I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 62 - 63 Silver Spoon Treatment

Chapter 62: Chapter 63 Silver Spoon Treatment

It wasn’t until I’d strutted out of the building that I realised maybe I’d been a tad impulsive.

But holy shit, it felt good.

I was halfway down the street when my phone rang.

‘Mrs Laurent,’ Dominic greeted.

I physically flinched.

Hearing it out loud was way worse than seeing it in a text.

‘Mr Everett.’

‘Please, just call me Dom. I just wanted to remind you,’ he went on, all polite and corporate, ‘that if there’s no activity on the card, the account will be frozen before the next monthly deposit.’

I stopped dead on the pavement. ‘What do you mean “frozen”?’

‘I mean you must spend the funds. There needs to be a transaction history, or the account locks automatically.’

I stared at my reflection in a shop window.

My mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

What the hell kind of bougie, dystopian Barbie card needed ‘mandatory spending’?

‘Um, got it. Thanks, Dominic.’

Just as I was about to hang up, he added, ‘When will you be moving in with Mr Laurent?’

Oh, right. The move.

That little formality I’d been pretending didn’t exist.

‘I’m free this week, so—’

‘Perfect. Let’s do today. I’ll bring the team to Oakwood Apartments now.’

‘Wait, I don’t need—’

He hung up.

I bolted straight back to Oakwood.

When I got there, Dominic was already outside the building, standing next to three strangers.

‘Mrs Laurent,’ he said with a smooth smile, ‘this is Mr Laurent’s housekeeper, and these two are household staff. They’ll assist you with the packing.’

‘Right. Cool. Thanks, everyone,’ I said, giving them a nod like I did this sort of thing all the time and wasn’t screaming internally.

They moved like a corporate SWAT team—efficient, silent, scarily precise.

Within an hour, my entire life was bubble-wrapped and boxed.

The place was scrubbed clean like I never existed.

Not a stray sock, not a rogue bobby pin, not even a ghost of last night’s takeaway.

I’d planned on keeping the flat for a rainy-day escape.

But nope, Dominic’s crew went full Marie Kondo on it, and now the vibe was less ‘backup home’ and more ‘sterile Airbnb’.

‘Mrs Laurent, shall we?’ The housekeeper, Geoffrey Croft—mid-forties, crisp accent, dressed like a high-end funeral planner—stood at attention by the SUV, ready to cart me off to Ashton’s lair.

Man had manners like he’d been downloaded straight from Downton Abbey.

I nodded. ‘Yeah. Let’s go.’

I already knew Ashton didn’t live in the main Laurent mansion—the one that hosted that horror show of a party.

Geoffrey told me his boss preferred a more low-key residence.

Well, Ashton’s version of ‘low-key’ turned out to be a three-storey white villa that looked almost humble from the outside—right up till the gates opened.

There was a driveway.

A parking lot.

An actual swimming pool.

A tennis court.

An outdoor barbecue area.

Even a bloody vegetable garden.

Dominic gave me a curt nod. ‘I’ll head back to the office, Mrs Laurent. Geoffrey will show you around.’

‘Right. Thanks. See you.’

Geoffrey led me around the grounds.

The backyard had a swing hanging from an old oak tree.

It looked just like the one from my childhood home.

‘Mr Laurent has been living abroad for several years,’ Geoffrey explained. ‘He purchased this property some time ago but only started living here this year. It was just me and one other housekeeper until recently. More staff have joined since. If anyone falls short, please do let me know.’

I gave him a nod. ‘Noted.’

Inside, the house was ridiculous.

Each floor felt like it had its own postcode.

Spa room, indoor cinema, security control hub, panic room.

But I nodded along as Geoffrey prattled on.

Couldn’t have the staff thinking I was just some pretty face who didn’t know the difference between a wine cellar and a weapons vault.

By the time we wrapped the tour, my feet were dead and my brain was mush.

I crawled into bed for what was meant to be a ten-minute lie-down and passed out like a corpse.

When I woke up, the sky was pitch-black and someone was knocking on the door.

‘Mrs Laurent, it’s Carmen Alvarez,’ a woman’s voice said.

Probably the other housekeeper Geoffrey told me about.

‘Mrs Laurent, Dinner’s almost ready.’

Mrs Laurent.

Ugh.

That title still felt like a boot I hadn’t broken in yet.

‘Thanks, I’ll be right down,’ I said, after a beat.

I threw on my clothes, shoved my feet into new slippers that were magically my size, and padded downstairs.

Ashton had texted earlier saying he wouldn’t be back tonight, and I’d damn near done a cartwheel.

The dining table looked like it belonged in a Michelin ad, everything plated so precisely it made me want to ruin it just out of spite.

I ate like I hadn’t tasted real food in years.

Before I could even set my fork down, a staff member swept in and cleared the table.

Then another guy showed up, all smiles and polish. ‘Would you prefer a digestif or coffee, madam?’

‘Coffee would be nice, thanks.’

‘Any preference? With cream? Sugar?’

‘Just cream, no sugar.’

‘We have Jamaican Blue Mountain, Hawaiian Kona, or Saint Helena. Fresh ground, of course.’

Before I could process any of that, he was already moving on. ‘Would you care for a stroll through the grounds? I’d be happy to show you the way. Or perhaps a lap in the pool? I’ll heat it right away if you like.’

I waved him off.

The whole thing was too much.

I wasn’t used to all this silver spoon treatment.

Sure, my family was well-off, but nothing close to this whole being-waited-on-hand-and-foot level.

But now I was Ashton’s wife.

On paper, at least.

And I had to play the role just convincingly enough that no one started asking questions they weren’t supposed to.