Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me novel Chapter 197

Chapter 197

NATHAN’S POV

My phone screen glows in the dark, illuminating my room in flickers of chaos.

Reporters shout over each other. Flashes go off like gunfire. Lucas’s press conference has imploded–no, combusted–before it even started.

33)

And again–I’m the one who lit the fucking match.

My father is so cocky, so self–assured. Never in his wildest dreams did he consider that anyone would dare venture into his office, dig through his files–both online and on paper. No one in their right mind would attempt to expose him.

Maybe he hit me so much that I’m no longer in my right mind.

My heart hammers. I should feel triumphant. I should be laughing, maybe, or crying in relief. But all I feel is this twisting, gut–sick blend of satisfaction and dread.

I did it.

I sent out everything.

The ‘Ashford Files‘–documents, pictures, and recordings detailing every secret, every shady, dirty, illegal agreement–straight to the press.

I set the fire that’s burning through our polished empire.

Was it too much?

Did I go too far?

Maybe Lucas’s scandal was enough…

But that’s the thing–it wasn’t.

They were going to cover it up, trivialize it.

There would have been no real justice. For the girls Lucas ruined. The families–including ours–that Samuel destroyed.

The bribes. The threats. The shame I’ve swallowed since I was old enough to realize I was being raised in a fucking cartel disguised as a family.

They deserve it.

Don’t they?

My door blows open like a wrecking ball flew through it.

My spine straightens, instincts screaming as I brace myself. I stand and turn just in time to see the fist blurring through the air.

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20:54 Mon, Oct 20

Chapter 197

Crack.

33

The pain is white–hot and sudden. I stagger back, disoriented as my cheek explodes with the impact, and I taste blood immediately.

My father storms in like a hurricane wrapped in fury. His eyes are wild–red–rimmed, beastlike.

“You little piece of shit!” he roars, striking again. “You thought I wouldn’t know?!”

The second punch is harder. My shoulder catches the edge of the desk as I collapse to the floor. My ears ring. My vision doubles.

“You think you can betray me? Humiliate this family?” he shouts, pacing like a man possessed. “How fucking dare you!”

I try to crawl away, but his foot slams into my side and pain shoots through my ribs. I hit the leg of my desk and cough. Blood drips down my lips.

“You don’t get to do this,” he snarls. “Not you. You’re a fucking nothing. Useless. Pathetic. I should have disowned you years ago.”

I wheeze, trying to breathe through the agony. Every word hits harder than his fists. I don’t cry out but my body is trembling, my face suddenly soaked in sweat and blood.

Father yanks me up by my collar and slams me into the wall, forearm digging into my throat. My feet scramble for purchase as I choke, my eyes bulging.

“You humiliated me,” he hisses, breath rancid with scotch and rage. “You leaked our life’s work, threw it all out like it was garbage. You killed your own name. Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

His grip tightens. I can’t breathe.

“You’re…killing…me.”

“Good,” he snarls. “You’re a waste of space. You’ll die a failure. A coward. A-”

For the first time in my life, I look in my father’s eyes and I don’t see my reflection.

Because I’m not him. I might share his blood and genes, but that’s where the resemblance ends.

It’s like I finally, finally hear what April has been trying to tell me.

I am my own person, and I’m done letting him destroy me.

I drive my knee into his groin with every ounce of strength I have left.

He gasps–more shock than pain–and stumbles back, hands instinctively going to his groin. I fall to the ground in a heap, gulping air like a drowning man.

But I’m not done.

Fueled by something primal–pent–up rage, survival, or just the desperate need to be free–1 lunge forward and throw a punch that cracks against his jaw. My knuckles scream in protest, but it lands. He drops to the floor, stunned.

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20:54 Mon, Oct 20

Chapter 197

I stand over my father, panting, bruised, shaking.

“I’m not the coward,” I spit. “You are.”

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