I Married My Ex's Billionaire Father
Chapter 249: Assaulting The Press

Chapter 249: Assaulting The Press

The ride back to Lyse’s apartment was steeped in silence.

Brandon didn’t press her to talk. He simply gripped the steering wheel and drove, occasionally glancing at her from the corner of his eye, checking that she was still holding herself together. Her arms were crossed tightly, her shoulders tense, and she stared out the window with a blank expression that masked the storm raging inside her.

When they pulled off the freeway, dusk had fully settled over the city. The sky bled into deep navy, and the streetlights flickered to life like watchful eyes. Brandon made the last turn toward Charles building, slowing as they approached the familiar entrance to the parking garage.

That was when he noticed them.

A swarm of bodies ahead, clustered at the curb outside the building. Dozens of them. Some leaned against the fencing. Others perched on car hoods, hunched with cameras pressed to their faces. Flashbulbs sparked like angry fireflies. Brandon’s jaw tensed.

"Shit," he muttered.

Lyse lifted her head. "What?"

Then the headlights hit the crowd and the faces turned toward them like a pack of wolves scenting blood.

"Oh my God..." she whispered.

It was too late to reverse. They had been spotted. The swarm moved with purpose, descending on the car like a tide.

Cameras flashed.

Voices shouted over one another.

"LYSE! Are you really cheating on Levi with Brandon now?"

"LYSE, WHAT DOES KEN STUART THINK ABOUT YOUR HAREM? IS HE ALSO A PART?"

"IS THIS YOUR WAY OF TELLING THE WORLD YOU ARE POLY?"

"DID YOUR HUSBAND THROW YOU OUT?"

Lyse flinched at each question, as though every word had physical weight. Her eyes widened with horror as she shrank into her seat, trying to make herself disappear. Brandon hit the brakes before they reached the garage entrance, the sea of paparazzi making it impossible to move forward without mowing someone down.

"I’m so sorry," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn’t think they would—God, I thought they would be gone by now."

Brandon’s fingers gripped the wheel tighter, his voice low and cold. "You don’t have to be sorry. They’re vultures."

She stared at the people shouting her name. Some of them were holding cell phones an inch from the windows, recording her, laughing. One woman was holding up a magazine with Lyse and Levi’s wedding photo on the cover—defaced with a red X over Levi’s face and a giant yellow headline that read LYSE’S LOVE HEXAGON!

It would have been laughable if it weren’t so vile.

"I can’t get into the garage like this," Brandon said. "I’m going to call security—"

Then, it happened.

Before either of them could react, someone yanked the passenger door open.

"Lyse! Smile for us!"

A man with a camera lunged forward, reaching into the car to get a shot. But he didn’t stop there. His hand grabbed her arm.

"GET OFF ME!" she screamed, struggling, trying to slam the door shut.

Brandon exploded.

He shoved the car into park, tore off his seatbelt, and launched out of the driver’s side with the kind of fury that seemed to make the ground shake.

Before the paparazzo could react, Brandon yanked the man off her and hurled him back into the crowd.

"Touch her again," Brandon growled, "and I will break your f**king face."

The other paparazzi, far braver behind a camera lens than in real life, scrambled back a few steps. Some kept filming. Others egged him on.

"Oooh, we’ve got Brandon Hale defending his woman! Just like old times!"

"Is this a love triangle or a publicity stunt?"

"C’mon, give us something juicy!"

Lyse stumbled out of the car in a panic, as her feet scrambled against the pavement as the paparazzo, a young guy with a camera strapped to his chest and a sick grin on his face, dragged her toward the crowd like she was nothing more than bait. The other cameras surged forward, blinding her with light and shouts.

"Tell us about Levi!"

"Is Ken Stuart really your sugar daddy?!"

"Are you and Brandon sleeping together again?! Is that why he is driving you around?"

She couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe.

Her ears rang with their laughter.

Then—CRACK.

Something heavy struck the man dragging her.

He hit the ground with a gasp and Lyse stumbled backward—straight into Brandon’s arms.

His chest heaved against her back, his breath hot with fury.

"Are you alright?" he asked without looking down.

She could barely nod.

But he was already moving.

The paparazzo on the ground groaned and tried to scramble away, but Brandon stepped forward and shoved another man hard in the chest as he lunged forward with a camera.

"She is not a prop," Brandon snarled. "She is not your goddamn story."

Another one swung a camera toward his face—flash ready.

Brandon slapped it aside.

"Get your hands off him—!"

"You’re assaulting the press—!"

"She’s a public figure!"

"You are trespassing," Brandon snapped. "You come near her again, I’ll make sure every charge sticks."

Lyse blinked rapidly, overwhelmed. A small crowd had gathered now—residents from her building peeking from windows, a few people filming from their phones.

Someone was calling the police.

Still, the paparazzi didn’t back down. They were like vultures now, feeding off the spectacle.

"You have got five seconds," Brandon growled. "Five."

The group hesitated.

Then, at the sound of distant sirens, they scattered—tripping over each other to get into their vans or disappear down alleys. A few cursed at Brandon. One tried to take another photo but backed off when Brandon advanced a step toward him.

Then, just like that, the silence came rushing back.

Lyse stood rooted in place, trembling.

Brandon walked back to her, fists still clenched.

"You alright?" he asked again, quieter now.

She nodded, though her body still trembled. "I... yeah."

He looked at her for a long moment, then reached up to gently tuck her hair behind her ear. "They should not have touched you, i don’t know how the door was still open."

She laughed, sharp and bitter. "They always touch me. They always find me, and these kinds of things seem to always happen to me."

His jaw tightened.

"I didn’t even do anything wrong," she whispered, eyes burning with tears. "But now I am the slut with a husband, an ex-boyfriend, and a sugar daddy."

Brandon’s expression darkened. "They don’t get to write your story, Lyse. You hear me?"

She didn’t answer.

He opened the car door for her again. "Come on. Let’s get you inside."

She hesitated, then slid back in. Her hands shook as she pulled the seatbelt across her lap, the imprint of the paparazzo’s hand still burning on her wrist.

Brandon climbed into the driver’s side and pulled through the now-clear entrance toward the underground garage.

By the time they reached Charles apartment door, Lyse had gone quiet again.

She unlocked the door with stiff fingers and stepped inside. Brandon followed, pausing in the threshold.

"You sure you’re okay?"

She turned, forcing a small, tired smile. "You saved me. Again."

"You shouldn’t need saving," he said. "Not from them."

She didn’t know how to reply to that.

He stepped forward, suddenly hesitant. "You want me to stay?"

A breath caught in her throat.

Did she?