I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Key Guy

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

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

Yes, I had still been 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 wrap my head around was—why had Katherine 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. Katherine’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 Katherine was back.” Ivanna’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!” Ivanna hissed through clenched teeth. “You should tell your parents. Let them know Katherine’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. Ivanna 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 Katherine. No matter what I do, I’ll never replace her.”

Ivanna 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, Ivanna’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, 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 Sky 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, with concern.

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, 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.”

I froze, frowning instinctively.

But he went on, his tone unhurried—like he was flipping through a book and had landed on a sentence he already knew by heart:

“But strangely, you always seem to meet someone who refuses to walk away... right before everything falls apart.”

I stared at him, half in shock, half in suspicion. “Are you… flirting with me?”

He gave me a slow smile, his eyes lazily curving with just the right amount of mischief. His voice came out smooth and provocative, like velvet wrapped around steel. “Does it make you feel any better?”

His voice was low and warm, like whiskey being poured into a glass at midnight—just a little dizzying, just a little dangerous. He looked at me with an intensity that felt nearly uncontrollable, like he might lean in close and whisper things in the dark, on a bed, asking if his touch was hard enough.

My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the bar.

I had to look at him properly. Really see him.

That face—it wasn’t just handsome. It had the kind of quiet, devastating maturity that no amount of cologne and hair gel could fake. Not the kind you’d find among the over-groomed boys who danced to house music like they were owed the world.

A wild, uninvited thought flashed through my mind.

If I let him walk away tonight, maybe I was rejecting one of those rare, merciful moments when fate offered a second chance.

Before I could stop myself, my hand wrapped around the sleeve of his suit jacket. I rose from the barstool, heart pounding.

“So, Mr. Keys,” I said, my voice hoarse but firm, “since you’re so committed to helping… why not help all the way?”

He clearly hadn’t expected that. His brow lifted slightly, surprise flickering across his face—but he didn’t step back. He didn’t laugh. He simply said, calm and steady:

“Of course. As long as this is something you won’t deny when you’re sober.”

“I’m sure.” I answered without hesitation.

Gripping his wrist tighter, I pulled him through the crowd and out of the bar.

The night wind struck us like a cleansing slap, city lights flickering above.

I didn’t let myself pause. No time to think, no space for regret.

We crossed the street. Entered the nearest hotel lobby.

Because tonight, I needed to know if I had the courage to accept what fate had placed in front of me.

It must have been one hell of a night, because when I woke up, sunlight was spilling through the curtains, and the red LED numbers of the digital clock blinked 10:07 AM at me with the judgmental smugness of a nun catching you sneaking out of the church.

The sheets still carried his scent—bergamot and sin—and my body buzzed from the lingering aftershocks of what we’d done.

I stared at the ceiling and thought: That was absolutely phenomenal sex.

The kind that wrecks you, delights you, and makes you stupid enough to want another round.

I ached everywhere—in the best, most regrettable way.

But my head… my head was a battlefield. It felt like a hundred tiny jackhammers were drilling through my skull. The alcohol from last night had declared mutiny, and my brain was paying the price, like someone had jammed a red-hot poker through my temple.

I had no idea how much I drank—definitely more than I should’ve.

The details had vanished into a fog thicker than a London morning.

Groaning, I rolled out of bed. Groaned again. Began gathering the scattered pieces of my clothing.

The plan was simple: Get dressed. Sneak out. Pretend this never happened.

I had just picked up my skirt when a voice stopped me.

“Leaving so soon?”

Shit.

I turned—very slowly, thanks to the hangover and the shame—and saw him standing in the bathroom doorway, a towel slung low on his hips.

Droplets clung to his abs, catching the morning light, trailing down the deep V of his torso.

I stared. Unashamed.

Images from the night before surged back into my brain. I suddenly felt… very, very thirsty.

“We need to talk,” he said.