Winning the Heir Who Bullied Me Chapter 160

**NATHAN’S POV**

*Schadenfreude.*

It’s a German word for the pleasure or satisfaction one feels at someone else’s misfortune or failure.

Over the course of my life, there have been only two things that brought me happiness: Football and April.

Now, I’m proud to add one more: watching my family suffer.

Suffer is probably an overstatement—although the image of them strapped to barbed chairs having their nails pulled off one by one does have a certain appeal—but watching them lose their shit over the bomb Lara and April dropped on their heads is like early Christmas.

We’re in the Ashford private lounge. It’s this hideous, overstuffed room on the second floor that screams old money and extravagant power. Everything smells faintly of brandy and lemon-scented polish.

The massive television is off—every single fucking news channel is playing versions of the wedding—but the room is alive with sound.

My father’s booming voice, my mother’s slurred hysteria, Lucas’ cold fury, and Easton’s shaky attempts to do damage control.

Peter and I sit in the corner. He’s perched on the edge of a leather chaise, unconsciously fiddling with his new wedding ring.

I can’t believe he left Eliza just after they got married to be a witness to this bullshit.

I’m sprawled in the chair beside him, one leg crossed over the other, elbow draped lazily on the armrest. If I seem calm, it’s because I am.

And so fucking *satisfied.*

This moment was a long time coming.

“I want to know how the fuck she uploaded that video,” my father barks, pacing like a caged lion. His face is red, the vein in his neck twitching. “Our system is secured. We spent *millions* making sure it was bulletproof!”

“It must’ve been someone on the inside,” Lucas says tightly, arms folded across his chest. Every muscle in his body is wound so tight, I wonder if he’ll pop. “The projection timing, the music cue, the integration—it wasn’t random.”

I suppress a smile. He’s not wrong.

Mother is curled on the velvet settee like some Victorian ghost, nursing a tumbler of something dark and definitely not her first.

“This is a nightmare,” she whispers to no one in particular. “The press is tearing us apart. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. The country club ladies saw it.”

“Oh no,” Peter murmurs dryly beside me. “Not the country club ladies.”

I snort under my breath.

“Easton,” Father snarls, turning toward the head of staff. “Fix it. This happened under your watch. Fix it or I’ll have your fucking head!”

Easton, ever composed in his muted gray suit, adjusts his glasses but says nothing.

“And where the fuck is Madeline?!” Father roars.

As if on cue—most likely she was hiding outside the door—the PR rep steps in.

“We’re already pushing the narrative that the footage was altered," she says, a slight tremor in her voice. "We’ll call it a malicious deepfake attack. The video has been flagged for misinformation on all platforms. We’ve demanded they take it down.”

“You heard that cunt. She *wants* them to investigate the video.” Lucas turns to Father. “They’re going to fucking find out that it’s real.”

It happens so fast, I almost miss it—Samuel Ashford’s fist swings and collides with Lucas’ jaw.

My eyes widen as Lucas crashes back against the low coffee table, which tips on its side.

“I warned you,” Father growls in the stunned silence. “Do whatever the fuck you want as long as it doesn’t affect our image.” He slaps a hand against his chest. “*My* image!”

For a moment, nobody moves or breathes. I can’t believe Father actually hit Lucas. His perfect golden boy, his carbon copy.

Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, all rolled into one pretty package.

Lucas rises to his feet, cradling his jaw where there's already a purpling bruise from when Julian Ellington hit him—*that* was a fun watch. “I’ll fix this,” he grits out.

“How?” I can’t help the glee in my voice. “I know with you, perception matters more than truth, but right now, *both* say you're a monster.”

Lucas glares at me, nostrils flaring. “Don’t talk like this doesn’t affect you, like you’re not a part of this family.”

“I don’t recall asking to be born into this family,” I shoot back. “And frankly, if I had a choice, I’d have picked the womb of a prison inmate over this particular gene pool.”

Peter stifles a cough that sounds suspiciously like laughter.

“Enough,” Father growls. “You two are embarrassing yourselves.”

“*You’re* the embarrassment,” Peter says suddenly. His voice is soft, but it cuts deep. “You and Mom, and Lucas. You’ve dragged our name through kerosene for decades, and now you’re shocked someone lit a match.”

Mother gasps like he slapped her. “Peter, how *dare* you?”

Peter stands, shaking his head. “You want someone to blame? Blame yourselves. April and Lara didn’t fabricate that video. And the fact that you two are more worried about your precious image than the fact that your son is a sick fuck is just nauseating.”

Father clenches a fist, and I’m ready to jump out of my seat and block the blow I know he’ll aim at Peter when Madeline gasps dramatically.

Her face drains as she stares at her phone.

“The video’s hit ten million views. It’s been translated into Portuguese, French, and Spanish. Trending on TikTok, X, Instagram, and YouTube. Major news outlets are picking it up globally.”

Father throws a glass against the fireplace. It shatters spectacularly.

“Classy,” I mutter.

Peter leans towards me as the shouting resumes and asks quietly, “Where were you?”

I meet his eyes, keeping my expression neutral. “Bathroom.”

He arches a brow. “You missed your wedding and the greatest fall of an empire since the Roman’s because you were in the *bathroom*?”

I shrug.

The corner of his lips twitches. “Last Eliza told me, the videos were only supposed to circulate on social media during the wedding. I wonder how they got the video past the security system to play on the projector.”

I shrug. “Beats me.”

The truth is, I did more than just help. I timed the release and accessed the ballroom control system myself.

I set the password override that unlocked the projection panel and synced the audio.

*I* lit the fucking match.

And now, watching the smoke rise from the ashes, I’ve never felt lighter.

When Peter stands, he squeezes my shoulder. We share a look—an understanding we never really had before.

Father’s voice explodes again. “We have to sue them! All of them. Lara, April, anyone who reposts the goddamn video.”

“I…I would not advise that you go against the Ellingtons, sir,” Easton finally speaks.

“Oh, let him,” I coo. “He can finally pick on someone his own size.”

Father lunges for me, and I'm prepared for the slap that cracks across my face. “You will be useful,” he seethes, “or you’ll get the fuck out.”

I rise, blinking back the reflexive tears. I let my gaze run over my ruined family and smile broadly. “I hope you all have fun.”

When I step out, I rest my back against the door and exhale.

The hallway is dimly lit, quiet except for the distant sound of classical music from the main hall.

Outside, paparazzi lights flicker like lightning bugs, desperate to catch a glimpse of the empire crumbling behind these gilded walls.

*Break the fucking cage.*

I spent my whole life punishing myself for crimes I didn’t commit. If only I’d known sooner how satisfying it is to watch the real culprits face justice.

And I’m not done.

I’m not just breaking the cage; I’m bringing the entire fortress down.