I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 92 - 93 Ashton’s POV: Punishment

Chapter 92: Chapter 93 Ashton’s POV: Punishment

The voice was high-pitched, clear.

It sliced through the tension like someone’d just popped a balloon in a silent church.

Ashton’s head snapped around.

The kid couldn’t have been more than seven.

She wore a daffodil-yellow dress speckled with tiny white blossoms and had pigtails so neatly braided they looked vacuum-sealed.

She looked right back at him, completely unbothered by the fact that every single adult was now gaping at her.

A woman bolted to her side and slapped a hand gently over the girl’s mouth.

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Freya,’ the woman hissed, frantic. ‘You don’t know anything.’

She forced a shaky smile in Ashton’s direction. ‘She’s just a kid. She doesn’t understand—’

‘Let her finish,’ Ashton said.

The woman’s lips kept twitching like she wanted to protest, but all she could do was shut up and move to the side.

Freya jabbed a finger straight at Isobel.

‘I was playing out back just now. I saw you talking to that pretty lady, but she didn’t wanna talk to you. She tried to leave, and you chased her. Then you slipped and fell into the pool, and you dragged her in with you. You lied!’

Isobel blanched.

Quentin’s jaw dropped. ‘What? Isobel, is that true?’

She forced a shaky smile. ‘Of course it’s not. She’s just a kid. You know how kids are—they love making things up.’

Quentin seized on that like a drowning man to a rope. ‘Exactly. She’s six. She doesn’t know what she’s saying!’

Freya’s eyes burned. ‘I saw it!’

She whipped off her tiny crossbody bag, unzipped it with furious little hands, and pulled out a yellow phone covered in sparkly stickers.

‘I was filming a puppy in the yard and caught the whole thing by accident! Look!’

‘What?’ Isobel’s voice turned strangled.

Ashton held out his hand.

Freya handed over the phone obediently.

Silence swallowed the room as Ashton watched the video.

Centre screen: a playful Golden Retriever puppy.

Top right corner: two figures.

Mirabelle with her back turned.

Isobel lunging.

A sidestep.

A slip.

Isobel’s hand latching onto Mirabelle’s leg mid-fall.

Both went under.

Ashton played it again.

Then he held up the phone to Isobel’s face, pausing on the exact frame of her grabbing Mirabelle.

‘Got anything to say for yourself?’

Isobel’s throat bobbed.

Her mouth opened.

Closed.

Opened again.

Quentin rushed in before she could. ‘Ashton, I didn’t know, I swear. I just believed whatever she told me—’

‘I panicked!’ Isobel blurted, her voice shrill and pitched high. ‘It happened so fast—I might’ve tripped—I don’t remember exactly. Mirabelle was beside me, I just... reacted! It was instinct! I didn’t mean to drag her in, I swear—’

The lies tumbled out, quick and panicked.

‘A moment ago, you stood here and made everyone believe Mirabelle pulled you in. I gave you the chance to tell the truth. You didn’t take it. Not until the video exposed you.’

Around them, the crowd collectively stopped breathing.

More than a few had been on the receiving end of that tone before—Ashton’s calm, cold finality.

The tone of a man delivering final judgement with no reprieve, no appeal.

Isobel stood frozen, mascara beginning to crust at the corners of her eyes.

She turned to Quentin, clutching his hand.

Quentin looked at her, confusion, betrayal, disbelief, irritation, all fighting for space on his face.

Then he glanced at Ashton.

Rock. Hard place.

But he never got the chance to choose.

A man and a woman stepped out from the crowd.

The woman’s voice was brisk, clipped. ‘She has nothing to do with Quentin.’

‘Mum!’ Quentin choked.

‘Shut up!’ she snapped, then turned to Ashton, voice quivering with both fear and urgency. ‘She’s been playing us all!’

The man yanked Quentin away from Isobel, gripping his arm tight. ‘You’re done with her.’

‘Quentin broke up with her,’ his mother added quickly. ‘Didn’t you, Quentin? She’s nothing to do with us anymore!’

Their words had no effect on Ashton.

His gaze flicked to Quentin, then to his parents.

‘If you hadn’t brought her here, none of this would’ve happened. She’s the culprit. You’re the accomplices.’

Quentin’s mother blanched at the implication.

She stormed up to Isobel and slapped her hard across the face.

‘You troublemaker,’ she spat. ‘You dragged us into this mess. Now apologise to Ashton!’

She glanced back at Ashton, seeking approval.

He gave her nothing.

The slap jolted Isobel out of her daze.

She blinked, dazed, struggling to process.

‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered. ‘It’s all my fault, I... I wasn’t thinking—’

‘My wife nearly drowned. And you think a “sorry” will cut it?’

Isobel’s mouth opened, but the words were tangled in her throat.

Then came another slap, sharp and stinging, landing on the back of her head.

Quentin’s mother snarled. ‘Try again! Say it like you mean it!’

Tears welled in Isobel’s eyes. ‘I swear, I’m sorry. I was wrong—’

Still, Ashton said nothing.

Quentin exchanged a desperate look with his parents.

They could feel it—Ashton wanted more.

But what?

With a tense breath, Quentin clenched his jaw, then kicked Isobel in the shin.

‘Get on your knees. Apologise to my cousin properly.’

Isobel gasped, eyes wide with shock. ‘Quentin!’

‘Just do it!’

Quentin glanced at Ashton, who was still stone-faced.

He kicked her again, harder this time, square in the back.

Isobel crumpled, crashing to the floor with a sick thud.

Her knees scraped against the cold marble, breath knocked from her lungs.

She stayed there a moment, hunched and shaking.

Then, slowly, she pushed herself up to sit, trembling, slumped and dishevelled.

Ashton’s towering frame loomed above her.

From where she knelt, he seemed a mile high.

Isobel clenched her fists, nails digging into her thigh.

‘I’m sorry.’ She stared at the floor. ‘I shouldn’t have pushed Mirabelle. It was stupid. It was wrong. I...’

She hesitated, then raised a shaking hand.

And slapped herself across the face.

Once.

Twice.

Her skin reddened.

Each strike cracked through the silence like a gunshot.

Ashton scowled.

None of this came close to atoning for what Mirabelle had endured.

The fire that had erupted in his chest the moment he saw Mirabelle half-submerged and gasping—it hadn’t gone out.

The fury that had built, second by second, as he listened to her broken voice, watched her struggle to speak, to move—none of it had eased.

A couple of self-inflicted slaps and a stammered apology?

Not nearly enough.

Mirabelle had almost died.

His eyes drilled into Quentin.

If he hadn’t brought Isobel to the party—

A maid rushed downstairs, breathless.

‘Mr Laurent! It’s Mrs Laurent, she—’