I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 51 - 52 Execution Mode

Chapter 51: Chapter 52 Execution Mode

Rhys staggered backwards, arms flailing like someone had yanked the battery out of his spine.

Ashton didn’t let up.

While Rhys was still trying to figure out which direction gravity was pulling him, Ashton calmly slipped off his watch and shoved it into his pocket.

Then he cracked his neck and grabbed Rhys by the collar.

And started swinging.

One punch.

Then another.

And another.

Until I’d lost count.

Until Rhys was spitting blood and barely holding himself upright, body folding like wet cardboard.

And Ashton still wasn’t done.

He let Rhys drop like a sack of compost.

Then he strolled over and stomped him in the gut.

Not once.

Repeatedly.

Real slow. Real controlled.

Every hit got another mouthful of blood out of Rhys, like some horrific vending machine.

‘Ashton!’ I lunged forward, grabbing his arm with both hands. ‘Jesus, you’ll kill him! Stop!’

He turned to look at me.

I almost flinched.

His eyes were so blue they were almost black, holding a kind of still fury that made my stomach twist.

I’d seen him pissed before, but this was something else.

This was execution mode.

My fingers trembled on his arm, and I dropped them.

‘Ashton, please stop.’

If he wouldn’t, I might be forced to come to Rhys’s defence, as much as I hated doing that.

But whatever switch had flipped inside him... switched back.

His face emptied out. Blank again.

He blinked, once, and the violence vanished.

Then he looked at my wrist, the one Rhys had grabbed earlier.

He stepped closer and took it in his hand like it was made of glass.

His thumb brushed over the skin.

I didn’t need a mirror to know it looked bad—deep red, starting to purple, ugly against my pale skin.

‘He hurt you,’ he said in a soft voice, way too soft for someone who just played Mortal Kombat with my ex.

‘I’m fine. It’s nothing. Looks worse than it is.’ I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened just slightly.

Not rough. Just firm enough to freeze me.

‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll put something on it.’

He started walking me towards his flat like it was already decided.

Which, knowing him, it probably was.

Behind us, Rhys groaned like a dying raccoon.

Then his voice came out, all wet and wheezy.

‘You... you can’t do this... this is assault... I’ll call the cops... I’m calling the fucking cops...’

He reached for his pocket with a shaky hand, only to realise his phone had flown halfway down the hallway.

It was lying in the corner, completely out of reach.

He started crawling for it.

Didn’t even get ten centimetres before a shiny leather shoe came down on his hand. Hard.

Rhys froze.

His eyes travelled up—sleek suit trousers, crisp jacket, perfectly calm rage—until he met Ashton’s eyes.

That shut him right up.

Ashton looked down like Rhys was something stuck to his sole. ‘Yeah, call the cops. Let’s tell them you stole an access card, broke in after midnight, and tried to assault and kidnap my wife. Definitely a 911 moment.’

‘I didn’t... I wasn’t kidnapping Mira, I just—’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

Ashton pressed harder on his hand.

Rhys let out a guttural squeal and bit his tongue.

Ashton pulled out his phone and made a call, voice calm enough to scare me more than the shouting.

Two security guards showed up so fast I thought they’d been hiding behind the curtains.

One grabbed Rhys’s left arm, the other his right.

‘Mr Laurent, this is on us. We’ll have him taken to the station immediately. Won’t happen again, sir.’

When the hallway finally emptied and all the testosterone cleared out, Ashton turned to me, caught my wrist again, and led me into his place.

‘You’re hurt,’ he said. ‘Let me see what I can do. Then we’ll go to the hospital, just to be sure.’

‘I’m fine. Seriously.’ My voice didn’t sound super convincing, mostly because I was too busy eyeing the minimalist murder-den he called a flat.

It looked exactly like the place across from my old apartment.

Black, white, grey.

Everything sharp-edged and spotless.

Not a single personal object.

Not even a coffee mug.

I sat on the sofa—if you could call it that; it felt like a furniture showroom display—and tried not to fidget.

Ashton crouched in front of me with a first aid kit, ignoring my objection.

My wrist throbbed, but what made me flinch wasn’t the pain.

It was the memory of that look in his eyes earlier.

That ice-cold, controlled violence.

He paused, fingers just above my skin, and glanced up.

Guess he noticed.

‘Are you upset I hit Rhys Granger?’

His voice wasn’t smug or apologetic.

Just... quiet.

Too quiet for a man who nearly beat someone into a coma five minutes ago.

If I hadn’t grabbed his arm when I did, he probably would’ve finished the job.

I wasn’t scared for Rhys; I was scared Ashton might actually kill the guy.

When I didn’t answer, he went back to dabbing antiseptic on my wrist.

I could tell from the slightly downturned shape of his mouth that he was stewing in it.

I’d been in love with Rhys for years.

Stupid, wasted years.

Ashton knew that.

I didn’t blame him for assuming I still had a soft spot left somewhere.

But I didn’t.

‘No,’ I said.

He looked up again, searching my face like he thought I might be lying.

‘I wasn’t upset for him. I was just scared you’d go full psycho and kill the guy. And then you’d go to prison.’

His hands stilled.

Then he smiled. ‘So you were worried about me?’

‘Yes. If you’d actually murdered him, we’d both be in handcuffs, with me as an accessory.’

‘I knew what I was doing. He wouldn’t have died.’ He stood up. ‘So, you no longer feel anything for him?’

‘Nope.’

‘Good. Then you probably won’t feel anything either, if I’ll tell Dominic to make sure Rhys has a rough night in holding?’

He reached for his phone.