I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 34 - 35 Corporate Robot

Chapter 34: Chapter 35 Corporate Robot

I looked at her. ‘You do realise I wasn’t the only one at that party? Even if I say nothing, other people talk.’

‘Except you and me, no one else from Nyx was at that party. They don’t run in that crowd. If you keep quiet, no one here needs to know a thing.’

‘Relax. I’ve got better things to do than rehash your embarrassing five minutes of fame.’

I made another attempt to leave, but Violet clearly wasn’t done with her one-woman paranoia parade.

‘As long as you don’t tell anyone I nicked the prototype, I won’t show anyone that little video of you going full WWE at the party. Fair?’

Oh. So we were doing blackmail now. Fun.

I stared her down. ‘You think I care if they find out I threw a punch?’

Yes, some people at Nyx liked me. Yes, I had work friends.

But they weren’t ride-or-dies, more like Monday-to-Friday lunch pals.

‘Go ahead and tell whoever you want. I’m not the one who stole from the company.’

Violet’s mouth twisted. ‘Of course you care. You looked like a lunatic, and I’ve got it on video. You were way more embarrassing than I was.’

‘So what’s the plan, Violet?’

‘There is no plan. Just keep your mouth shut, and I’ll keep mine.’

‘I’m hardly one for break-room gossip, and frankly, you’re not interesting enough for me to spread rumours about.’

She relaxed fractionally. ‘Good.’

‘But...’

‘But what?’

‘But you stealing that necklace from the showroom is not just gossip fodder. It’s career suicide. If Savannah finds out, you won’t just be unemployed, you’ll be blacklisted in the entire industry.’

Her whole face twitched. ‘I put it back! No one at Nyx knows, and they won’t—unless you tell them!’

I raised a brow. ‘You do know Savannah has access to the surveillance tapes, right? And that she reviews them periodically? If she spots you on her own, that’s on you. Not me.’

The colour drained from her face so fast I thought she might faint. I could practically see the maths happening behind her eyes—trying to figure out how to wipe the footage before Savannah got curious.

A few minutes later, Savannah’s assistant popped her head in and asked me to head to her office.

Violet got summoned too. She walked in like she was headed to her own execution, all pale lips and shaky breath, clearly convinced I’d already tattled.

But Savannah didn’t mention the necklace. Not even a side-eye. Instead, she launched into business.

‘Eliza Black’s been getting dragged online for weeks. Looks like it only made her dig her heels in, because she wants a full custom set from Nyx Collective, something unique to wear at the Cannes Film Festival next month. If she stuns, we ride the wave and launch the new luxe line off the back of it.’

Savannah paused long enough for the weight of it to settle.

‘Anyone who wants to can submit designs. Whoever she picks leads the project,’ she said. ‘It’s our shot. Don’t mess it up.’

Violet was bouncing. ‘I’ll make sure she loves my work!’

Of course she would. She’d been quietly stewing ever since I beat her out for the last commission.

If Eliza showed up to Cannes dripping in one of Violet’s designs, she’d be waving her victory banner all over the Nyx group chat.

I gave a more measured nod. ‘I’ll be ready.’

The second I stepped out of Savannah’s office, my phone buzzed.

I ignored Violet’s taunting looks and checked out the message:

‘Your dry cleaning is ready for pick-up.’

Right. Almost forgot.

I’d worn Ashton’s jacket home yesterday after he lent it to me at the hospital.

I was going to hand-wash it at first, but one touch and I chickened out.

That thing felt more expensive than my entire wardrobe.

Definitely custom.

Definitely something that would disintegrate if I got anywhere near it with soap.

So I took it to the fancy dry cleaner on 5th instead.

After work, I headed straight there to pick it up.

On the way back, I passed the bakery near the corner and grabbed a few cupcakes.

Figured I might as well soften the awkwardness of returning a man’s jacket with sugar.

I got to Oakwood Apartments and stood in front of Ashton’s door.

My heart was doing its own little cardio class.

I knocked.

Waited.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

Of course he wasn’t home.

He probably only slept two hours a day and worked hundred-hour weeks.

Still, I stood there for a beat longer than I meant to, weirdly disappointed.

Back in my flat, I messaged him: When will you be back at Oakwood? I’ve got your jacket.

I stared at the screen for two minutes.

No reply.

I ate dinner.

Watched an entire episode of The Infernal Housewives of Skyline City.

Still nothing.

Not even a blue tick.

Maybe he didn’t give a damn about the jacket.

Maybe once someone else touched it, it was dead to him.

Like one of those weirdos who won’t rewear socks if they’ve been washed by someone else.

It was nearly ten.

I’d showered, blow-dried my hair, slathered on night cream, and was just about to go to bed when my phone finally buzzed.

Ashton: I won’t be back at Oakwood any time soon. Bring it to Laurent Global Holdings headquarters tomorrow.

No ‘please’. No ‘thanks’.

Just a straight-up instruction like I was one of his interns.

I typed back: Got it.

Didn’t add a smiley.

He didn’t deserve one.

His message had the warmth of a parking ticket.

Maybe this was the real Ashton Laurent—zero charm, full corporate robot.

I was about to put my phone away when it rang.

Unknown number.

Could’ve been a scam call.

More likely Rhys Granger again.

I hung up instantly and blocked the number.

Next morning, I took half a day off just to drop the damn jacket off at Laurent Global Holdings.