I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

I’d been stewing over it all day and still hadn’t decided.

Marriage wasn’t like picking a flavour of ice cream.

You couldn’t just go, ‘oops, not that one,’ and hit undo.

If Ashton were just Ashton, some guy with a decent job and a halfway-decent sense of humour, I might’ve jumped in headfirst.

But he wasn’t.

He was Ashton bloody Laurent.

As in Laurent Global Holdings, Laurent Towers, Laurent being-on-the-news-for-buying-a-small-country kind of Laurent.

While I was busy spiralling in my flat, Yvaine texted me in all caps: GET YOUR ASS OUT. WE’RE DRINKING. NO EXCUSES.

She didn’t need to shout, but whatever.

I could use a distraction.

And maybe a bit of tequila would kill my indecisive streak.

I threw on a loose red jumper and skinny jeans, then headed out.