laugh, and I could see the glint of metal as they raised what was unmistakably a gun, pointing it directly at me.

"What do I want?" the voice repeated, dripping with sarcasm. "That’s rich, coming from you."

"Please," I said, my voice breaking slightly. The alcohol was still affecting my coordination, making everything feel surreal and nightmarish. "Please don’t shoot me. Is it money you want? You can take anything you want—jewelry, art, cash. There’s a safe upstairs with—"

"Are you sure you want to give me anything I want?" the figure interrupted, rising from the chair.

As he stepped forward into the edge of the lamplight, my breath caught in my throat. The features became clearer with each step, and when recognition hit me, it felt like a physical blow to the chest.

"Jackson."

The name barely escaped my lips as a whisper. This couldn’t be happening. This had to be a nightmare.

"How did you get into my house?" I asked, my voice trembling with fear. The reality of the situation was crashing down on me like a avalanche. Jackson had threatened to kill me the last time we spoke. He’d promised to put a bullet through my skull, and now here he was, standing in my living room with a gun pointed at me.

Jackson leaned in closer, the weapon still trained on me, and without warning, his free hand whipped across my face in a vicious slap. The impact sent stars dancing across my vision and left my cheek burning.

"Damn, I’ve been waiting to do that!" he said, laughing with genuine pleasure. "It feels so good! Wow!"

I stared at him, my mind racing as I tried to calculate my options. Could I overpower him? Make a run for it? The alcohol was still clouding my judgment, making it hard to think clearly.

"Where the hell is my money, Liam?" Jackson demanded, his voice suddenly cold and business-like. "Answer me, or has a cat got your tongue?"

Panic seized me, and I started yelling at the top of my lungs. "ANTHONY! ANTHONY, HELP! SECURITY!"

I screamed until my throat was raw, calling for my bodyguard, for anyone who might hear me. But the mansion remained eerily silent. No running footsteps, no doors slamming, no voices calling back.

Jackson watched my desperate attempts with obvious amusement, shaking his head like he was watching a particularly entertaining show.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," he said casually. "I put them into a deep sleep. And that big bodyguard of yours? He was just too big for nothing."

He mimed injecting something with his free hand, making a little jabbing motion. "Only one slip of my needle and he’s flat on the ground like a fallen tree."

My blood ran cold. "What did you do to them?"

"You think that bodyguard can shield you?" Jackson continued, ignoring my question. "You think hiring some ex-military meathead will save you? I’ve been watching you for a while now, Liam. I know your routines, your security protocols, your weaknesses."

He gestured toward the door with his gun. "Why don’t you go see for yourself? Go on, take a look."

I stood up shakily, my legs barely supporting my weight. Every instinct told me this was a trap, but I had to know what had happened to Anthony. As I moved toward the front door, I could feel Jackson following behind me, the gun undoubtedly still pointed at my back.

I opened the door and immediately froze in horror.

Anthony was lying motionless on the marble floor, his massive frame sprawled out like he’d been felled by lightning. His face was slack, his breathing so shallow it was barely visible. Nearby, I could see Marcus—My security guard in the same condition, completely unconscious.

My hands flew to my mouth in shock, a strangled gasp escaping my lips.

Behind me, Jackson erupted into psychotic laughter, the sound echoing off the high ceilings like the cackle of a madman. Then, just as suddenly, his voice turned harsh and commanding.

"GET BACK INSIDE!"