I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 75 - 76 Throuple

Chapter 75: Chapter 76 Throuple

She was sitting like she’d been poured into the seat, legs crossed, posture casual, face ridiculous in the kind of way that made me want to throw my skincare routine in the bin.

I knew that face.

Everyone did.

She was the Octavia—film awards, designer perfume campaigns, the kind of actress who could cry in a close-up and make the whole cinema sob.

I’d watched her latest film three times and still hadn’t forgiven her for dying beautifully in the rain.

In person, she looked even more absurdly flawless.

Like someone had photoshopped her into real life without asking the rest of us for permission.

I walked in behind Ashton, legs moving on autopilot, and slid into the seat across from her.

She smiled.

I smiled.

It was all very polite and awkward.

I had no idea what the hell was going on.

The last time I’d been anywhere near LGH, Dominic had let slip that Octavia was pursuing Ashton.

Which apparently included dates.

Romantic ones.

So now my options were:

A) Ashton had gone completely insane and decided to introduce me to his almost-girlfriend like we were in some weird throuple drama.

B) He was dumping me. In a restaurant. In front of Octavia Grey.

Which would be a bold move.

Or was this some twisted arrangement where I got to meet the real woman in his life—while I played the decorative spouse for legal convenience?

My shoulders tensed.

Every trashy soap twist I’d ever half-watched started queuing up in my head like a playlist from hell.

Then Ashton rested his hand briefly on mine. ‘This is my wife, Mirabelle Vance. And this is Octavia Grey.’

Octavia held out her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you.’

I took it, still half waiting for someone to shout ‘cut’. ‘Hi. I’ve seen your work. You’re even more gorgeous offscreen.’

‘Thank you.’

Her smile was easy. Friendly.

Not a single trace of competition or possession in her eyes.

The smile took the edge off.

Not completely, but enough that I didn’t feel like I needed to throw my drink in someone’s face.

Yet.

She looked exactly like she did in the films—only now I could see the tiny mole near her left ear and the way her lashes curled at the tips without mascara.

But what threw me was her vibe.

The press always painted her as some frosty diva who’d send back bottled water for being too wet.

But the woman in front of me was warm, open, and totally lacking in the catty energy I’d braced for.

And judging by the cosy familiarity but zero chemistry between her and Ashton, I’d definitely overthought the whole he’s-about-to-dump-me-for-an-actress situation.

Once the food arrived, Ashton cleared his throat.

‘Mirabelle, she’s got a favour to ask,’ he said, nodding toward Octavia.

‘Me?’ I jabbed my thumb at my chest. ‘You sure you’ve got the right Mira?’

Ashton gave Octavia a look.

She leaned in, smiling like we were besties at brunch. ‘Ash mentioned you’re a jewellery designer?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, I’m flying out to the Venice International Film Festival in a few days, and I still haven’t locked in my jewellery. The big brands all sent stuff, but it’s the same old shiny crap. I wanted something different. Something custom.’ She paused. ‘So... Miss Vance, I was wondering if you’d be interested?’

Ashton coughed.

Octavia’s eyes flicked to him, then she caught herself and corrected with a laugh, ‘Sorry—Mrs Laurent, would you be interested?’

She gave Ashton a sideways glance, like she was checking if she’d passed the test.

He gave a tiny nod.

I blinked at her, completely floored.

Me? Designing for Octavia Grey?

She could snap her fingers and have Cartier grovelling at her feet.

And here she was, asking me to sort her red carpet jewellery?

And she wasn’t going to any film fest—she was going to that one.

The Venice gig.

The same one where Eliza Black, our current Nyx Collective obsession, was making her big splash.

We’d practically turned the office into a shrine for that project.

But Octavia was a different league.

The kind of star who was the headline.

Anything she wore would be dissected, reposted, sold out, memed.

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

‘Time’s tight,’ she went on. ‘Every designer I’ve worked with said no. Too risky, too rushed. But if you’re up for it...?’

‘Yes!’ I blurted, a bit too loudly.

Octavia’s smile widened. ‘Fabulous. It’s a mad timeline though, so I’m afraid you’ll be pulling some very ugly hours.’

‘That’s fine! I’ve got a half-finished design set that might work—I can push to wrap it up, source the materials in parallel, and start production straight away. We’ll make it in time.’

She nodded like she was impressed. ‘Perfect. But I’ll need to see the designs first. If I don’t love them, I’d rather hit the carpet in bare ears and a naked neckline. I’m not wearing anything meh.’

‘Got it. I’ll send you the sketches tonight as soon as I get home.’

‘Deal.’

We spent a few more minutes discussing details, and by the time we exchanged contact info, I was pretty sure I was floating two inches off my chair.

It felt weirdly like meeting a childhood pop idol—only this one drank sparkling water and might wear my jewellery on a red carpet streamed to millions.

At some point, Ashton ducked out to take a call, leaving me alone in the room with her.

Octavia glanced over, sipping her drink. ‘You kept looking at me. Then at Ashton. Then at me again. Everything alright?’

I choked on air.

She raised a brow, clearly enjoying this.

Okay, fine, I had been looking.

Trying to figure out if she was secretly eye-banging Ashton under the table.