I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 170 - 171 Body Language

Chapter 170: Chapter 171 Body Language

He’d asked if I could try. Try to like him. Try to see what we could be if it were real.

I didn’t have a reason to say no.

‘Alright,’ I said.

His whole face shifted.

That careful, blank expression he always wore cracked open.

His mouth twitched up into a pleased curve.

Before he could speak, I cut in. ‘But we agreed on one year. We said we’d divorce after that.’

I’d started having feelings for him for a while now, I knew.

But there was a deal, a deadline.

It hadn’t been a fairy tale; it was a contract.

‘Yeah,’ he said quietly. ‘We did.’

He looked away for a second, then back at me. ‘But contracts can be changed. Updated. Scrapped.’

‘So you’re saying the one-year limit’s off? There are still eight months left. Well, seven and nine days.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘You’ve been thinking about it this whole time, haven’t you? Counting down the days until you could leave.’

‘...I haven’t.’

I had counted.

But not because I wanted it to end.

I’d wanted time to slow down.

Being married to Ashton had been the only stretch of life that felt calm.

Not perfect. Just... solid.

But every time I got too comfortable, the deadline hit me again, reminding me not to get used to it, reminding me I didn’t get to keep him.

If there weren’t a deadline, I wouldn’t need to keep stepping back.

‘So,’ Ashton said again, ‘you’ll give us a shot? Try to like me?’

‘I can.’ I already did. ‘What about you?’

He stepped in. Bent slightly, just enough to force me to look up.

‘You really don’t know?’

Snow was swirling around us, but under the umbrella, it was quiet, like we’d shut the rest of the city out.

Ashton’s stare pinned me in place.

I shut my eyes.

Everything came rushing in.

Ashton in the stairwell, hands streaked with dust after fixing the fuse box.

The hospital, when he showed up with a blanket, a pair of slippers and coffee hot enough to burn my tongue.

The night he asked if I wanted to marry him, like he was offering to split a cab.

The night of the final rehearsal dinner, lights off, music humming through the dark, his arms around me in a practice dance.

The pool, where his face broke through the water surface and became the last thing I saw before I went under.

The courthouse steps, where he handed me flowers and said I was brave.

He always showed up.

Even when I didn’t ask.

Even when I tried to push him away.

He backed me, every time.

That fireworks show. The cake.

And the money. No strings, just there when I needed it.

If he never said how he felt, he showed it, more than enough.

I opened my eyes. They stung.

Whatever had me second-guessing before, it didn’t hold anymore.

I raised my hand and rested it lightly against the back of his neck, drawing him in.

Then I kissed him.

His mouth met mine with quiet intent, firm, unhurried.

His lips were cold from the air but softened quickly against mine.

I tasted the peppermint from the tea he’d sipped after dinner.

His hand cupped my waist, fingers pressing through the fabric of my coat, grounding me.

The alley was narrow, lined with dark brick walls.

A kitchen fan hummed faintly behind a metal door, but the street noise barely reached us.

The snow kept falling, light and constant, muffling everything.

A patch of melted slush glistened under the amber streetlamp at the alley’s end.

I didn’t close my eyes.

I wanted to remember everything—the way he tilted his head slightly to deepen the kiss, how he breathed through his nose to keep from pulling away, the faint scratch of stubble along his jaw as I moved closer.

His grip tightened, then loosened, like he was trying not to rush, like he didn’t want it to end too soon.

I felt the chill seeping through my boots and the press of his chest against mine.

The umbrella tilted as his arm shifted, and a few snowflakes landed on my cheek.

He drew back just enough to look at me.

His breath came out white and uneven.

We stayed like that for a second, faces close, sharing the same cold air, before he leaned in again and kissed me harder, like he’d decided something.

***

He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other locked around mine.

I told him twice to let go.

The snow was thick, the roads slick, and the last thing I wanted was to skid off a bridge and have the paramedics find us still holding hands like some deranged couple in a suicide pact.

He didn’t answer either time. Just tightened his grip and kept his eyes on the road.

Eventually, I gave up.

His thumb moved slowly across my knuckles, back and forth, like he didn’t realise he was doing it.

But I knew better.

Ashton didn’t say much when it came to feelings, but I’d learned to read his tells—touch was his language.

So I let him hold on.

When we walked through the front door, the house was already lit, hallway lamps on, kitchen glowing gold from the under-cabinet lights.

It smelled faintly of ginger and something roasted, but the usual clatter of Geoffrey preparing late tea or Carmen yelling at her tablet was missing.

We headed upstairs.

At the top, he paused outside my door.

I turned to face him, heart thudding too fast for how quiet everything was.

His eyes met mine.

He waited.

I stood on tiptoe, kissed him again.

Then I pulled back, just far enough to say, ‘Good night.’

He nodded. ‘Good night, Mira.’

I pretended not to notice the disappointment in his eyes.

I watched his back as he walked to his room.

My hand hovered on the doorknob.

I wanted to ask him in.

Every inch of me was wired for it, tuned to the thought of his hands, his mouth, the heat of him pressed against me again.

But I didn’t.

I went inside, shut the door, and leaned against it.

I wasn’t going to make the same mistake I’d made with Rhys. Not with Ashton. Not when this had a chance to be real.

Still, I couldn’t stop picturing him.

As I stood in the shower, rinsing conditioner from my hair, I caught myself wondering if he was thinking about the alley. About the kiss.

If he was lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, replaying it the way I was.