I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis novel Chapter 4

As soon as they were gone, Yvaine dragged me out of the club.

Damn it. I hated that Catherine had predicted every single thought running through my mind.

Yes, I was still considering salvaging my relationship with Rhys.

But now? The truth was right there, unmistakable and raw—they'd been sleeping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the foolish, unnecessary third wheel in their twisted little story.

What I couldn't figure out was—why had Catherine faked her disappearance four years ago? What exactly had she been hiding? And why come back now?

My eyes stung. I tilted my head toward the sky, forcing the tears back.

Fine. Catherine's back. Perfect. Now they could all reunite like a happy little four-piece family?, and I... I was finally free.

"Mira... I'm so sorry. I had no idea they'd be there tonight. I didn't even know Catherine was back." Yvaine's eyes were full of regret.

I gave a bitter laugh and shook my head. "Neither did I. But I heard it loud and clear—they've been screwing around for a while. To them, I was just in the way."

"Those goddamn assholes!" Yvaine hissed through clenched teeth. "You should tell your parents. Let them know Catherine's not the perfect angel they think she is. What about Rhys's parents? No way they'll tolerate a scandal like this."

I was quiet for a moment. Yvaine had a point—Rhys's parents were the only people who had supported me. But he was their son. They wouldn't choose me over him. Not in the end.

And my parents? I let out a breath, heavy and tired. "You know better than anyone—they only care about Catherine. No matter what I do, I'll never replace her."

Yvaine grabbed my shoulders, worry darkening her gaze. "So what now? You're just going to let them humiliate you?"

"Maybe." My voice dropped to a whisper, a weariness weighing it down. "Maybe if I accept it, it'll finally be over."

Suddenly, Yvaine's phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, her brows knitting in frustration. "Mira, my agent just called. There's a last-minute ad shoot—I have to go now. Can you get home on your own?"

I nodded, managing a faint smile. "Go. Don't worry about me. I'll call when I get back."

After she left, I hailed a cab. Instinctively, I gave the driver my home address. But barely two minutes into the ride, a wave of suffocating pressure settled over me.

"No, wait," I said quickly. "Take me to a bar. Any bar. Just... far away from Roxanne."

The driver didn't blink—clearly used to the erratic demands of Skyline City's broken-hearted.

We eventually pulled up outside some unfamiliar nightclub. Velvet ropes. A crowd of influencer-types wielding selfie sticks. I didn't bother checking the name. I handed the bouncer some bills and strode inside.

Straight to the bar.

"Whiskey sour. Large. Keep them coming."

"Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the bartender said gently, concern in his voice.

I slammed my empty glass on the counter and shoved my card across. "Did I stutter? Top me off."

The bartender sighed but obliged.

"That guy's right," a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. "Too much alcohol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger's bed tonight—"

I turned, irritated—then froze.

It was him.

The man from last night. My new neighbor. The one who'd handed me my keys with all the casual elegance of a Renaissance statue.

"Well, well. You again." I raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at my lips. "You really can't resist other people's business, huh?"

He chuckled softly, completely unfazed. "Think of it as a well-developed instinct for being helpful."

I gave an exaggerated sigh. "You're a hero, truly. But I don't need saving, Mr. Key Man."

"I know," he said calmly, lifting his glass and taking a slow sip. His eyes were clear and sharp. "But you do seem in desperate need of clarity."

I frowned. "Is this how you treat all your neighbors? First their keys, then their dignity?"

He laughed—a low, rich sound. "Only when the neighbor looks like she's on the verge of self-destruction."

"...But I am always self-destructing," I muttered, suddenly quieter. "Doesn't it seem kind of pathetic? Like my whole life is just one mess after another?"

He didn't laugh. He didn't rush to reassure me, either. He didn't even deny what I'd just said.

He just looked at me. Calm. Quiet. Like he was watching a slow-motion disaster unfold—but had no intention of stopping it.

"You're not wrong," he finally said, his voice low and steady. "You are pretty good at making a mess of things. Like right now—you can't even stand properly and you're still demanding more alcohol."

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