I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 79 - 80 Morning After

Chapter 79: Chapter 80 Morning After

The next morning, we didn’t talk about almost having car sex.

Because obviously, pretending nothing happened was the mature thing to do.

The silence stretched across the table like a bad wifi connection—patchy, tense, and just begging to crash.

I was the first to crack. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Ashton looked up. ‘Sure.’

‘I went to LGH that day, and Dominic said you were out on a date with some actress. Octavia Grey, he’d said. But then she told me last night you two are just mates. So, who was the mystery woman you were actually hooking up with?’

I’d told myself I didn’t care.

Turns out I was full of shit.

His silence had been gnawing at me all morning.

He was the one who’d kissed me like he wanted to memorise the taste of my tongue, and now he was sitting here, sipping his coffee like we hadn’t nearly dry-humped in a Maybach.

Ashton choked.

Full-on, coughing-up-a-lung choked.

He grabbed a serviette and wiped his mouth, coughing out, ‘I never went on a date with any actress. Dominic was just... talking nonsense.’

‘Right,’ I said, narrowing my eyes.

Because Dominic Everett, a man who looked like he alphabetised his Spotify playlists, just strikes me as the kind of guy who randomly makes up celebrity hook-ups for fun.

Sure.

But if Ashton wanted to lie, that was his problem.

It wasn’t like our contract had a truth-telling clause.

He reached for his water and muttered, ‘Clearly I’ve been giving Dominic too little work. He’s got too much time to be creative. I’ll dock his pay.’

Poor Dominic.

Somewhere across the city, he was probably sneezing and had no idea why his pay cheque was about to suffer.

I took it out on my toast.

Four aggressive bites in and half a slice down, Ashton glanced up again.

‘No one’s stealing your food, Mira. You can slow down.’

I gave him a smile that said ‘bite me’.

So I couldn’t ask about his secret shag partner and also couldn’t chew my carbs like a normal person?

He cleared his throat and, in that clearly-I’m-trying voice, asked, ‘Did you send the sketches to Octavia? Was she happy with them?’

‘Yeah. Sent the roughs last night. She said she loved them. I’ll tweak a few details today, and we can start sampling tomorrow. Only...’

I stared down at my empty plate.

Only I didn’t have the bloody equipment.

No casting machine, no wax injector, no laser welder—just a pretty little sketch that couldn’t magic itself into diamonds and gold.

If I wanted BloomState to actually exist, I had to go back to Nyx Collective and use their gear.

Which meant risking a Violet Lin sighting.

And I was not in the mood for that.

Ashton must have read my mind. ‘I’ve got a friend who owns a small jewellery studio. Not as polished as Nyx, but it’ll get the job done.’

My eyes lit up. ‘That’ll be perfect. Thanks.’

It wasn’t just Violet I wanted to avoid.

It was also Savannah and the risk of her finding out I was designing red carpet jewellery for Octavia Grey.

If that got back to Nyx, I’d be labelled a traitor faster than you could say ‘conflict of interest’.

Savannah wouldn’t care—my contract said freelancer, loud and clear.

But Violet would twist it into some backstabbing, under-the-table betrayal, and I wasn’t giving her the ammo.

After breakfast, I headed over to the studio Ashton recommended.

It was called Moss & Flame, and it was tucked behind a bakery in a part of the city where parking tickets reproduced like rabbits.

The owner, a wiry redhead in her fifties named Lorna, greeted me at the door like I was her long-lost niece.

She showed me around, and insisted—twice—that I call her if I needed anything, even if it was just a different gauge of saw blade.

I liked Lorna instantly, except she had this funny look on her face when I mentioned Ashton told me they were good friends.

The studio was a small place, but sharp.

Full toolkit—benches, loupes, torches, stone-setting tools—and they even cleared out a little office space for me, complete with a cracked leather chair and a coffee machine.

I stuck around all morning, working.

Started with CAD to tweak the finer angles on the design, then ran a 3D print of the main pieces in wax.

The resin came out a little rough, but it was good enough for moulding.

For the more complex elements, like the lattice settings and that hinged clasp Octavia liked, I cast a quick prototype in brass to test the functionality and make sure nothing snapped under pressure.

Used a micro-motor to clean up the edges, then soldered a sample setting just to see how the curves held under heat.

Not showroom quality, but it was taking shape.

I didn’t realise it was way past noon until my stomach growled.

The studio wasn’t close to Ashton’s house, so heading back for lunch felt like a trek.

I wandered into a nearby mall and grabbed something spicy—jerk chicken with rice and plantains.

Just as I sat down, plastic fork in hand, I looked up—and nearly choked on a pepper flake.

Serenna Oakley.

We hadn’t seen each other since the Laurent party.

You know, the one where I punched her in the face.

I locked eyes with my chicken and pretended she didn’t exist.

Didn’t work.

Stilettos clicked. Shadow loomed. Poison perfume hit my nose two seconds before her voice did.

‘Bit far from Nyx Collective, isn’t it? What are you doing here?’