I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 20 - 21 Clean Slate

Chapter 20: Chapter 21 Clean Slate

After work, I crashed Yvaine’s shoot. She was wrapping up a final round of photos for some artsy indie boutique no one’s heard of but everyone pretends to love.

When she finally changed out of a chainmail minidress and stilettos, we hit one of her regular haunts—this little boutique in West 7th called Spitfire. She’d sweet-talked the owner into holding a dress she claimed had my name stitched into the soul.

One look at the dress and I stopped breathing. Crimson satin. Plunging neckline. A thigh-high slit that could probably cause traffic accidents.

I gawked. ‘You’re kidding. I can’t wear that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Just... not my usual style.’

‘That’s the point, honey. You’ve got one shot to stun a crowd and make a man spiral,’ Yvaine said, hands on her hips. ‘This is it. You’re not showing up as yourself tomorrow. You’re showing up as the woman every other woman wants to be, and every man regrets losing.’

‘Bit dramatic,’ I muttered.

‘Bit iconic,’ she snapped. ‘Now shut up and try it on.’

Even the sales girl chimed in: ‘If I had your waist and that ex, I’d show up dressed like vengeance too.’

I bought the damn dress.

Back at my new flat—tiny, sunlit, and finally mine—I hung up the dress in the closet and flopped onto the sofa. The moving crew had dumped everything earlier. Rhys didn’t know this address. My parents didn’t either. Clean slate.

On the way home, I’d dropped by the hospital. Louisa was out of surgery, recovering, still closed off to visitors. I didn’t push. I didn’t want her guilt-tripping me into forgiving her son and left before Rhys showed up.

Now I stood in front of my mirror, holding up earrings against my neck. I had no clue if Ashton’s family preferred pearls or diamonds, saints or sinners. Tomorrow’s party wasn’t just about dress codes and canapé trays. It was his grand announcement: Meet my fake fiancée. All I had to do was to nod and smile and play nice.

I should’ve asked him what they were like. Cold? Conservative? Open to women who’ve made at least two of their leering male colleagues cry in public?

Ashton hadn’t told me. He was off somewhere ‘on business’, which, let’s be honest, could mean anything from mergers to murder. I didn’t even know the name of his company.

The stove clicked off behind me, and I was just about to sit down when the doorbell rang.

Every cell in my body jolted. No one knew I’d moved except Yvaine. I crept to the peephole.

A second later, I opened the door.

Ashton stood there. Hoodie. Joggers. Sharp-eyed and aggravatingly handsome.

‘Just got back from the trip. Thought I’d drop by.’

My brain glitched. For a second, I thought I’d hallucinated myself back into my old apartment, the one where he lived across the hall and could pop by any moment. But nope. I turned and stared at the stack of unopened moving boxes behind me. This was my new place. My clean slate.

‘How the hell did you find me?’

He didn’t blink. ‘Made a few calls.’

Of course he did. Same man who’d tracked Louisa’s hospital room faster than I could Google ‘where’s the nearest ER centre’. I hated how fast he moved, how smug he looked while doing it. I hated that I was also... impressed.

I should’ve felt violated, probably. Most people take weeks to get a couch delivered—he tracks my new address in less time than it takes to boil pasta.

But he didn’t radiate creep energy. Just power. Cold, inconvenient, casually terrifying power.

‘Did you come straight from the airport? You look—’ I trailed off, clocking the lack of suitcase. His joggers were tailored, his T-shirt suspiciously wrinkle-free. Not travel clothes. Not jet lagged.

‘No.’ He gave me that infuriatingly calm stare. ‘I bought the flat across the hall.’

I swallowed hard. So that was the plan. We were neighbours again. Perfect.

Then he added, deadpan: ‘If we’re going to be engaged—and maybe, soon, married—I thought proximity would help.’

My jaw twitched. So he’d gone from fake fiancé to fake husband in under ten seconds.

I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t. My brain was buffering, trying to download a reaction from the chaos cloud in my chest. I wasn’t ready to commit to another lie when I was still unpacking from the last one.

He didn’t push. Just shrugged. ‘It’ll be easier if we’re seen coming and going together. My family likes to pry.’

Of course they do.

I nodded. Mostly because saying ‘what the actual hell’ felt rude.

The silence stretched. Not awkward yet, but approaching it.

‘You eaten?’ I blurted.

He arched an eyebrow, like he wasn’t sure if that was an offer or a trap.

‘Come in,’ I said, already regretting it.

Inside, the place still smelled like fresh paint and furniture polish. I reheated my sad little dinner—leftover pasta, garlic bread that had gone soggy in the fridge, and a salad that barely passed for edible.

He didn’t flinch. Just sat at my cramped table like it was the Ritz and accepted the meal like it was a tasting menu. Didn’t even comment on the stainless-steel cutlery, which honestly felt like handing royalty a spork.

He ate like he’d done finishing school with Bond villains. Knife in his right hand, posture too perfect for someone in loungewear.

I tried to fill the silence. ‘So... what exactly do you do, Ashton?’

He cut a piece of garlic bread with surgical precision. ‘Business.’

‘That’s specific.’

‘It’s what it is.’

He wasn’t chatty. But he wasn’t a wall either. Every time I asked him something, Ashton answered—short, to the point, polite. But he never asked anything back. No follow-ups, no elaboration. Just clean, efficient replies like a human email.

I tossed a glance at the TV, trying to fish for common ground.

‘You ever watch The Spite Club?’ I nodded at the screen, where two reality stars were waterboarding each other with kombucha.

His expression didn’t even twitch.

Fair enough. That show was garbage.

But then the financial news rolled on—stocks, suits, the usual late-capitalist meltdown—and that got a flicker out of him. Not much, just a look. But it landed.

Finance guy, then. Banker or shark. Probably both.

Midway through dinner, my phone buzzed. Unknown number. I ignored it. Probably another telemarketer.

Then a text popped up:

[You should really reconsider pretending to be my fiancée. Just until my mum gets better. Agree to play along, and I’ll forgive you for the assault at the hospital.]

I snorted. Only one man could turn manipulation into charity and still sound smug doing it.

I blocked Rhys’s new number and deleted the text.

I must’ve made a face because Ashton looked up and asked, ‘Rhys Granger?’

I nodded and shrugged. ‘Still trying to cast me in his personal soap opera.’

He didn’t say a word. I figured that was the end of it.

Then he stood up, disappeared down the hallway, and came back with two suit bags. Designer labels. Obnoxiously expensive. Clearly male clothes.

‘What’s this?’ I asked.

‘Stage dressing,’ he said. ‘If you’re not ready to escalate the fake engagement into a fake marriage, we’ll need something else to make it believable. Like living together.’

‘That’s overkill.’

‘If I could find your new address, so can he.’ His voice was flat. ‘Couple grand to a PI. Or two phone calls, tops.’

He had a point.

‘If Rhys shows up, I’ll handle him,’ I said.

‘No doubt. But a few suits in the closet might make him hesitate. Make him believe the lie before he tries to rewrite it.’

I raised an eyebrow. ‘Or I could just show up to his place, shove my tongue down your throat, and finally make him believe I’m with someone else now.’

Silence.

I winced. ‘Sorry. That was—’

‘Not a bad idea,’ he said, voice unreadable. ‘If he shows up and you need to sell the act, call me.’

I barked out a nervous laugh and scooped up the suits. ‘Let’s call that Plan B, shall we? I’ll, um... I’ll hang these up.’