I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 2

For the next forty-eight hours, I became one with my bed.

No calls. No outside world. Just me, a pile of blankets, and the crushing weight of humiliation.

That slap from Rhys wasn't just a blow to the face. In so many ways, it was a slap across my entire life—one steeped in desperation, delusion, and pathetic longing. It forced me awake. It made me look back on everything I'd ever done to make him notice me, everything I'd done for a fantasy called "us" that had never truly existed.

God, where do I even begin?

Like the time he casually mentioned he liked girls with smooth, silky hair. That night, I ordered three bottles of the shampoo he'd once praised. My scalp broke out in hives. I smiled through the pain and said, "It's fine—some allergic reactions are worth it."

Or when he told me he was too busy with work to grab dinner, so I stayed up learning how to bake and brought him a box of pastries in the rain. He didn't even open the door—just had the receptionist tell me, "Don't bother next time. I don't like sweets."

Then there was that night at his friend's dinner party. I forced down oysters—my most hated food—just to seem "graceful and agreeable." I spent the entire night crouched over a toilet, writhing in pain until 3 a.m. He didn't ask if I was okay. He laughed and said, "Can't even handle seafood? That's just dramatic."

But the worst?

That time he quoted a line from The Godfather he liked. I stayed up all night reading film essays just to casually drop the quote at a party. I got it wrong. He corrected me in front of everyone, sneering, "Don't pretend to like things you clearly don't understand."

And I laughed. I laughed and said, "You've got such a good memory."

What a joke. I never realized I was never the person he wanted.

He never really saw me. To him, I was nothing more than a low-rent version of the "perfect and untouchable" Catherine. A cheap stand-in.

I wasn't her, but I could offer him the faint illusion of having her again. That was all I was good for.

I buried my face in the pillow and laughed until I shook. Not because it was funny—but because the pain had gone too deep for tears.

Thankfully, after my parents delivered their final ultimatum two days ago, they hadn't contacted me again.

A small part of me wondered—did Rhys intervene? Did he finally realize what he'd done?

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

And it didn't stop ringing.

For a full five minutes.

I groaned into my pillow. Oh god. Social interaction.

Dragging my exhausted body to the door, I opened it.

Yvaine Carlisle—my best friend and the only person who had the legal right to yell at me—stood on the other side, hands on hips. Then her eyes landed on my face.

Her expression froze. The light in her eyes dimmed. "What the hell happened to you?"

"I'm fine," I said, trying to sound casual. She wasn't buying it.

She reached out, gently tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. Her jaw clenched.

Then—silence.

Not the awkward kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that comes right before something explodes.

"Who hit you?"

"Come inside," I muttered quickly, trying not to draw the neighbors' attention. That would be mortifying.

Yvaine didn't move. She gripped my arm and spoke through gritted teeth. "Mira. Who. Hit. You?"

As soon as the door clicked shut, I collapsed into her arms. My face buried in her sweater, and within seconds, the fabric was soaked.

She didn't flinch. She just held me, her hand moving in calm, soothing circles across my back.

I didn't know how long I cried. Long enough for my throat to burn and my nose to turn bright red like Rudolph. Eventually, I managed to force out a single word.

"Rhys."

Yvaine didn't move.

Everyone in Skyline City knew that name. Rhys Granger wasn't the kind of man who needed to throw punches to destroy someone. One phone call to the right person, and your life would be over. Reputation, money, status—he had it all.

Every move he made was deliberate, timed to perfection—like the ticking of a Rolex. When he chose to go to war, he was a nobleman wielding cruelty like fine art, probably with a glass of aged Scotch in hand.

People called him arrogant. No one ever called him violent.

That's why, when Yvaine processed what I'd just said, I could practically hear the gears in her brain screaming in protest.

"No way," she muttered under her breath, as if denying it out loud might somehow make it untrue. "Rhys? Your Rhys? He couldn't have..."

I got it. I really did. Rhys was supposed to be the gentleman. The golden boy. The flawless, elegant, untouchable good guy.

"It was him," I said quietly.

She exhaled sharply, then started rubbing my back again, this time slower. "Tell me what happened."

I swallowed. "I was at his place. I, uh... accidentally broke a mug."

Her entire body tensed. "Just a mug?"

I nodded.

Silence. Then she clenched her jaw and said, "I swear to God, if you tell me it was some priceless, hand-crafted, one-of-a-kind family heirloom—"

"It was Catherine's mug."

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