I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 173 - 174 His Room, His Bed

Chapter 173: Chapter 174 His Room, His Bed

Thirty minutes passed.

My toes went stiff.

My nose ran.

I felt like a dead fish in the back of a refrigerated truck.

I shoved the blankets off and marched back out.

‘Geoffrey!’

He materialised. ‘Yes, Mrs Laurent?’

‘I’ll take Ashton’s room. I’m not freezing to death in here.’

‘Of course, Mrs Laurent. Mr Laurent’s sheets and linens were all changed this morning. Everything’s fresh. You can go right in.’

‘Got it.’

Standing outside his bedroom, I texted him.

[Can I crash in your room tonight? Mine’s freezing. I think something’s leaking air through the walls.]

He replied almost instantly.

[Of course. It’s our house. Mine and yours. Sleep wherever you like.]

I typed out ‘thanks’, then deleted it.

He hated when I thanked him for anything.

Instead, I sent a grumpy cat sticker with its photoshopped thumb up.

The second I stepped inside, heat wrapped around me.

The air smelled like pine and detergent.

It was like walking from winter straight into early summer.

I kicked off my slippers and looked around.

The whole room was black, white, and grey.

Nothing on the walls, no clutter, no mess.

Every edge was clean. Not a single personal object in sight.

It was like a high-end corporate suite pretending to be a bedroom.

Geoffrey hadn’t been lying—this room really had been built differently.

The en-suite was just as severe.

Black tiles, dark counters, a glass shower that looked like it had never been used.

I flicked on the lights and winced at the harsh glare.

I washed quickly and padded out in pyjamas.

I threw myself onto his bed and rolled from side to side.

‘God, this thing’s way softer than mine.’

The bed was massive.

I flopped around like an idiot and still couldn’t quite reach the edge.

The room was pitch black. No street noise, no light bleeding through the curtains.

It was stuffy, but not unpleasant.

I thought I’d be too wired to sleep in someone else’s bed.

I was wrong.

The second my head hit the pillow, I knocked out.

I slept deeper than I had in weeks.

When I opened my eyes, it was already close to nine.

I went downstairs barefoot, chewing a piece of toast, and nearly walked into a pair of workers carrying a metal toolbox.

Drills buzzed somewhere in the house.

Wires hung from the ceiling in clumps.

Someone shouted for a wrench from inside the boiler room.

I found Geoffrey by the stairs.

‘Think they’ll fix it today?’

‘Hard to say. This house isn’t standard construction. Every pipe’s custom. If one thing breaks, it turns into a whole operation. No guarantees.’

I muttered, ‘Great,’ around a mouthful of bread.

That night, Geoffrey told me the heating still wasn’t working in my room.

So I went straight back to Ashton’s.

Every day after that, it was the same routine.

I’d ask if things were fixed.

Geoffrey would frown and say something about structural complexity.

I’d nod, thank the workers, and climb into Ashton’s bed again.

After a few more days, I stopped asking.

I didn’t even bother checking my room anymore.

This morning, somewhere between sleep and waking, I felt heat pressing against my back.

The sheets were warmer than usual.

My knees brushed something solid.

There was a slow rise and fall beside me, and my arm lay across something hot and smooth.

I shifted closer and my hand slid across a firm, bare chest.

I jerked awake.

Ashton’s face filled my vision.

It was inches from mine, eyes closed, jaw slack, his breath brushing my nose.

My leg was hooked around his thigh.

My arm pinned his.

My cheek practically stuck to his chest.

I tried to yank myself free.

His arm locked tighter around my waist.

‘When did you get back?’ I asked. ‘Geoffrey said you wouldn’t be home for another week.’

Ashton didn’t open his eyes.

His brow creased. His voice was low and slurred. ‘Back to sleep.’

He tugged me in harder.

My face burned.

Last night, I’d starfished across this bed without a care.

Now I was trapped under a human radiator with a six-foot frame and zero regard for personal space.

I cleared my throat. ‘Right. I’ll just—get up and go. You can have your bed back.’

I pushed against his arm.

It didn’t budge.

I tried to slide out backwards.

He shifted, half-asleep, and his grip clamped down again like I was some oversized body pillow.

‘Ashton,’ I muttered. ‘You’re crushing me.’

He mumbled into my hair, ‘Got in at two. Let me sleep a bit longer.’

I leaned back a little to stare at him.

He hadn’t shaved.

His lashes twitched.

His hand was warm on my lower back, and despite the death grip, his breathing stayed steady.

He really did look wrecked.

I stopped struggling.

My muscles slackened against the heat of the mattress, his body, the blanket pulled up to our shoulders.

It was warm under the covers.

Not just central-heating warm. Real, body-on-body warmth.

I let out a quiet breath and eased closer.

Just five minutes. Maybe ten.

I didn’t mean to fall asleep again.

But I did.

When I opened my eyes, Ashton was lying on his side, propped on one arm, watching me.

His hair stuck out at the back like he’d run both hands through it.

His eyes stayed on mine.

‘What time is it?’ I asked, my voice scratchy.

He glanced at the edge of the curtain where sunlight leaked through. ‘No idea.’

He didn’t look like he planned on moving.

His elbow sank deeper into the mattress, but the rest of him stayed completely still, except for the way his gaze kept dragging over my face, my collarbone, the edge of my shoulder where the blanket slipped.

My limbs felt heavy and warm, like the sleep hadn’t fully worn off.

I blinked slowly and let my head fall back onto the pillow.

He kept staring.

I felt the air shift.

He leaned in slightly, then pulled back again.

His hand clenched and released near the blanket.

Then he said, low: ‘You’ve hijacked my bed. I feel like I’m owed something.’