I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 72 - 73 Instructional Video

Chapter 72: Chapter 73 Instructional Video

I walked in a minute later, tipsy, still giggling at some dumb meme Yvaine had just sent me.

Something about a guy trying to deep-throat a corn dog and nearly dying for it—quality content.

I didn’t think Ashton would still be awake.

Definitely didn’t think he’d be sitting dead centre in the living room like some kind of final boss, staring straight at the door.

Our eyes met.

Shit.

My grin froze.

I snapped the phone shut too hard and wobbled sideways, pressing my fingers to my temples.

‘Drank way too much,’ I mumbled. ‘Gonna crash. Nightttt...’

I staggered like my knees had melted, clinging to the bannister like it owed me rent.

Giving him a wide berth, I dragged my feet up the stairs, feeling his stare right up my spine.

Don’t look back.

Don’t trip.

Don’t break character.

The second I made it to the bedroom, I shut the door behind me like I’d just outrun a serial killer.

I jumped straight into the shower and let the water blast me.

‘Damn it.’ I thudded my forehead against the ceramic tile, while a mental porno featuring Ashton played on loop.

Thanks, Yvaine.

We’d met up earlier and she picked up right where she left off at her birthday, like time hadn’t passed.

Apparently, my ‘married life’ was now her favourite drama.

She grilled me like I was on trial for Crimes Against Horniness, cross-examining me over every single sexless second I’d spent under the same roof as Ashton.

I told her we hadn’t slept together.

Well. Not since that one time in the hotel room, pre-fake-marriage, pre-everything.

So technically, it didn’t count. Right?

She gave me a look like I’d just told her I enjoyed beige wallpaper and abstinence. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You sleep next to that and don’t tap it? Where’s your libido? Menopause hit early or what?’

‘I don’t sleep next to him,’ I corrected her. ‘And my libido’s doing just fine, thanks.’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Yeah, clearly. That’s why you’re living with a guy who looks like sin on legs and not riding him like a stolen bike. I’d be on him every morning before coffee and again after dinner, just for the cardio.’

‘I’m not you, Yvaine. And it’s all fake, remember?’

‘Fake marriage doesn’t mean fake orgasms. If you met him under normal circumstances, you’d have nailed him, admit it.’

‘Yeah, I would.’

And, technically, I had.

‘So what’s stopping you now?’

‘I don’t want to make things more complicated.’

‘You overthink everything. Mira, babe, I love you like family, but you’re a damn coward. You move slower than—what’s a slow-ass animal?’

‘Tortoise?’

‘Yeah. Slower than a constipated tortoise. Look, life’s short. You admit you like him, right?’

‘“Like” is a stretch—’

‘Fine, you like his body?’

‘Well, yeah. I mean, I have eyes.’

‘You emotionally tangled up with anyone else?’

‘No.’

‘And he’s not either?’

‘I haven’t asked him.’

‘That means no. So what the fuck are you waiting for? Go home, yank his trousers down, and ride him like a champion. And if you’re feeling rusty, I’ve got a few instructional videos—’

That was when the pub’s PA crackled on with an apologetic ‘we’re closing early tonight’.

Now I was out of the shower, in an oversized T-shirt, flopped on the bed like a regret-flavoured pancake.

‘Damn you, Yvaine,’ I muttered, dragging a pillow over my face. ‘Could’ve at least airdropped me the vid.’

Too late.

My brain had already started shooting its own movie.

And Ashton was the star.

I almost screamed when there was a knock at my door.

‘Mrs Laurent,’ Carmen called gently. ‘You probably need hydration. I’ve brought you some lemon and honey in warm water, and Advil if you’ve got a headache. May I come in?’

I blinked away the X-rated image. ‘Thanks, Carmen. Door’s open.’

Except when it swung open, it wasn’t Carmen standing there.

Ashton took the tray from her hands and strolled into my room.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

And then—like some divine slapstick punishment—my phone slipped and smacked me in the face.

‘Fuck,’ I muttered, rubbing my cheek.

Great. A black eye to go with the slow death of my dignity.

‘Um, thank you. Can you just put the tray on the nightstand? I’ll drink it in a bit.’

No reply.

I turned, slowly.

He was still there.

Still staring.

Standing two paces from my bed.

He said nothing.

I rolled over, and buried my face in the duvet like an ostrich. ‘Ugh, migraine. So tired. Gonna pass out. Bye.’

Please leave, please leave, please get the hell out.

I lay there, holding my breath like I was auditioning to be a corpse.

I heard the quiet clink of the tray hitting the nightstand.

But no footsteps walking away.

Just an awful silence.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it in my ears.

Every second dragged like a horror film jump scare that never dropped.

Nearly suffocating, I poked my head out and risked a peek.

The wardrobe mirror caught his reflection.

His eyes were lowered, his gaze fixed somewhere on my back.

And I was suddenly very conscious that I was wearing only a T-shirt.

No bra, no panties.

And the shirt had ridden up when I’d jumped into bed, and the hem was now somewhere mid-cheek.

Where his eyes were.

He wasn’t moving.

Just watching.

Just standing there and staring at me like he had nothing better to do than mentally strip me.

And I couldn’t fix my shirt without admitting that I knew he was looking.

That I cared.

So I just played dead.

A half-naked, very humiliated corpse.

Then, after what felt like a decade, he moved.

I tensed like a cat about to bolt, but all he did was step forward, lean down, and gently pull the blanket up over me.

He tucked it around me like I was five and not actively dying of embarrassment.

‘Good night,’ he murmured.

Then he was gone.

I groaned into the pillow.