The Billionaire Ex-Wife and the Beggar He Became novel Chapter 228

That incident left Mayo wracked with guilt—and Claud felt just as responsible.

The last few nights, whenever he and Julian drank together, Julian would bring it up: how Felicity, in her campaign to crush Winona, paid a thousand times the fair price to snatch away the family crucifix from Winona's grandmother's house. That alone was enough to make Claud sick to his stomach at the thought of Felicity.

Such a ruthless way to break Winona down.

And to use Winona's husband's money against her? Claud had never seen cruelty quite like this.

That night, Claud and Mayo stayed with Julian in the villa's living room, keeping him company on the couch while he rambled in that half-drunk, half-dreaming state.

"You guys don't get it," Julian slurred, "Today, I tried giving Winona everything I own. Every last cent. But she wouldn't take it. She flat-out refused. She said she didn't want anything to do with me anymore, so she wouldn't accept a penny. Just how much does she hate me now, if she can't even bear to take my money?"

He gave a bitter laugh. "Though, I guess she's right. Back when we were together, I never gave her a cent. When things were at their worst, she even had to sell her own blood. But now… she's got Yves Prescott. What does she need my money for?"

"Yves Prescott! He… he finally did it. He beat me. Ha… ha ha ha…"

Both Claud and Mayo saw it—Julian was laughing, but there were tears shining at the corners of his eyes.

The truth was, both of them wanted to say, "You deserved this."

But neither said a word.

Later, when Julian was too exhausted to even keep his eyes open, just before drifting off, he muttered to Mayo and Claud, "Can I ask you guys for a favor? Please… take that crucifix back to her. It belonged to her grandmother. Her grandmother got sick for weeks because she couldn't buy it, years ago."

With that, Julian slipped into a deep sleep.

Mayo and Claud exchanged an awkward look.

Who was going to do it?

Mayo? Maybe once, Winona would've answered his calls, but ever since he'd lied to her, she treated him like something she'd scrape off her shoe.

His morning IV was finished. The nurse had just left after fluffing his pillows when he heard the shuffling of footsteps outside his door.

"Who's out there?" Yves called, voice cold.

He'd made plenty of enemies in the Prescott family. Now, alone in his room—no driver, no bodyguard—he couldn't help tensing up, hands balling into fists, heart pounding with suspicion.

But then, a small figure slipped in through the doorway.

A young boy, barely four feet tall, dressed to the nines in a little black suit and a bow tie, his hair slicked into a glossy side part. He carried a piggy bank in his hands. One side of his head was shaved clean and round, the shiny scalp framed by a hearing aid.

The whole look was striking—almost stylish.

"Sir, my mom told me you've been really good to her," the boy said earnestly. "So, I've decided to use my allowance to buy you something delicious for lunch. Would you like that?"

Yves Prescott looked him up and down, just as serious. "Let me guess. Are you… Zane?"