I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Two days after I was discharged, the Grangers sent out wedding invitations.

Rhys and Catherine were official.

I scrolled past the announcement without blinking, then got back to work.

Well, another kind of work.

Most of my week had been swallowed by meetings with lawyers, tangled email threads, and too many evidence lists to count.

I’d just spent the last forty-eight hours knee-deep in call logs and dusty school records, trying to build a case against Isobel Brooke.

Today’s meeting was in a café off West 18th.

Across from me sat Hannah Wu, LGH’s legal rep.

Glossy black loafers. Navy pinstripe suit, seams crisp. Lipstick the colour of dried blood. Nails short, square, painted like a healing bruise.

She turned her tablet around and tapped the screen.

‘Isobel’s been questioned,’ she said. ‘But the police don’t have enough to detain her on the charges we’re pursuing. Right now, it’s just preliminary statements. No grounds for prosecution yet. But with additional witness testimony, that could change.’

I nodded. That tracked.