I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 73 - 74 Lip-lock

Chapter 73: Chapter 74 Lip-lock

Next morning, I got up before the sun like a guilt-ridden teenager post-sneak-out.

There was no way Ashton hadn’t clocked the whole performance last night, and I was not about to sit across from him at breakfast pretending I was a normal, functional human.

So yeah, I tried to dip.

Sneaked downstairs, shoes in hand, bag swinging by my side.

But guess what?

He was already there.

Sitting on the sofa like the king of the business world.

Watching the news.

Calm.

Shirt rolled at the sleeves like a casual threat.

I nearly yeeted my handbag at his face.

‘You’re up early,’ I accused.

He looked over, no expression. ‘Where are you going this early?’

Busted.

I bit my lip, the fake kind of innocent that only works on men who want to be lied to. ‘Yvaine wanted to do breakfast. I’m just gonna... yeah, head out...’

I crab-walked towards the door.

Then, right when my fingers grazed the handle—

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’

My heart dropped straight into my shoes.

I froze.

Turned.

Marched right back across the room like I hadn’t been tiptoeing a second ago.

And then I climbed into his lap.

Straddled him. Arms around his neck.

No hesitation.

Okay, maybe a little hesitation.

But mostly flair.

Kissing was off-limits.

But hugging, I could do blindfolded and drunk.

I leaned in, brushing my face against his neck, whisper-close to his ear.

‘This is as far as I can go. For now. As for the other thing... maybe give me some time? I need time to mentally brace. You’re a man of action, but I’m a girl with nerves. I need a heads-up before we go full lip-lock.’

I needed time to brush my teeth, drown in breath spray, and chain-eat a hundred mints.

More importantly, I needed time to give myself a proper warning not to shove my tongue down his throat or do something wildly inappropriate and irreversible.

Ashton froze.

Literally stopped breathing.

Body stiff like someone had swapped his spine for an ironing board.

He just sat there. Silent.

Was he mad?

Or disappointed?

Or silently scanning our ironclad hell of a contract, trying to find a clause that said ‘if fake wife misbehaves, fake husband gets to unleash legal hellfire’?

I decided not the poke the bear further. ‘Let’s leave it at this for today, yeah?’

He exhaled. His voice came out low and rough: ‘We’ll talk tonight.’

‘Cool, cool.’ I bounced off his lap.

Then I caught him looking at me weird.

I squinted back at him.

Was his neck... red?

Like, sunburn-at-midnight red.

For a split second I thought maybe I’d given him a love bite without realising, but unless I’d started sucking necks in my sleep, that wasn’t it.

‘Are you—?’ I was about to ask if he was allergic to my lip gloss when Carmen popped her head in.

‘Mr Laurent, Mrs Laurent, breakfast’s ready.’ She gave me a sunny smile. ‘Mrs Laurent, I made that spicy chorizo scramble you like so much.’

‘Thanks, Carmen.’

I looked at the dining room longingly.

Then at the door.

Then at Ashton.

His lips curved. ‘Thought you had a breakfast date with Yvaine?’

‘It could also be a lunch date,’ I amended. ‘Or afternoon tea. Yvaine’s very flexible.’

He stood. ‘Let’s eat.’

I moonwalked into the dining room.

Last night I’d been so starved I almost broke into the pantry, but I’d stayed in bed like a good little fake-drunk idiot to avoid blowing my cover.

Now I was starving.

I sat down.

Ashton tore a freshly toasted baguette in half and passed one to me.

I slathered mine with strawberry jam and shoved the jar of pâté towards him without thinking.

And then it hit me.

Not the food.

The domesticity.

The fact that this whole stupid, cosy, married-for-show breakfast vibe was starting to feel normal.

Like I knew exactly how he liked his coffee.

Like he knew I put jam on everything.

Like we were just another boring couple doing breakfast, not two liars caught in a high-stakes fake marriage.

And that freaked me out way more than kissing him ever could.

***

After breakfast, I locked myself in the study to sketch BloomState drafts.

Geoffrey had cleared out the room just for me, and I’d never been this productive in my life.

Even at Nyx Collective, with every professional tool and software available, I didn’t work this fast.

Sometime in the evening, Ashton texted to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner.

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I was holding.

Then he walked through the front door twenty minutes later.

Apparently, ‘not home for dinner’ didn’t mean ‘not home at all’.

Thanks for the clarity, CEO of Misleading Messages.

I was in the kitchen sipping water when the door clicked open.

My fight-or-flight kicked in.

I picked flight.

Slipping past the island, I tiptoed towards the stairs like a cartoon burglar.

And then I saw him.

Ashton was draped across the sofa like a GQ centre-spread, legs crossed, shirt slightly undone.

His eyes were fixed on me.

I scratched my chin and faked a grin. ‘Uh... long day? You should turn in early. Beauty sleep and all that.’

His right hand dangled lazily over the armrest.

Then his index finger lifted, curling at me like I was a pet he was summoning. ‘Come here.’

I should’ve said no.

Should’ve kept walking.

I didn’t.

My feet moved.

One step.

Two.

This morning I’d clocked how soft his lips looked.

Thin, precise, probably very kissable.

A kiss wouldn’t kill me.

Hell, I was getting paid.

Two million sat snug in my bank account, which was plenty of motivation to treat him like a hot human cheque with abs.

I picked up the pace and dropped myself onto his lap like I did this every Tuesday.

Ashton blinked.

This was clearly not what he expected.

‘I said come here. I didn’t say do anything.’

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

‘C’mon. We both know what “come here” means with you. Let’s just get the rehearsal over with. I’ve got sketches to finish.’