I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 127 - 128 Don’t Bet On It

Chapter 127: Chapter 128 Don’t Bet On It

Yvaine said simply, ‘He’s hot. He treats me well. I like him. I’m not planning our wedding. If he starts sniffing around anyone else, I’m out. Simple as that.’

I opened my mouth. Closed it again.

She wouldn’t listen now.

If I pushed, she’d only dig in harder. She’d convince herself everyone wanted to keep them apart, and he’d look even more appealing.

I knew that because I’d done it. I’d clung to Rhys Granger with both arms and most of my dignity, even after everyone warned me he was bad news.

Maybe Yvaine really could walk away. Maybe she meant what she said.

I hoped so.

The doctor finished patching up Cassian, and we stepped into the room together.

Ashton had already sorted a nurse for him.

Cassian was calling his family, lying about having to be away on a business trip for weeks.

Just before I left with Ashton, I paused at the door.

Yvaine was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding Cassian’s hand. His knuckles were wrapped. Her thumb moved tenderly across the gauze.

He stared at her with a look that was possibly adoration.

They looked ready to take on a firing squad together.

‘Do you think he’ll change?’ I asked Ashton quietly.

‘Wouldn’t bet on it.’

After we left the hospital, Ashton and I grabbed brunch near East 78th.

‘I’ll drive you,’ he said after I told him I planned to go back to Oakwood Apartments.

I nodded, remembering not to say ‘thank you’ like I always did.

‘About last night,’ he started.

‘Yeah?’ I stared out the car window, distracted.

I was thinking about Priya.

The payout from the Isobel Brooke case was finally clearing.

Priya was heading home once the money landed, and I didn’t know when I’d see her again. Probably not for a long time.

I figured we could do one last walk around the city. Maybe grab coffee. Maybe people-watch in the park and complain about men.

‘After we left the bar,’ Ashton said. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully.

I turned to look at him. ‘Did something happen after we left? Right, I forgot, Rhys was still there. I hope someone called the cops on him.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ He smiled a little.

‘Is that what you wanted to talk about? Rhys?’

‘No.’ The word seemed to come from between clenched teeth. ‘I want to talk about us.’

‘What about us?’

‘Do you remember what you said in the car?’

I tried to recall. ‘I said plenty, I think.’

I remembered the kiss.

Somehow, Ashton’s kiss always seemed hotter when it was done in the backseat of a car.

Maybe it had something to do with the confined space. There was nothing else to focus on except him, except the moment.

Then I remembered what led to Yvaine and Cassian’s one-night stand. ‘God, I hope I didn’t throw up on you.’

That would be beyond embarrassing.

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Good.’ I breathed out.

‘Was that all you wanted to say?’ I asked.

Ashton paused a beat, then: ‘Never mind.’ The car slowed. ‘We’re here.’

I leaned over, kissed his cheek. ‘Thanks. See you later.’

I got out and waved goodbye.

I texted Priya from the pavement outside the building. [You free today?]

Nothing.

I waited. Checked my phone again. Still nothing.

I went upstairs. Knocked twice.

No answer. But I heard loud noises from within. TV and people talking.

I pulled the spare key out of my bag, shoved it into the lock, and stepped inside.

My jaw locked.

The entire flat reeked of stale smoke and fried snacks. Air heavy with that cheap, acidic cigarette stench that clung to the back of your throat.

The coffee table was surrounded by men I’d never seen before—early twenties, all of them smoking, shouting over one another, playing cards.

Wrappers, pistachio shells, orange peel—trash scattered across the floor and cushions.

Priya’s brother Rohan was in the middle of the chaos, slouched low with one arm draped across the back of the sofa. I recognised him from court.

Nobody looked up.

Some guy whooped, slammed a card down, then shoved his chair back with a screech and shouted, ‘Pay up, losers!

Another peeled off his hoodie and threw it onto the floor.

I scanned past the mess and spotted a man near the window, his back to me.

Neal Sharma. Priya’s father.

He was on the phone, voice loud and smug. ‘It’s a proper flat! Big windows, new floors. I’ll send you pictures, you’ve got to see the height on this place. Her rich friend said we can stay as long as we want... No, she wouldn’t kick us out. What kind of person would do that, after everything we did? Priya testified for her. Without us, she’d have lost that case, end of story. And another payout’s coming soon, so pack your bags. Rohan’s mates are already here.’

Unbelievable.

This was the same man who’d smiled at me, shaken my hand, and thanked me, with tears in his eyes, for getting justice for Priya.

When I moved out, Ashton’s staff had scrubbed the flat spotless. Not a mark on the floor, not a crumb left behind.

Now the place looked like a squat. Rubbish everywhere, stained walls, sticky counters, broken biscuits ground into the rug.

I started to step inside.

A voice cut through from the kitchen. ‘Why are you just standing around? Everyone else is helping. You can’t even sweep the floor?’

‘I’ve got a cold... my head’s spinning...’ That was Priya’s scratchy voice.

‘You’re useless. Can’t even help when family’s here. Make a proper lunch—we’ve got guests.’

‘This isn’t even our flat. We’re just staying here—’

‘Your rich friend made you testify, so she owes us! What, does she want us out on the street?’

‘You still shouldn’t trash the place.’

‘Shut your mouth and start cooking.’

I’d heard enough.