I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 13

Chapter 13 Runaway Libido

The hallway outside was still pitch black, so I used my phone’s torch to sweep the walls like I was on a ghost-hunting show.

Eventually found the storage room, which was basically a hoarder’s fever dream. Tools, nails, screws, boxes-an entire DIY graveyard dumped in a single corner.

The pliers were buried somewhere in the back like they owed someone money.

I stretched up, teetering on my toes, reaching for them like I was auditioning for Swan Lake: Apocalypse Edition.

Just as I grabbed them, my foot rolled over something suspiciously round and untrustworthy. I yelped, lost my balance, and flailed like a human car dealership balloon mid-windstorm.

There were nails all over the floor. Actual nails. Pointy and plentiful. The sort of thing that would absolutely ruin my chances at open-toed heels ever again.

But the pain never came.

Instead, a pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist and hauled me upright like I weighed less than a bag of crisps.

‘Careful,’ he muttered, voice low.

My heart was still trying to yeet itself out of my chest.

I couldn’t see him-he was behind me-but every one of my senses had dialled up to a hundred in the dark.

His breath skimmed my neck, warm and low. The heat of his hands burned through the fabric of my top, fingers firm against my waist like he was built for catching wayward women in stairwell accidents.

And his scent-Jesus. Freshly showered, with that crisp, clean smell of soap that definitely cost more than my weekly grocery shop. Something ridiculous, like ‘Alpine Seduction’ or ‘Boardroom Temptation’.

Whatever it was, it had no business being that sexy.

The second I felt steady again, I pulled away from his arms.

And then the lights flicked on.

I blinked twice and shuffled a few feet away, putting what I hoped was a respectable amount of space between us. ‘You fixed it?’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Go check your place. See if everything’s back to normal.’

‘Right. Yeah. Cool.’ I tossed the pliers onto a nearby shelf and fled.

I legged it back to my flat like someone had lit a fire under my arse, and it wasn’t until the door clicked shut behind me that I realised I hadn’t thanked him. 1

Or asked if he’d seen my note.

Basic social stuff. Stuff I usually didn’t mess up.

Normally, I wasn’t like this. I wasn’t the type to go all wobbly-kneed and tongue-tied because of one hot guy.

But apparently, close physical proximity to the man short-circuited my entire personality. One minute I was Mirabelle Vance, functional adult with working vocabulary, and the next I was a glitching mess who couldn’t even make eye contact without overheating.

And really, how was I meant to stay composed?

He was standing there in a damp towel and a clingy T-shirt so thin it might as well have come with a viewer discretion warning.

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The man’s presence didn’t just affect me-it practically rewired my hormones.

I was genuinely impressed I’d managed to escape before he noticed how the heat of his skin had turned my spine to jelly, or how close I’d come to full-on swooning.

Me. Swooning.

Like some Regency heroine who’d misplaced her smelling salts.

I shook my head violently, trying to scrub the image of him from my brain.

Him in that towel. Drops of water trailing down his neck.

That scent-clean, crisp, outrageously masculine.

‘Pull yourself together, Mira.’ I softly banged my head against the door. ‘You’re not a blushing virgin or a hormonal teenager. You’ve seen abs before. Hell, you’ve had abs before.’

My phone buzzed. I checked it with dread.

Not Rhys. Thank God.

Unknown number: Saw your note. Noted about the moving out. Do you need help finding a new place? I have some suggestions if you’d like. Name’s Ashton, by the way.

Oh. So that’s his name.

Social etiquette whispered that I should probably call him. Thank him for the blackout rescue.

Or, I dunno, discuss the upcoming party where we were supposed to debut our fake engagement.

The fact that he’d texted meant he was awake.

And probably shirtless.

I stared at my phone, debating.

Going over there at this hour felt like tempting fate.

Or more accurately, tempting myself to do something wildly inappropriate, like climb him like a tree and make very questionable choices.

I didn’t trust my judgement. Late night was prime territory for reckless decisions and accidentally catching feelings.

Or feelings-adjacent hormones.

So instead, I sent back a safe, responsible message: Thanks for the offer, but I’ve got several places in mind already. Good night.

***

The night came with dreams so vividly R-rated, my therapist would probably need to show ID before I could legally describe them.

I woke up with a groan muffled into my pillow, brain still stuck in the haze of sleep and scandalous fantasies.

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