I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

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.

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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.