I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis
Chapter 97 - 98 Ab Study

Chapter 97: Chapter 98 Ab Study

I woke up with my face pressed against something warm and solid.

Took a second to realise it was skin.

Male skin. Tanned, smooth, faintly salty. Rising and falling in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.

My fingers were digging into someone’s abs.

And not soft ones.

The room was dim—early grey morning kind of dim—but not dim enough to miss the fact that I was clinging to Ashton like a koala, and he was bare-chested.

I blinked hard. Stayed still for one beat, then another, waiting for my sluggish brain to boot up.

Last night was a blur. I remembered the fever, the IV drip, the ice packs. Ashton getting into bed with me. Then leaving.

More than once, apparently.

Beyond that? Blank.

My hospital gown was still on, but thin enough to feel the heat radiating off him.

And my hand—God—was still resting on his stomach.

I yanked it back. Stopped halfway.

Peeked at his face. His eyes were closed.

Slowly, sneakily, like a thief, I laid my hand back down.

The feel of him was ridiculous.

I’d taken boxing classes, tried to build up decent muscle, managed a flat stomach on a good day, but never a six-pack. Let alone an eight.

He had eight.

A perfect eight-pack.

So defined it looked carved. Clinical, almost. Like it should be in an anatomy textbook.

I ran my fingertips lightly over the ridges, tracing the grooves between. Noting the contrast in muscle distribution, not just surface tone.

Rhys had abs too, product of his dedicated gym routine.

But it wasn’t the same.

I didn’t have a bodybuilder’s vocabulary to name the difference. I just knew Ashton’s muscles weren’t limited to his midsection. His chest was just as firm, and judging by how his thigh felt under mine, the rest of him matched.

On the other hand, Rhys’s abs were probably the only solid parts on him. His hands were smooth and soft. His skin, pampered.

I glanced at Ashton again. Still out.

Emboldened, I pressed my palm flat against his stomach. Felt the rise and fall of his breath. The tension held, even in sleep.

Shouldn’t muscles relax in sleep?

He felt... ready. Like he could go from deep sleep to ready for battle in a blink. Like a jaguar.

‘Morning.’

My hand jerked back. ‘M-morning.’

I suddenly became very aware that my thigh was still hooked over his. I shifted to roll away.

And that’s when I felt the problem.

The big, unmistakable problem.

I cleared my throat. ‘Did you... stay with me all night?’

‘You don’t remember?’ His voice rumbled overhead.

There was something different about him. A lightness in his voice.

He was in a good mood.

‘I was kind of out of it. Probably delirious.’

He touched my forehead, then drew back. ‘Fever’s gone.’

‘Yeah. I feel better.’

He glanced down at me. ‘Then why’s your face still red?’

I froze mid-leg-unhook.

‘I’ll get the doctor,’ he said, laughter threading through his voice as he gently untangled our limbs, got out of bed, grabbed a shirt from its laundry bag on the rack, and stepped out.

I sat up. My body felt heavy, but no longer feverish.

I patted my cheeks. Still hot.

Padding into the bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. Leaned over the sink.

Then I looked up.

And saw the problem.

No bra.

Two very obvious points were poking at the thin fabric of the gown.

‘Damn it.’

He must’ve seen. No way he didn’t.

‘Damn it,’ I muttered again and rushed back to bed, yanking the blanket up to my chin.

The doctor came in, checked my vitals, told me I needed to stay a few days for observation.

Ashton had breakfast brought up while I was still fiddling with the blanket. He raised the tray table and started setting up like it was Sunday brunch at a boutique hotel.

I would’ve insisted on eating at the coffee table like a normal human with four working limbs, but I kept quiet.

No way was I letting the girls be noticed.

Whoever delivered the breakfast must’ve thought Ashton was catering for a football team.

Toast. Pastries. Scrambled eggs. Fresh fruit. Four mini jars of jam. Butter. Coffee. Juice. A tall bottle of water that didn’t even fit on the tray.

Then he cleared the side table and added cheese. Cold cuts. Smoked salmon. Plain yoghurt in a glass jar.

‘I’m not a whale, you know,’ I said, squinting at him.

‘Doctor said you might not have much of an appetite. So I asked for variety. Just eat what you want.’

‘Join me,’ I invited.

He nodded and started to sit on the edge of the bed, then paused.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’ He pulled up a chair instead.

I picked up a spoon and got to it.

By the time he’d unscrewed the jam lid, I’d already demolished a cup of yoghurt and half a slice of French toast.

He watched me for a full minute.

‘What?’ I asked, self-conscious.

‘You eat fast,’ he said, calmly, like an observation in a chart. ‘And you swallow fast.’

‘Proof that my appetite’s fine.’

‘Eating too fast isn’t good for digestion.’

I muttered, ‘Right. Got it.’

I tried slowing down. Lasted maybe three bites before I gave up and let my mouth do its thing.

He didn’t mention it again. Just looked at me like he was filing it away for later.

The more food in my stomach, the more of last night came back.

I remembered talking. Saying too much.

Stuff I’d only ever told Yvaine. Things I’d buried years ago. Things I didn’t want Ashton—or anyone—to know.

I trusted him; he’d been the ideal fake husband, a perfect partner in crime.

But I hadn’t meant to show him the broken bits of the high school version of me.

I hoped he’d forgotten.

Apparently not.

‘Isobel Brooke’s been arrested,’ he said.