I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12 Blackout

That stopped me. Just for a second.

Louisa Granger. The only member of that genetically cursed family I’d actually liked.

She used to call me her ‘darling girl’ and meant it. She remembered my birthday. She bought me books I actually read. She once told me I had a fire in me and that it was beautiful.

Meanwhile, my own mother thought my jewellery designs were a hobby I’d grow out of and that fire belonged in fireplaces or

hell.

‘Come to dinner,’ Rhys carried on, his tone clipped. ‘Just don’t say anything to her about… y’know. Us.’

Of course he wanted me to lie for him. Again.

‘Wow. Brave of you,’ I said, voice sharp enough to julienne a courgette. ‘What happened to that big manly energy you were showing off with Catherine? If you’re so smitten, why not bring her to dinner and introduce her to the fam? Or are you worried Mummy might not approve of your shiny new mistress?’

He didn’t reply. I didn’t wait for him to.

I hung up, tossed my phone on the sofa, and muttered, ‘Bloody coward.’

***

Half past ten, I’d just put down the TV remote and dug out an unfinished sketch from my tablet, thinking I could snack my way into some inspiration.

I barely got two bites of leftover lo mein in before the lights cut out like a budget horror film. One second I was basking in LED brilliance, the next I was plunged into darkness, lit only by the ghostly glow of my tablet screen.

I practically launched myself off the sofa. My heart did a triple backflip before I realised it was just a blackout. Again. Because of course this bloody floor had the electrical stability of a soggy biscuit.

I fumbled for my phone and rang Mr Donnelly. No answer. I called again. Still nothing. Classic Donnelly-less ‘property manager’, more ‘professional ghoster’.

I wouldn’t have put it past him to fake a blackout just to speed up my moving out.

I’d already said I was leaving. Did he really need to go full supervillain with the power supply?

No wonder this place was cheap. Faulty wiring and a landlord who disappeared faster than my willpower around cake. Still, for rent that low, I couldn’t stay mad for long.

Besides, I was out of here soon enough.

Grumbling under my breath, I groped my way into the stairwell to check the fuse box. Of course it was mounted at a height best suited for NBA players.

I’m nearly 5’7″ and had to stand on tiptoe like I was doing pirouettes in the dark-only with more swearing and less grace.

Not that it helped. I stared at the jumble of switches like it was written in hieroglyphics.

‘Bloody hell,’ I muttered, returning to fetch a chair before I electrocuted myself out of sheer guesswork.

Just as I reached my door, the neighbour’s door eased open.

And there he was.

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Like me, he was using his phone as a torch, which gave me a clear view of his face. His fringe, usually styled like a GQ cover shoot, was loose and damp, making him look about five years younger and way too good-looking for the average tenant.

Droplets slid from his hair down his neck, past his collarbone, down over muscles that really needed a warning label.

The man had on nothing but a towel.

Just. A. Towel.

And judging by the little rivers of water tracing down his torso, he’d rushed out of the shower to investigate the blackout without bothering with trivial things like clothes.

I tried very hard not to ogle.

I failed spectacularly.

To be fair, it was like being hit in the face with a very well-sculpted Greek statue.

A very wet, half-naked, annoyingly sexy Greek statue.

Last time I saw him, he’d been dressed to the nines in a tailored suit. I hadn’t expected him to be this… stacked.

It was like finding out your accountant moonlighted as a Calvin Klein model.

My brain short-circuited for a moment. I just stood there, blatantly gawking like some creep on a stag do.

He caught me staring. Of course he did. His eyes-partly hidden under a mess of damp fringe-crinkled ever so slightly.

Then he glanced at my ears, probably clocking that they were turning the same colour as a cherry slushie, and finally turned

back inside.

He came back a minute later wearing a white T-shirt.

I blinked and cleared my throat.

Now that he was fully clothed-or at least pretending to be—the tension eased a bit and my brain came back online.

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