I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 237 - 238 Irresistible Offer

Chapter 237: Chapter 238 Irresistible Offer

I smiled and typed back: [No rush on the money. If you pay me now, you’ll be broke again, won’t you?]

Priya replied straightaway: [Come on, Mira. You’re paying me a proper salary now, plus that fat year-end bonus. I’ve got plenty left, even after this.]

I hit ‘accept’.

The money landed in my account a second later.

I typed: [Your parents haven’t been bothering you, have they?]

Priya: [Nope. Not a word. I think they’ve wiped me off the family tree. Suits me fine. I’m staying here, where they can’t marry me off to some rich old guy just to cash out.]

She kept going, message after message.

I read every word.

She’d clawed her way out of that backwater town.

Now she had a flat, a job, a clean slate.

I was happy for her.

She sent me pictures of a stray cat she’d adopted off the street.

I stayed propped against the headboard, flicking through them with a grin.

Then I opened Yvaine’s chat.

I started typing, pausing to check Ashton beside me.

He hadn’t stirred.

His mouth hung slightly open, one arm curled under the pillow, the other across my side of the bed.

His breathing was slow and steady.

It was probably the first proper sleep he’d had in days.

I hit mute on my phone and tucked it under my leg.

Yvaine had just replied when a call screen flashed across the top of the chat.

The number wasn’t saved, but I recognised it.

I slipped out of bed slowly, careful to keep my weight off the floorboard in case it creaked.

I padded across the carpet into the bathroom before swiping ‘answer’.

A man’s voice, low and polished: ‘Miss Vance. Hope I’m not interrupting.’

I paused, trying to place it.

Then it clicked.

‘Mr Marchetti?’

Fabrizio Marchetti, CEO of Valmont & Cie.

I’d met him once at an exhibition in Sunset City, where he’d asked for my number.

At the time, I hadn’t taken his offer seriously.

Besides, I wasn’t about to move to France.

He let out a smooth, apologetic laugh. ‘I know it’s a holiday on your end. Thought today might give me a better shot at catching you.’

‘I’ve got time,’ I said.

‘I’ve been waiting for your call since we met. You never got in touch, so I assumed I’d been forgotten. Still, I want to ask again. Would you be open to working together?’

‘Um, about that, thank you for—’

‘Don’t say no just yet,’ he cut in, voice silk-slick. ‘I’m offering thirty per cent. Full creative partnership. You wouldn’t be working under me, but with me. It’s not just a job, and there’s no need to relocate. I’d love for you to visit the Paris office, just to get a feel for it. If frequent travel’s off the table, we’ll coordinate remotely. You stay in Skyline, we work by email, calls, whatever suits you.’

Damn it, I was tempted.

This could actually work.

Valmont & Cie wasn’t just some fancy Parisian label.

They were THE name.

A joint release with them would be everywhere—showrooms, magazine covers, airport displays, the works.

If it took off, I’d stop being that girl with a few decent commissions and start being a name people actually said out loud.

I hadn’t even answered when Fabrizio sighed into the phone.

‘I didn’t mean to talk shop on your day off, but we’ve got an autumn launch on the calendar and none of the concepts my teams submitted are usable. We’re running out of time and I still don’t have a clear direction. Miss Vance, let me send over the roughs. Just take a look?’

‘Alright,’ I said. ‘Send them.’

He’d just offered to show me their internal designs.

That was trust.

The second we hung up, files began landing in my inbox.

I tapped the first one open, barely skimmed the header—

A voice behind me, low and hoarse, broke in.

‘You hiding in the bathroom to flirt with someone?’

I turned.

Ashton was still half-buried in the sheets, lying exactly where I’d left him.

He sat up and dragged a hand through his hair.

‘Sounded like a man. Who was it?’

I walked back over.

‘I didn’t want to wake you. It was Fabrizio Marchetti, CEO of Valmont & Cie. Work call.’

‘Fabrizio Marchetti? That fossil? What the hell’s he calling you for at seven in the morning? Block him.’

‘He’s not that old, and it’s not seven in the morning.’ I gave him a flat look. ‘You think every man on the planet’s got a hard-on for me?’

‘You’re my wife. Seems like a logical assumption.’

I reached the edge of the bed.

His arm shot out from under the duvet and yanked me forward.

I lost balance and landed right on top of him, the quilt bunched up between us.

‘I’m married to the best woman alive. You expect me not to be paranoid?’

I smacked his chest. ‘You’re completely unhinged.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Wants to launch his autumn collection with me. Sounds serious. The profit split’s actually decent.’

‘He’s trying to talk you into moving to France.’

‘He’s not. Even if I go, I’m not relocating. You think it’s a bad idea?’

‘Did you already say yes?’

‘Not yet. But I want to.’ I lifted my head and looked down at him. ‘Problem?’

He fell into a thoughtful silence.

Then said, ‘If you want to go, go. It’s your work. I don’t have a say. You’re ridiculously talented. You deserve a bigger platform.’

He said all the right things, but they landed stiff and flat, like he was reciting lines from a script he didn’t believe in.

He pulled me in tighter.

His breath warmed the back of my neck.

‘One thing, though. If you go to France, I’m coming with you.’