I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 68 - 69 Rehearsal

Chapter 68: Chapter 69 Rehearsal

An hour later, Dominic delivered a red Ferrari.

I took it out for a spin.

Wind in my hair, sunglasses on, death grip on the wheel.

I couldn’t even remember the last time I drove, and I barely hit twenty miles an hour, gliding down the street like a pensioner on sleeping pills.

Geoffrey rode shotgun, grinning like a proud driving instructor, tossing out compliments like I was doing laps at Silverstone.

But after a few blocks, muscle memory kicked in.

I loosened my grip, leaned back, and let the engine purr.

When I pulled back into the drive, there was an actual smile on my face.

***

That evening, just as I was about to retreat upstairs post-dinner, Ashton said, ‘My grandfather’s birthday’s coming up. We’ll need to attend together.’

‘Yeah, I remember.’ I stopped halfway up the stairs and flashed him an OK sign. ‘I’ll be the perfect fake wife. Promise.’

‘The Laurents aren’t idiots,’ he said. ‘Well, some of them, anyway. If we slip up, even slightly, they’ll catch on. And if anyone starts thinking I’m not serious about this... that I’m using the marriage to manipulate Grandfather—’

‘Say no more. What do you need me to do?’ I dropped onto the sofa across from him, still riding the high from the Ferrari and feeling uncharacteristically agreeable.

He didn’t answer right away.

He crossed one leg over the other, long limbs folded like he was posing for a Vogue editorial without even trying.

If this man ever got bored of being a powerful CEO, he’d make a killing on magazine covers.

Silence stretched again.

Then:

‘We could rehearse,’ he said.

Real calm. Real nonchalant.

‘Sure.’ I nodded.

In my head, ‘rehearse’ meant something chill.

A rundown of the backstory.

A fake engagement 101.

Maybe even a few lines to memorise so I didn’t accidentally say we met on Bumble.

What I got was... choreography.

We stood side by side at the front door like a couple of understudies about to botch their big debut.

Ashton said, ‘We’ll rehearse how we walk in.’

I stared at him. ‘You’re kidding.’

He wasn’t.

Apparently, we were doing blocking like it was West End week at the Laurent Estate.

I half expected a stage manager to pop out with cue cards.

It was kind of fun, but also... kind of awkward.

At least the house was empty.

Geoffrey and staff had cleared out, so there was no one lurking to watch me embarrass myself in socks and a faded hoodie.

I relaxed. Slightly.

Then I glanced down at my slippers, then back at him. ‘We’re going in dressed like this?’

‘The costumes will come in later,’ he answered as if he hadn’t realised I was kidding. ‘If you walk in that stiff, they’ll see right through it. Get closer.’

I shifted half a step towards him, already feeling weirdly self-conscious, then his hand landed on my waist from behind and yanked me in like I was a prop that needed repositioning.

I slammed against him, chest to chest, all breath and heartbeat and... fuck.

I looked up, ready to make some crack about personal space.

He was looking down.

Our faces were so close I could smell his cologne and feel his breath on my cheek.

I looked away. Fast.

His hand didn’t move.

In fact, it tightened.

‘Focus,’ he murmured.

‘Fine,’ I muttered, eyes glued to the floor.

He slid his arm more snugly around my waist and started walking us forward, leading like we were about to waltz into high society instead of the living room.

We made it from the door to the sofa and back again.

Twice.

He stopped. ‘No. This won’t cut it. We’re way too stiff. Anyone with eyes will know we’re faking it.’

I licked my lips. ‘So what do we do?’

‘We can’t just walk like strangers and hope no one notices. If we want them to buy this, we need chemistry. Real intimacy. And we need to cultivate it.’

‘And how exactly do we “cultivate” that?’ I asked, air-quoting with my fingers.

‘We start simple. With a hug.’

I stared at him.

I mean, technically he was my husband now, but mentally I was still in that awkward co-tenant headspace where our deepest bond was shared Wi-Fi.

A hug?

I wasn’t ready.

My soul wasn’t ready.

I mean, even Rhys and I rarely hugged, and that was a man I had been seriously in love with.

I took a step back.

Ashton took one forward.

I moved again.

So did he.

It went on like some ridiculous mating dance until my back hit the bloody kitchen island and I had nowhere else to go.

He tilted his head slightly, bringing his face level with mine.

His voice was a low purr against my ear. ‘Would you be willing to give it a try, as a favour to me? Please?’

The hairs on my neck stood up.

So did other things I wasn’t going to acknowledge in public.

Of course I turned bright red.

Why was this man leaking sex appeal like it was his second job?

I clenched my jaw. ‘Yeah. Fine. Let’s do it.’

Acting. That’s all it was.

I’d watched enough telly growing up to fake a convincing hug.

I could channel every romcom heroine who ever had to pretend she didn’t want to jump the male lead’s bones.

Easy.

Ashton opened his arms, waiting.

I took a deep breath, muttered something unrepeatable under it, then stepped into his arms.

And yeah, alright, he felt... expensive.

His cotton Henley was soft.

His body was not.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and instantly hit a wall of solid muscle under all that casual fabric.

Bloody hell. Man was built like a secret weapon.

His hands settled on my back, one at my waist, one brushing my shoulder.

He gave me a light tap, almost a pat. ‘Relax.’

Easy for him to say.

He wasn’t the one trying not to pass out from pheromone overdose.