I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 90 - 91 Ashton’s POV: Not Fast Enough

Chapter 90: Chapter 91 Ashton’s POV: Not Fast Enough

Ashton had never sprinted that fast in his life.

Still, by the time he dragged Mirabelle out of the water, her lips were blue, her body limp in his arms.

He was too fucking slow.

He knew it the moment her head lolled back and she didn’t open her eyes.

He laid her down on the poolside tiles, soaking wet and ice-cold.

Tilted her head, checked her airway, locked his hands over her sternum and pumped.

Fast. Hard.

A sick, ugly rhythm that scared the hell out of him.

Then mouth-to-mouth—his breath into hers, again and again, his heart hammering so loud it drowned out everything else.

Come on, Mirabelle.

Finally, she jerked.

Coughed.

Water poured from her mouth and splattered against his chest.

Her eyes stayed shut, but her breathing started.

Shallow, ragged, each gasp like it hurt.

Ashton scooped her up, holding her tight against him, and tore back into the house.

The party noise hit him like a slap—laughing, music, chatter.

He didn’t slow down.

Took the stairs three at a time, ignoring the stunned faces and dropped glasses.

Every head turned.

Every mouth hung open.

But no one stopped him.

Maids scrambled behind him, arms loaded with towels and blankets.

Ashton kicked open his bedroom door.

He laid her down carefully on the bed, the thick duvet pulled around her, tucking her in tight.

She looked so small, trembling like a leaf.

Her dress was soaked through, plastered to her skin.

The silk shawl was a soggy tangle knotted at her elbow.

Ashton wrapped his arms around her, blanket and all, pulling her into his chest.

‘More blankets!’ he barked. ‘Get the shower on. Full heat.’

Mirabelle’s eyelids fluttered like she was caught in a nightmare.

Her breaths came in short bursts, her mouth half-open.

He touched her face.

Ice.

His own hands weren’t exactly warm either.

‘Mirabelle,’ he said quietly, leaning close. ‘Mirabelle, can you hear me?’

Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

‘Mr Laurent, the bath’s ready!’ a maid called from the doorway.

Ashton lifted Mirabelle again, cradling her like a baby, and strode into the en suite.

Steam billowed from the tub.

He stepped straight in, shoes and all, then knelt and lowered her into the water, still fully clothed.

The second her skin hit the water, she lost it.

‘No! No!’ she thrashed like she was being electrocuted, nails digging into his forearm.

‘Shh. Shh, Mirabelle, it’s me. It’s not the pool. You’re safe.’

She fought harder, slippery and fast, elbow smashing into his chest so hard he staggered.

The breath punched out of him.

Jesus. He hadn’t realised she could hit like that.

‘Mirabelle,’ he said, dragging her into his lap, one arm locking around her ribs as he pulled her back from the water.

She clung to him like she’d drown if she let go.

His gut tightened.

He’d seen people in shock, but this was something else.

He cupped her cheeks. ‘Talk to me, Mirabelle. What’s going on?’

Her eyes flicked wildly, not quite focusing.

She looked like she was stuck in something he couldn’t see.

For a second, he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Every instinct screamed at him to fix it, but he didn’t know what the hell he was fighting.

He picked her up again and carried her back to the bed.

She shivered the whole way, silent, small.

As soon as her body touched the mattress, some of the tension eased from her limbs.

Not much. But enough.

A faint sound slipped from her lips—a low, broken moan.

Ashton didn’t think she knew she’d made it.

He felt it more than heard it.

It cut straight through him.

He pulled her closer.

Not tight enough to hurt. Just enough to make sure she knew she wasn’t alone.

Her lashes flickered, and her eyes blinked open—clouded, confused, distant.

He held her face, thumb brushing her cheek.

His voice softened.

‘Mirabelle. What happened?’

She shook her head, barely.

Her hand clutched at his sleeve.

‘Someone... someone dragged me in...’ Her voice trembled, words slurring, breath short. ‘It was Brooke...’

His blood iced.

He hadn’t caught most of it, just the name.

He curled his hand around her shoulder, firm enough to anchor her.

‘Look at me.’ His voice was calm, but iron-threaded. ‘Say it again. What did she do?’

She mumbled something broken, a rasp more than a sentence, trembling harder in his arms.

Her mind was slipping fast, like she was underwater and drifting deeper every second.

Ashton recalled what he’d seen earlier.

Saving Mirabelle from drowning had been his only thought.

But now that the panic was ebbing, he remembered there’d been someone else.

A woman, climbing up from the other end of the pool.

He hadn’t spared her a second glance at the time.

‘Mr Laurent?’ A maid’s soft voice broke through the haze behind him.

She was holding a stack of neatly folded clothes. ‘Should we help Mrs Laurent change into something dry?’

Ashton stood. ‘Give me the clothes.’

The maid hesitated but handed them over.

‘Leave the room.’

Everyone cleared out.

Ashton crouched down beside the bed and gently pulled away the duvet.

The white dress clung to her body like a second skin, soaked through, transparent in all the wrong places.

He pulled one of the thick towels off the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders.

‘Mirabelle,’ he said softly, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. ‘I need to get you dry. You’re safe now. It’s me. Ashton.’

She flinched when he tugged at the zipper on her dress, a feeble jerk that didn’t last.

Her fingers gripped his wrist for a second, then let go, as if recognising his touch.

‘You’re safe now,’ he murmured again. ‘It’s just me.’

He peeled the dress off, slowly, carefully.

Her skin was cold and slick, goosebumps running up her arms.

He draped the first towel over her and started drying her off, slow circular movements, paying attention to her limbs, her back, her neck.

She didn’t protest, not really.

She just shivered, chest rising and falling like she couldn’t quite settle into her own body.

Then came the bra and panties.

Ashton hesitated, the towel paused mid-air.