I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 171 - 172 Reinstated

Chapter 171: Chapter 172 Reinstated

I got to the studio just after nine.

I’d barely gotten any sleep last night, my lips felt swollen, and I was still smiling like an idiot.

Last night seemed to have jolted something loose in him.

This morning, right after I’d come downstairs and before I even had the time to say good morning, Ashton shoved me against the hallway wall and kissed me like we were trying to break a record.

Thirty minutes. I counted.

By minute twenty-two, my knees were gone.

By minute twenty-eight, my vision blacked out for a second.

I nearly passed out in his arms and he still didn’t stop until I shoved him away.

After breakfast, I tried sneaking out.

He caught me at the door, pressed me against it, and spent ten more minutes recreating the pleasantly numbing sensation.

Apparently, Mr Iceberg was dead, replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands to himself for more than six minutes at a time.

I should’ve been irritated.

Instead, I felt light. Warm. Like my ribs had been unzipped.

I grinned the entire car ride to the studio, lips twitching every time his stupid face popped into my head.

Priya caught me at the sink, fiddling with my travel mug.

‘What are you smiling at?’ she asked, squinting.

‘Huh?’ I tried flattening my mouth. My jaw ached. ‘Nothing.’

She didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, something’s gone right. The Aureate Awards just sent a letter. You’re back in.’

‘That’s good news.’ I muttered a quick thank-you to Octavia in my heart.

‘They reversed the disqualification. You’re officially reinstated.’ Priya grinned. ‘I printed the letter. Framed it for you.’

My grin came back, wider than before.

Priya held up a printed sheet.

‘Here, competition schedule. Location, check-in, rules. Says you’ll be sketching on site for eight hours straight. Eight. Hours. Have fun with that.’

I took the page from her and scanned the bullet points.

The competition was in Riverbend, a couple hours outside Skyline.

Not far, but far enough to mean hotels, travel.

‘Can you pull the themes from the past few years?’ I said. ‘Winners, too. Anything visual. I want to study them properly.’

‘Already on it,’ Priya said, skipping towards her desk.

I pulled out my phone and shot Octavia a message: [Thanks for getting me back in. Owe you dinner, drinks, or both.]

She replied with a thumbs-up and a smiley face.

Just before lunch, Daniel came racing down the stairs with his laptop open.

‘You won’t believe it,’ he shouted, sliding the laptop in front of me. ‘That bracelet you launched? It blew up. Thousands of orders already. Might cross ten thousand by tonight.’

I stared at the screen. Order notifications stacked in rows. All for the same bracelet.

I’d designed it a month ago. Minimal lines, matte gold, tiny clasp with a hidden hinge.

It was meant as a stopgap, a quick product to make up for all the custom projects I’d lost after Harper’s tantrum scared off half my clients.

No clients meant no orders. No orders meant no rent.

I posted the bracelet online just to fill the silence.

First few days, nothing. Dead air.

Then, two nights ago, I dressed up a bit, took photos of the bracelet on my wrist. Posted it to Instagram and X.

I didn’t expect anything. It was just a routine promotion.

By morning, there were ten thousand comments.

Most of them weren’t even about the bracelet.

Daniel swore. ‘Shit, the site’s down! Too many orders. The whole thing froze.’

He spun the screen around.

The browser was stuck loading, pixelated like a bad livestream.

‘It couldn’t handle the traffic,’ he said. ‘I had it slapped together last month, cheap and fast. I’ll call someone in to fix it.’

‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘A short crash isn’t the worst thing. It slows the flood. We can’t fill ten thousand orders overnight anyway. Once the money clears, we’ll pay for a proper site.’

The bracelet orders were still funnelled through the same factory Nyx Collective used.

The place could only churn out so many pieces a week.

Even if we worked double shifts, it’d take a month to get through the backlog.

But the price I’d set wasn’t low.

Selling thousands meant serious cash. Enough to give Priya and Daniel a pay bump and still have room left for new materials.

By five, my jaw ached from smiling.

Every call brought new numbers. Every email had more press than the last.

By six, I’d forgotten what silence sounded like.

By eight, I could barely keep my eyes open.

***

Ashton didn’t come home for dinner.

I sat in the living room, TV playing something with canned laughter I wasn’t listening to.

At some point, I curled sideways on the sofa and passed out.

I woke to the door clicking open.

Ashton stepped in, head down, fingers at the collar of his shirt.

I sat up, blinking hard.

He walked over, the scent of whisky trailing behind him.

‘You’ve been drinking?’ I asked.

‘Didn’t touch it. But others drank.’

He shrugged off his jacket and let it drop on the floor.

The whisky smell thinned out as the fabric settled.

He looked worn out. There was shadow under his eyes.

‘There’s warm milk in the kitchen,’ I said. ‘Carmen made it before she left. She’s not feeling great, so I told her to go to bed early. I’ll get it for you.’

I shifted to get up, reached for my slippers.

He leant down, pressed a hand against my shoulder, pushed me back into the cushions.

‘I don’t want milk,’ he muttered against my lips.

I tried to speak, but the sound caught in my throat.

He moved fast, hands locked around my waist, body flush against mine, pinning me to the cushions.

The silk pyjamas I’d put on after my shower clung to me.

He gripped my hips, dragged the fabric tighter.

His fingers dug in just above my waistband.