I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 295

Chapter 295 Showdown

The hotel conference room smelled faintly of coffee and air freshener. Gerard Haldane was already there, seated at the head of the table. He rose when I walked in, his hand extended, his politician’s smile warm

and well rehearsed.

“Miss Vance,” he said, as if we were old friends. “Daniel tells me you are quite the designer. I must admit, I expected someone… older. Please, sit.”

He gestured to a chair opposite him. His voice was smooth, the sort that had charmed donors and

constituents for decades.

I smiled politely and took the seat. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

“For Daniel’s friends, always,” Haldane said. His eyes flicked over me, quick and assessing. “Now, how

can I help? Were you thinking of making a contribution to the commissioner’s fund? We welcome

support from the creative sector, especially one as talented as you.”

So that was it. He thought I was here to write a check.

I folded my hands on the table. “Actually, I’m here about the proposed moratorium.”

The warmth drained from his face. His smile froze, then faded. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers

tapping a slow rhythm on the wood. “I see. Then this meeting is a mistake. Whatever Daniel told you,

Miss Vance, I don’t take audiences with property developers. Or their girlfriends.”

The last word came out sharp, edged with disdain.

“I’m not here as anyone’s girlfriend. I’m here because I have something you should see.”

I slid the envelope across the table. He didn’t reach for it.

“You’re wasting your time,” he said flatly. “This discussion is over.”

I opened the envelope myself, spreading the papers neatly before him. Bank statements, land records,

names of shell companies, photos of a woman entering his flat late at night. His hand stopped tapping.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“Your life,” I said softly. “The parts you keep hidden. The same things someone else already has. Lea

Lopez. She is using it to control you, isn’t she?”

His complexion turned an unhealthy gray. His lips parted, but no sound came. Then he leaned forward, his voice a low growl. “Where did you get this?”

“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you continue with the moratorium, I will make it public. Every line, every detail. Your career, your reputation, your family–it will all collapse. Unless you withdraw it.”

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Chapter 295 Showdown

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He pushed back in his chair, breathing hard. Sweat had appeared at his temples. “You have no idea what you’re meddling with. Do you think you’re the first to try? Lopez has more power than you can imagine. She promised to ruin me if I refused. She will do worse to you.”

“Lea won’t be a problem much longer,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

He gave a humorless laugh. “You think you can stop her?”

“I know I can. I’ve already started.”

He searched my face, as if weighing the truth. For a moment, his mask slipped and I saw the tired man beneath, older than his years, cornered.

“If I retract the proposal, she will come after me,” he said.

“If you don’t, I will.”

Silence stretched between us. His eyes darted back to the evidence on the table. His hands trembled

slightly, betraying him.

Finally, he whispered, “What are you going to do?”

“You will announce you are stepping down, for personal reasons. Health, family, whatever excuse you like. You will quietly withdraw the moratorium. No one has to know why. Not if you cooperate.”

He stared at me, then let out a long breath, the fight leaving him. “If you fail to stop her, she’ll bury us both.

H

“I don’t plan on failing.”

***

That night, with the adrenaline still buzzing in my veins, I sat in Dominic Everett’s office. He had listened

to everything I told him, his brow furrowed, his usual calm finally ruffled.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said.

“I don’t care. I need allies. You said once that Ashton had friends in Europe. People who used to work ,with him. Do you still have their numbers?”

Dominic hesitated. Then he unlocked his phone, scrolled, and slid it across to me. “Kylian Martin. Olivier

Rossi. They were close once. They know Lea, better than most.”

The next morning, I was on a video call with them. Kylian was lean, sharp eyed, his French accent curling

around every word. Olivier was broader, darker, his tone measured, cautious.

“You’re Ashton’s… friend?” Olivier asked carefully.

“I’m more than that,” I said. “And I need your help.”

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