I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

I stood in the shower like a soggy pretzel, hoping the scalding water would burn the confusion out of my skull.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t.

Ashton’s words kept looping: ‘Let’s get married for real.’

Excuse me? Was I concussed? Had I slipped and hit my head and developed some sexy-rich-boy-themed delusions?

Because last I checked, we were in a mutually agreed fake engagement. No strings, no vows, no wedding hashtags.

And yet, there he was, five minutes ago, standing in front of me with that infuriatingly composed face and that annoyingly persuasive baritone, dropping a ‘let’s get hitched’ like he was suggesting brunch.

I mean, what even was that?

He’d leaned in, talked in that velvet-coated, emotionless CEO tone like he was negotiating a merger, but the only thing merging in my brain was every single R-rated thought I’d ever had about him.

I hadn’t registered a single word, too busy inhaling his scent, staring at his lips, and letting my dumb, horny body teeter on the edge of blurting out yes.

Thank God for the ringing phone that cut through the haze before I threw myself at him.

I cranked the water hotter, whacked my forehead gently against the tile, and groaned.

What was wrong with me? The second Ashton appeared, my logic dipped out like a side character in a horror film, leaving my poor brain cells to fend for themselves against the tsunami of testosterone and abs.