I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 236 - 237 Last Mistake

Chapter 236: Chapter 237 Last Mistake

The noise faded.

One man in a corduroy blazer made a loud scoff and stormed out.

‘What a waste of a day,’ someone muttered behind him. ‘Could’ve stayed home.’

‘Let’s go. This was a bust.’

People began trickling out.

Handbags snapped shut. Suit jackets were yanked from chairs.

Within minutes, the room was cleared, with just me and Ashton left.

Gwendolyn hesitated in the doorway, shot Ashton a poisonous look, then stomped off.

Ashton stepped slowly towards the bed.

He leaned over the old man’s face.

‘They’re gone. Every last one of them. Not a single person in this room gave a damn about you. They only turned up to collect. The moment they realised they weren’t getting what they came for, they fled. Probably whining about bad luck the whole way to the car.’

Edouard’s eyelids struggled open.

His pupils locked on Ashton, wide and blazing with fury.

‘You... you changed my... my will...’

The words scraped out like broken glass.

His chest rose in short, jagged bursts.

Ashton looked down at him like the man was already a ghost.

‘You spent your life betting on the wrong people. You chose Gwendolyn over my mother. You helped push her towards her death, and thought I’d never find out. You were wrong. You picked Declan over me, shipped me overseas and hoped I’d get myself killed. Wrong again. You hid your diagnosis and made backroom deals with a lawyer you assumed was on your side. That was your last mistake.’

He turned and reached for my hand.

We left without looking back.

Just as the door slid shut, the heart monitor let out a shrill, flat line.

When we reached the car, Ashton opened the passenger door for me, then slid into the driver’s seat.

He didn’t start the engine.

The light inside the car was dim, tinted grey-blue from the hospital’s neon signage.

Ashton stared through the windscreen, hands resting motionless on the wheel.

I watched him from the side.

There was no grief in his face, only tension.

His forehead creased, lips pressed into a hard line.

He looked wrecked. Mentally spent, physically drained, stuck somewhere between rage and bone-deep fatigue.

I reached across the console and took his hand.

His skin felt cool, the bones sharp beneath my fingers.

I traced my thumb over the ridge of his knuckle.

‘It’s over.’

He gave a single nod.

His head dropped back against the seat.

Then he turned his palm and curled his fingers around mine.

After a while, his voice broke the stillness. ‘Come here.’

I slid across the seat and wrapped both arms around his waist.

He folded around me instantly, like he’d been waiting.

His arms locked across my back, one hand threading into my hair.

His body was solid and warm, steady as ever.

But I knew even he needed to be held sometimes.

Silence settled over us like a second skin.

I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of his body soaking through my jacket.

Outside, colour flared.

I lifted my head.

A burst of fireworks exploded across the sky beyond the windscreen.

One after another, they lit up the skyline in flashes of gold, silver and deep crimson.

The car filled with fractured, dancing light.

I turned back to Ashton.

His face was inches from mine, clearly lit now in the shifting glow.

The set of his mouth had softened.

His eyes weren’t hard anymore.

I leaned in and kissed him.

‘You still have me.’

‘Yeah. I do.’

He cupped my cheek, his thumb brushing just below my eye.

When he leaned forward again, I met him halfway.

An hour later, we were home, in the bedroom.

His jacket hit the floor first, then mine.

His shirt came off next.

I helped speed up the process by ripping off a button or two.

My palms skimmed his chest, warm and lean beneath my touch, skin stretched tight over muscle.

He unzipped my dress.

The sound was soft, nearly drowned out by the patter of light outside.

His lips trailed along my throat, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder.

My skin prickled as he moved lower, tasting, kissing, breathing me in like he couldn’t get enough.

The room was warm and dark, full of breath and skin and rustling fabric.

I pulled him down with me onto the mattress.

His hands slid down my hips, fingertips tracing along the inside of my thighs.

I arched beneath him.

He held me still, then lowered his mouth.

Everything narrowed.

Sensation, sound, time, all of it vanished.

There was only the heat of him, the rhythm, the unrelenting pressure.

My nails dug into his back.

He grunted when I pulled him closer, deeper.

His breath stuttered when I whispered his name against his throat.

We moved together.

We came together.

And he never once let me go.

I woke sometime later with an ache in my lower back and the faint scent of sweat and skin clinging to the air.

My head rested on Ashton’s chest.

His hand was curled loosely around my waist.

Everything from the night before came rushing back: the look in his eyes, the weight of his body over mine, the way he’d said my name just before the end.

Suddenly, the questions about that woman from his past felt pointless, childish.

Whatever she’d meant to him, it had nothing to do with what he and I had now.

I slipped out from under his arm and reached for my phone on the floor.

It was eleven.

I had fifteen notifications: a mix of emojis, bad Presidents’ Day memes, one blurry photo of a roast chicken on someone’s dining table.

At the bottom was a message from Priya.

[Happy Presidents’ Day, Mira! I’ve saved up enough! This is the $30k you and Ashton lent me. Finally paying it back :-) Also, I found a new place, closer to the studio, nice area, only $3k a month. I’m moving out of Oakwood. Thank you for everything. Love you.]