I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 82 - 83 Meltdown Mode

Chapter 82: Chapter 83 Meltdown Mode

The night sucked.

Cold sheets.

No sleep.

Just me and my traitor brain spinning circles.

In the morning, I saw his shoes by the door.

That meant he’d come back sometime in the dead of night but was now gone again.

I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t disappointed.

But work slammed into me, and I buried myself in it.

I spent the next few days camped out at Moss & Flame, working ten-hour shifts hunched over gem settings and wax casts.

Came home too wrecked to care about anything, let alone our ‘rehearsal’.

Ashton was apparently busy too.

No sign of him for days.

Not even a shadow in the hallway.

Our whole flirt-to-convince-the-family thing?

Dead in the water.

Which—fine by me.

Sort of.

Ashton was hot, yeah, but cuddling with someone that good-looking without actual benefits was borderline torture.

Then, finally, something worth celebrating: I wrapped up the custom set for Octavia Grey.

Handmade, hand-set, one-of-a-kind, absolute knockout.

And too precious to be entrusted to couriers.

I took them straight to her agent’s office myself.

Octavia was all smiles and gasps, cooing over the necklace like it was a newborn.

She grabbed both my hands, shaking them like she was trying to absorb my talent through touch.

‘This is so much better than the overpriced crap those luxury brands churn out. Honestly, I don’t know what’s going on in their design departments. Half the time it looks like they let a blind pigeon do the sketches. But this? This is art. I’m wearing this to the festival, no question. I’ll be the hottest bitch on the red carpet. Doesn’t matter if it’s Cannes or Cleveland—nobody’s topping this.’

I beamed at her.

She beamed at the jewellery.

‘But seriously,’ she went on, frowning, ‘why are you wasting your talent at some no-name studio? I’ve never heard of Nyx Collective before. It’s small, isn’t it? With your skills, you should be running your own label.’

That stung.

Mostly because she was right.

A couple of days later, my annual leave was officially up.

I had no choice but to haul my arse back to work.

Quitting still wasn’t on the table.

Not yet.

Partly because Savannah had been the only one mad enough to sign a fresh-out-of-uni nobody.

I owed her for that.

And partly because I wasn’t planning on crawling into another design studio ever again.

I was done making magic for someone else’s name.

My next step was my own studio.

My rules, my name on the door, my signature—and only my signature—on the designs.

Only problem was, I didn’t have the clout or the capital.

Yet.

Nyx Collective was in meltdown mode when I stepped back into it.

People were speed-walking like it was an Olympic event, someone in comms was crying into their smoothie, and even Savannah’s usually composed assistant had mascara smudged halfway to her ear.

Tasha spotted me and lit up.

‘Mira!’ she chirped, waving enthusiastically.

The front desk girl was in her early twenties, blue braids today, holographic nails, wore cat ears unironically.

‘Didn’t think you’d actually come back,’ she said, grinning as she leaned over the counter. ‘We were taking bets.’

‘Wow, rude,’ I deadpanned. ‘What were the odds?’

‘Sixty-forty you’d rage-quit. I had faith, though. You owe me a coffee.’

‘I owe you nothing.’ I gestured to the hive of activity. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Yeah, total war zone today. Violet’s been tweaking Eliza Black’s designs like a maniac. Eighteen revisions. Eighteen. Can you believe it? I thought Savannah was going to start foaming at the mouth.’

I blinked. ‘Eighteen? Jesus. What’s she doing, engraving runes on it?’

‘Wouldn’t be shocked. They finally signed off on the final version like—two hours ago? So now everyone’s basically speed-running production like it’s a boss level. Eliza’s flight is at 2 p.m.’

I looked at my watch.

It was already 10 a.m.

People were shouting over each other, elbow-deep in foam padding, checking every clasp and stone under brutal lighting.

Someone barked about airport couriers, another yelled for a lint roller.

Violet Lin was busy stuffing boxes into bigger boxes.

She didn’t see me at first, so I just hung back, observing.

I wasn’t close, but I caught a glimpse when she cracked the lid open.

Just a flash.

But it was enough.

My eyes locked on the set inside.

Gorgeous.

Flashy, but tasteful—just the sort of thing that made you tilt your head and go...

Hang on.

Something about it tugged at me, like I’d seen it before.

I squinted, but I was too far away to get a good look.

Probably just my imagination, right?

Violet suddenly caught me staring, and it was like I’d just triggered a fire alarm in her brain.

She slammed the box shut, spun around to face me. ‘What the hell are you looking at? You trying to steal my inspiration for your own designs? Is that it? Planning on copying me, huh?’

‘Do you seriously think I’d waste my time copying your designs?’ I snorted. ‘What is this, 2005? Get real.’

‘You—!’ She glared at me like she was ready to throw hands.

Then she shouted at the nearest person, ‘Get this to the airport, now. Don’t even think about missing Eliza Black’s flight. If you do, you’ll be the one paying for the breach of contract, got it?’

The poor guy was shaking, barely managing to hold the damn box without dropping it.

I think he thought Violet was about to explode if he didn’t move fast enough.

Violet spun back to me, now all smug like she’d just won the war. ‘I’ve got the final pieces done, the flight’s still got hours to go, no need to panic.’

‘Congrats,’ I said drily.

‘I hear Vanna called you, told you to come back and help me, but you couldn’t be bothered, huh? You were just waiting for me to screw up so you could have a good laugh, right?’

I raised an eyebrow and looked at her like she’d lost her mind. ‘Babe, do you have any idea how paranoid you sound right now? Have you seen a doctor about this, or should I take you myself?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Then why’d you pick today of all days to come back? You wanted to watch me crash and burn, admit it.’