I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 49 - 50 Rhys’s POV: Shift the Story

Chapter 49: Chapter 50 Rhys’s POV: Shift the Story

Rhys’s head whipped up. ‘That’s not on us. I didn’t cancel the wedding. Nor did I say I wouldn’t marry her. She’s the one who ran off and got married.’

Clive swore. ‘Sure. But the bit where you were screwing your ex-girlfriend while still engaged to Mirabelle, that part wasn’t private. Everyone thinks she left because you cheated.’

Rhys’s mouth stayed shut this time.

Fine, maybe he had been a bit hasty in getting back together with Catherine.

But he’d figured Mirabelle would throw a fit, shed some tears.

He didn’t think she’d actually leave.

Clive leaned back. ‘The engagement’s off. Fine. But we’re not taking the fall for this.’

Rhys looked up, hopeful. ‘What does that mean?’

‘We shift the story. Say she cheated first. Say she couldn’t wait, jumped ship, married the first man who winked at her. You’re the loyal one. The victim.’

‘I... I thought you liked her.’

Clive glared at his son. ‘I did, but I like my reputation intact and my investments protected more.’

Rhys licked his lips. ‘You do realise the guy she married is a Laurent. If we start spinning this, doesn’t that make him the other man? Ashton’s not exactly gonna let that slide.’

‘We don’t say who. Just that Mirabelle cheated. Keep the guy out of it.’ Clive sneered. ‘Do you honestly think Ashton married her for love?’

‘Of course not,’ Rhys said immediately.

There was no world where someone like Ashton willingly chose a girl like Mirabelle.

Clive gave a thin smile. ‘They got the licence quietly. No press, no photos. The Laurents haven’t said a word. That means Ashton doesn’t want to acknowledge the marriage publicly. Doesn’t want to acknowledge her. If the vultures come for her, he probably won’t lift a finger.’

His tone turned calculating. ‘As long as we don’t name Ashton, all the dirt will land on her. That’s the only way to clean the Granger name. You get that, right?’

Rhys nodded slowly. ‘Yeah. I get it.’

‘Good. Meanwhile, you stay away from Catherine. Keep your head down. Look heartbroken. Let people think Mirabelle’s the one who wronged you. Play the wounded ex. You can at least manage that, can’t you?’

Rhys muttered, ‘Yeah... sure.’

He left the Granger townhouse fuming.

All of this was Mirabelle’s fault.

Who the hell gave her permission to dump him first?

If anyone was ending that engagement, it should’ve been him.

She stole his thunder.

‘If you did it to piss me off,’ he muttered to himself, ‘congrats, babe. Goal achieved.’

When he got back to his penthouse, Catherine was lounging on the cream leather sofa in his hoodie, scrolling on her phone.

‘You should skip the office this week,’ Rhys said without preamble, dumping his keys on the counter. ‘Actually, screw it, take a trip. Paris, Bali, wherever. Just leave Skyline for a while.’

Catherine looked up, surprised. ‘Why?’

‘Because we need to chill. My parents are breathing down my neck. People are watching.’

Her smile started to crack at the edges. ‘But I thought you’d talk to your parents, tell them you and Mirabelle are done. That you’re with me now.’

‘Just do what I say,’ he snapped.

‘But I—’

He glared at her.

‘France sounds lovely.’ She swallowed her objection. ‘But for how long?’

Rhys came over and gave her cheek a light pinch. ‘That’s what I love about you. You don’t kick up a fuss.’

She smiled.

He stood up. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘What?’ She was thrown. ‘I, ah, I thought you were gonna eat with your parents. I didn’t—’

‘Never mind. Just order me some takeout.’ He went into the bathroom and took a shower.

When he came out, Catherine said, ‘Food’s arriving in fifteen minutes.’

‘That long?’ He frowned. ‘You should’ve ordered from the restaurant across the street.’

‘I’ll remember that next time.’

Padding over to the fridge, he hunted down an orange and tossed it to Catherine. ‘Peel this, will you?’

She did.

He’d just popped a few orange slices into his mouth when his stomach cramped hard.

Sharp, twisting, like someone had laced the fruit with knives.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, pressing a hand to his abdomen.

‘Gastritis acting up again?’ Catherine jumped up. ‘Where’s your med?’

He pointed to the bathroom.

She rushed in and came out thirty seconds later. ‘Here, take these. And if it gets worse, we’re going straight to the hospital.’

She plonked the H2 blockers and a glass of water down in front of him.

Rhys stared at them.

Catherine sat down, her job done. ‘Must be the stress getting to you. Maybe you should come to France with me. You know, clear your head, get a break from Mirabelle. Seriously, I don’t get what she’s playing at. Marrying some random guy just to get under your skin? Pathetic.’

Rhys was barely listening.

He stared at the blister pack, made a move to reach it, but groaned when a fresh wave of agony hit him.

Mirabelle used to do this too—only different.

She’d crack the pills out of the blister pack and place them in his mouth.

Then she’d tip the water to his lips, hand on his back to keep him anchored.

All he had to do was lie there and swallow.

Catherine didn’t do any of that.

She hadn’t even opened the damn foil.

Rhys didn’t say anything.

Wouldn’t be fair to go off over something this minor.

Still. It bugged him.

‘Rhys? Are you listening?’ Catherine waved a hand in front of his face. ‘I was thinking... which part of France should I even go to? I’m bored of Paris, Cannes was too humid, and Saint-Tropez’s full of influencers. Maybe somewhere low-key, like Biarritz?’

‘Whatever,’ he muttered.

‘Hmm? Or should I just borrow your family’s château in Bordeaux again? Thoughts?’

‘Wherever you want to go is fine,’ he said. ‘Just go check online for tickets.’

The second Catherine hit the shower, Rhys grabbed his phone, found her number, hit call.

If Mirabelle answered and apologised—fine.

He could let go of the whole quickie marriage stunt.

Ashton could be her rebound or whatever.

Once she got over herself and filed the divorce papers, there was still a spot waiting for her.

He was still willing to give her the title of Mrs Granger despite all the trouble she’d stirred up.

As long as she didn’t expect affection or bedtime cuddles, they’d be just fine.

The call didn’t go through, went straight to busy tone.

Rhys blinked.

Then remembered—oh. She’d blocked him. Again.

He dialled Yvaine next.

One ring.

Click. Call ended.

What the hell?

He called again.

This time it didn’t even ring. Straight to voicemail.

He was blocked.

‘Fuck!’ he shouted, hurling the phone across the room.

Next morning, he sent someone to stake out Nyx Collective.

Wait for Mirabelle to leave work. Follow her. Get a location.

By sunset, he had it.

He drove to Oakwood Apartments, some mid-rise thing near the park.

On the way there, he called in a favour, pulled a few strings, got access to the building and a lift pass to her floor.

He got in the lift.