I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 71 - 72 Ashton’s POV: Tactical Retreat

Chapter 71: Chapter 72 Ashton’s POV: Tactical Retreat

The CEO’s office was silent except for the knock on the door.

Dominic Everett stepped in, carrying a folder thick enough to strangle someone with. ‘Mr Laurent, this is everything on Nyx Collective.’

He placed it on the desk.

Ashton picked up the folder, flipping through it without a word.

With each page, his jaw set a little tighter.

By the time he hit the middle, the muscle under his cheekbone was pulsing.

So that was what Mirabelle had been dealing with.

Petty backstabbing.

Undercut by her own team.

Screamed at in meetings by people who couldn’t carry her shoes.

‘Fucking hell,’ he muttered.

He leaned back in his chair, report still in hand, fingers tapping against one name.

‘This Rexford Caldwell—why does that sound familiar?’

‘He runs Titan Growth Fund, which invests in Nyx Collective, but he’s not involved in the studio’s day-to-day running. He asked to meet you last week, but your schedule was full.’

‘Right.’ Ashton rubbed his chin. The name clicked now. ‘Tell him I’ll make time. Set it up.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Once Dominic left, Ashton reopened the folder, slower this time.

The report was more thorough than what Cassian had been able to find out from Yvaine.

According to the last section, some C-list actress was having custom jewellery made for a film festival in Italy, and that started the whole row.

He pulled out his phone and made a call.

‘The Venice Film Festival next month. You going?’

The voice on the other end perked up instantly. ‘Of course I am. Why?’

‘You wearing jewellery?’

‘Duh. I’m planning to kill it on the red carpet. The dress and the set are both exclusive pre-season drops from—wait for it—Amarante. I’m the first celeb to wear them.’

‘Return the jewellery. You’re wearing mine.’

‘What?’ She actually yelled. ‘Since when do you make jewellery?’

‘I don’t. My wife does. You’ll wear her design.’

Silence.

Long enough that he thought the line had dropped.

Then: ‘Ashton Laurent. Are you out of your mind? Or is this some kind of practical joke?’

‘No. Let’s do dinner. I’ll introduce you.’

He hung up before she could argue.

***

10:03 p.m.

Still no sign of her.

Ashton hadn’t moved from the sofa.

He’d eaten dinner alone—half a steak, three bites of salad, and enough scotch to strip varnish.

She’d texted him at six, chirpy as hell: [Out with Yvaine. Might be back late!]

Back late, his arse.

Mirabelle didn’t just ‘casually’ go for drinks.

She didn’t do ‘casual’ anything.

He knew a tactical retreat when he saw one.

So he’d sent Cassian.

The bastard reported back with confirmation.

‘She invited Yvaine. Not the other way around.’

Right. So it was a retreat. Dressed up as a girls’ night out.

He’d waited anyway.

Like an idiot.

And waited some more.

Then: ‘Get Carlisle out of there,’ Ashton barked into the phone. ‘I want Mirabelle back. Now.’

Cassian let out a laugh that sounded more like a choke. ‘Mate. You two are insane. I’m not your goddamn messenger boy. If she wants to stay out, let her.’

Click.

Ashton tossed the phone aside.

He stared at the time again.

10:08 p.m.

So she was dodging the rehearsal?

Fine.

But there was another possibility.

A worse one.

Had she found out about the lie?

There was no cousin.

No tragic tale of the poor bloke dragging his hired girlfriend to a family Christmas dinner.

That was a story concocted entirely for Mirabelle’s benefit.

But she had no links to his family.

No way she could’ve found out.

This sudden night out was more likely just her way of saying no to the kiss.

But no, Ashton wasn’t going to let her off the hook that easily, not after the kind of night he’d had.

He hadn’t slept.

Not properly.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was like being sucked back into that sofa.

Her breath warm against his chest.

Her laugh pressed under his skin.

Her legs tangled with his like they had every fucking right to be there.

In his dream, it didn’t stop there.

First the sofa.

Then his bed.

Then the hotel room—the one he hadn’t told her he’d bought after that night.

Dream-Mirabelle was straddling him again, like that night.

That single, scorching night she’d taken the lead and made him forget his own damn name.

But Dream-Ashton flipped her under him, just as fast.

She wrapped her arms around his back, gasped his name, pulled him closer like she didn’t want him to leave.

And in the dream, he didn’t.

He drove himself into her like he had no brakes, and she clung on like she wanted him to ruin her.

He woke up pissed off and hard.

The duvet got kicked to the floor.

Sweat glued his skin to the sheets.

Two glasses of freezing water did nothing to cool him down.

He ended up in the kitchen, shirtless, hair a wreck, glaring at the marble counter like it owed him an apology.

Still hard.

Still furious.

Still thinking about her.

If he wasn’t going to get peace, then neither was she.

Ashton called the bar.

The Cider & Smoke was closing early tonight—health code violation, staff emergency, gas leak; the manager could pick a story.

Ashton didn’t care.

He just wanted her out of there.

Thirty minutes later, he heard the crunch of tyres on gravel.

Geoffrey poked his head into the living room. ‘Mr Laurent? Mrs Laurent’s back. Talking to the driver. Should be inside any second.’

‘Mm.’ Ashton didn’t glance up.

His eyes stayed on the tablet.

One hand flicked the screen like he was reading something important.

He wasn’t.

He’d been scrolling the same page for the last twenty minutes.

But Geoffrey wasn’t stupid.

He saw the way Ashton sat up straighter.

The way his fingers smoothed the wrinkle out of his shirt like he hadn’t been sitting there all night, simmering in silence.

The shift was small.

But it was there.

Geoffrey said nothing.

He just slipped away, because he wasn’t an idiot.