I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Cassian frowned. ‘Hold on. I visited you a couple times in Eindhoven. You never said you knew Mirabelle. I never even heard you mention her name.’

‘I didn’t know it was her,’ Ashton said.

All he remembered from that night was the woman—warm skin, steady arms—who must’ve figured out something was wrong with him.

She’d taken him to the hospital. Paid the bill.

Then disappeared.

‘When I woke up,’ Ashton said, ‘she was already gone.’

Cassian blinked. ‘So how the hell did you know it was her?’

‘I had my assistant look into it.’

The moment he saw the photo—Mirabelle Vance, design student at Eindhoven University—he knew.

That was her.

The girl from Florence.

The one with the quiet fire in her eyes.