I Slapped My Fiancé-Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Chapter 1 Breakup Over A D**n Mug Crack! My fiancé hit me. Three minutes ago, I had been daydreaming about how to decorate our ridiculously expensive penthouse apartment, where every corner looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. Two minutes ago, I accidentally broke a mug. Then, Rhys slapped me across the face-hard. My cheek burned like it had been seared by fire. It took a full thirty seconds before my brain restarted, slowly piecing reality back together. "Are you f**king insane?" I gritted my teeth, forcing the words through the cracks of my jaw. Rhys's lips were pressed into a cold, tight line, his expression dark and resolute. "It was just a mug with Catherine's face on it," he said, as if my reaction was an overblown performance, not the result of something horrifying he had just done. "You have got to be f**king kidding me." I stared at him in disbelief, my ch**t heaving as rage and humiliation churned violently inside me, ready to explode. For half a second-just half-something like guilt flickered across his face. Then it vanished, consumed by a storm of fury. "No, you're the insane one!" he roared. "I already agreed to marry you-what more do you want? Catherine's gone, but you still broke that mug on purpose!" His voice trembled with anger. "She was your sister! She had to leave because of you! And now you're jealous of her? You won't rest until every trace of her is erased, will you?" The hatred in his eyes cut deeper than the s**p. My cheek throbbed. My hand was still bl**ding. But nothing hurt more than my heart. I forced myself to unclench my jaw and made one last attempt to explain. "It wasn't me. I never asked her to leave." Technically speaking, I understood why someone might say that. Catherine had left behind a letter. In it, she said she'd seen my diary, realized I had a crush on Rhys, and decided to "let go," to "let him be yours." I don't think she ever understood that a diary meant privacy. I never meant for anyone to read it, but not only did she read it-she told everyone. No one cared about the pain I felt when my secret was exposed. I was dragged out, nailed to a pillar of shame, forced to pay for her so-called noble sacrifice. To my family, it was like I'd been bumped up to the starting lineup out of nowhere, replacing the golden girl-I should've been grateful. Even if Rhys had st**bed me in the gut, they'd still find a way to excuse it. It was as if my parents had always hated me. No matter how much better I did than Catherine, they always saw me as bitter, as someone who couldn't protect her fragile pride. The searing pain on my cheek intensified. My fingers clenched tightly around the engagement ring. A wave of heat-anger, humiliation, resentment-rose in my throat. Hot tears welled in my eyes, blurring my vision. I blinked fast, wiping them away before they could fall. I would not cry. I would never show weakness in front of him. I took a heavy step toward the door, struggling to move. I had to get out of there, or I would completely fall apart. Whatever shred of dignity I had left-I couldn't let it be destroyed in front of this man. Rhys suddenly grabbed my wrist and yanked me back. "Clean it up." I looked up at him in disbelief, needing to confirm I'd heard him right. "You broke the mug. You clean up the pieces." His voice was icy, absolute. He had to be insane. "No." I lifted my chin and spat the word without an ounce of compromise. His face tightened, jaw clenched. "You sure you want to do this?" "Yes. I said no." My eyes were red, but they blazed with defiance as I stared him down without flinching. If love meant I had to grind my self-respect into the dirt, then it was worthless to me. The air between us was taut enough to snap. I could almost hear it crackling. The fury in his eyes was an uncontrollable blaze, threatening to consume me. And beneath that fire, I saw something else-disbelief. The once docile little lamb had bared her fangs. He took a step closer, menace radiating from him. "Last chance. If you don't obey me, then we-" "-are over," I finished for him, cold and final. Shock froze his face. For a moment, the air went still. He hadn't expected me to actually say it. While he was caught in that moment of confusion, I wrenched my arm free from his grip. The taste of freedom hadn't yet bloomed in my ch**t when he snapped back to life, grabbing my arm again with brutal force. Now. I spun around without hesitation and raised my hand-sm**k! A resounding s**p landed hard across Rhys's handsome, arrogant face. The air froze again, thick with silence. My palm tingled slightly, but it brought a rush of fierce, unprecedented satisfaction. Rhys staggered back a few steps, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief-not from the pain, but from a world turned upside down. He never thought I would dare. After all, I had once loved him so deeply. I lowered my hand, lifted my chin, and looked calmly at his stunned expression. I gave him a faint smile. "Now we're even." Without waiting another moment, I dragged my feet away from that suffocating h**l. If I stayed even one more second, I would break down. I'd rather choke on my own tears than let him see them fall. Then-thud-I fell. High heels and emotional chaos are a terrible match. Pain shot through my palms and knees as they scraped against the hard marble. Bl**d surged out instantly, but I barely felt it. I got up, grabbed my purse, and kept walking. Home. I just wanted to go home. Away from all of this. Away from him. Like a woman fleeing the scene of a crime, I burst out of the building-only to slam into a wall of mu**le and the in**xicating scent of expensive cologne. I looked up-and saw sharp, sculpted features with an aura so commanding it could silence a room. He looked like the kind of man who, if you pissed him off, wouldn't just ruin your life-he'd erase your entire existence. Unfortunately, that only made him more attractive. For a second, I wished he would throw me over his shoulder and carry me to his lair-my face flushed red instantly. I snapped myself back to reality. "Sorry," I mumbled and rushed into the elevator of my apartment building. Back upstairs, I rummaged through my bag. My heart sank. No keys. Of course. The universe had clearly declared today The End of Mira Day. Frustration and helplessness surged in my ch**t. I kicked off my heels and shook the doorknob violently. It didn't help-but I needed to let it out. Why did everyone always choose Catherine?! Hadn't I done enough? I collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the cold floor as sobs tore from my throat. The tears came in a flood, impossible to stop. Just as I was nearly choking on my own cries, a voice-low, smooth, like black velvet-cut through the air behind me. "Your key." Fury sparked in my veins. Why did someone always interrupt me just when I was about to get it all out? Annoyed, I turned, ready to glare-only to freeze. Through tear-blurred eyes, I saw him again. The man I had bumped into downstairs-the one who looked like he had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. "Your key fell," he said, raising an eyebrow as his gaze landed on the scattered contents of my purse. "That's probably why you couldn't find it." I stared at the key resting in his elegant hand, my face flushing so hot it could've lit a match. I snatched it from him and fumbled to unlock the door, stumbling inside without a word. It wasn't until my back hit the door that I realized-I hadn't even thanked him. Great job, Mira. You absolute id**t. Hesitating, I crept toward the peephole. Through that tiny lens, I saw him calmly turn, unlock the door directly across the hall, and stroll inside. He lived across from me? He must have just moved in. With a face like that-and that aura-there's no way I wouldn't have noticed before. Wait, Mira. What are you doing? You're seriously letting a hot new neighbor make you forget the h**l Rhys just put you through? No. Absolutely not. All men are tr**h. Always. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to steady my racing heartbeat, reminding myself not to be so st**id again. But no matter how hard I tried, that sculpted face kept flashing through my mind. I needed ice-for my racing pulse, and more urgently, for the stinging pain on my cheek. Just as I forced myself up to head to the kitchen, my phone rang, shrill and sharp. One glance at the screen made my whole body go cold. Mom. I couldn't ignore the call. If I did, she would destroy my career without hesitation. She was absolutely capable of it. The moment I picked up, her voice sliced through the air-cold and merciless. "Mira, you must be insane! How dare you do something so disgraceful to Rhys! You apologize to him right now, or you're no longer our daughter!" I opened my mouth to explain, stunned-but she hung up before I could get a single word out. I gripped my phone tightly. Why was it that no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't earn even a sliver of their love? And Catherine-she never had to do anything, yet she was their perfect, precious jewel. Enough. I thought if I worked hard enough, my family, my fiancé-they would love me. But that's never going to happen. I have to reclaim the self-respect I lost long ago. I have to break off this engagement with Rhys-no matter the consequences. Chapter 2 Plan B 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 s**p from Rhys wasn't just a blow to the face. In so many ways, it was a s**p 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 gr**ned 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 h**l 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 Sc**ch in hand. People called him arrogant. No one ever called him vi**ent. 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." Yvaine's hand froze mid-pat. Everything shifted. One second, she was my concerned best friend. The next, she was a woman plotting mu**er. I grabbed her wrist before she could get ahold of something worse. "It's over between Rhys and me." "Really?" "Really. Even if the earth split in two and Skyline City sank into the ocean, I wouldn't marry him." That stopped her from storming out to commit ho**cide. "Catherine. That venomous snake-" Yvaine spat the name like it physically hurt her. "She's not even here anymore and she's still managing to wreck your life! And your parents? They just stand there watching! I swear, they could watch her light your house on fire and they'd hand her the matches. It's unbelievable!" I felt like a balloon someone had just popped-deflated, exhausted. That all-too-familiar ache settled deep in my ch**t. I knew some parents would always love their firstborn more. And there was nothing I could do about it. "I'm sorry, Mira." Yvaine sat down beside me and gave my head a firm push toward her shoulder. I pulled away and managed a weak smile. "Actually, I think it's a good thing. At least I found out what kind of man he is before we got married. Better now than after the vows, right?" She let out a long sigh, her eyes softening. "Mira, you know no matter what happens, I've got your back." Right then, my stomach growled loud enough to interrupt the moment. Loudly. Like a magician, Yvaine reached behind her and pulled out a takeout bag, giving me a look that practically screamed: I knew you'd be like this. I wanted to hug her, but I was too busy eating like a ravenous little goblin. After dinner, she pushed me into the bedroom and went off to clean up. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, drained and overwhelmed. What now? Through the half-open door, I heard her on the phone. I didn't catch every word, but the ones I did hear... were iconic. "A pile of s**t." "Total f**king psycho." "Oh, you think that's bad? Wait till I tell you what this vi**ent ba**ard actually did-" She was probably talking to Zane Hasterton. And unlike Rhys, Zane would never raise a hand to her. The way Yvaine so instantly, so fiercely chose me-without hesitation, without question-made my throat tighten. She believed me. No one else did. But she did. This wasn't something she did lightly. Rhys's family sat at the very top of the food chain-untouchable. And I had no doubt her parents wouldn't be thrilled to see her go up against them. I curled deeper under the blanket and let out a slow breath. Why couldn't my parents love me like that? Ever since their favorite daughter Houdini'd her way out of their master plan, I became Plan B. But that didn't mean they forgave my existence. Let's be honest: the only reason they'd stopped actively berating me was because I got engaged to Rhys. That little arrangement somehow elevated me from "irreparable family di**race" to "potential saving grace." Part of the reason I agreed to the engagement-and I know how pathetic this sounds-was because I thought maybe I could finally get something Catherine had: a sliver of parental affection. A crumb of approval. But now that the engagement was off? I was disposable again. Last I heard, they were boxing up my things, ready to ship me off to some remote jungle where I'd spend the rest of my life befriending anacondas and repenting for my sins. They were absolutely capable of that. I gr**ned into my pillow. What the h**l do I do now? Unless... I married someone more powerful than Rhys. The idea was so ridiculous I snorted. Right. Because billionaires are just wandering around Skyline City hoping to marry a 23-year-old orphan with no patience for their bullshit. And yet- A face flashed in my mind. Three days ago. My new neighbor. I remembered, quite inappropriately, thinking I wouldn't mind being alone with him in his apartment where he could do all sorts of rated-R things to me. I shook my head, quickly banishing the thought. I didn't even know his name. Just that he had the kind of aura that could slice a person in half. No. Way too dangerous. I gr**ned again. If I hadn't broken that st**id mug, everything might've been okay. But it wasn't. And it's not. And there's no going back. F**k! Why am I the one trying to fix this when I wasn't even the one who messed it up?! I sat up-and bam, the door burst open. Yvaine marched in. "Sl**p is just going to make you feel worse. We're getting up, and we're going to find a d**k worth loving-one that's better than Rhys's." WHAT?! While I gaped, she had already changed me into a new outfit. Just like that, we were off to Skyline City's most exclusive club-members only. Chapter 3 Rebound Night "Is this really necessary?" I stood at the end of the line, shivering, tugging desperately at the hem of my tragically short skirt. I could practically feel it-if I opened my mouth to speak, my un**rwear would be on full display. "Sweetheart, we paid a fortune to get into this place. Of course we're going all in. Do you not get it?" Yvaine declared like a mafia queen, standing tall against the icy wind in her five-inch heels without the slightest trace of fear. "But isn't this a little too-" I didn't even get to finish before a brutal gust of wind slapped me across the face like it had a personal vendetta. I immediately zipped up my puffer jacket and curled into myself like a frozen shrimp. Yvaine let out a dramatic gr**an. "Mira, come on. We're going to a b*r, not an Arctic expedition." "I'm just glad I won't be hospitalized for hypothermia tonight, thanks," I snapped back. She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might fall out, gave me a once-over full of disappointment-but said nothing more. Small victory. My puffer jacket was safe-for now. I'd thought we'd have to wait in line like everyone else. That was the whole reason I wore this thermal fortress of a coat. But clearly, I had underestimated Yvaine. She had zero plans to follow the rules. With the ease of someone who'd done this a thousand times, she slipped a rolled-up bill into the bouncer's hand, her palm casually grazing his rock-hard ch**t like a Bond girl who'd forgotten her martini. Ten seconds. That's all it took. We were in. Yvaine was the kind of beautiful that made men forget protocol-and ethics-in an instant. And just like that, we breezed into Roxanne. The place was thick with heat, perfume, and the effervescent scent of ch**pagne. I ripped off my coat the second we stepped inside, only to be met with an are-you-trying-to-embarrass-me glare from Yvaine. She handed her coat off to a passing server with a flick of her fingers, like she'd personally hired the man. Regal, effortless, born for this. I tried to copy her moves. Failed miserably. Nearly dropped my purse and stumbled like a hamster who'd just woken up from a freezer nap. Graceful? No. I looked like roadkill in Gucci heels. If I hadn't known each co**tail here cost about the same as my checking account balance, I might've even convinced myself I was pulling it off. "Jesus Christ!" I gasped, eyes glued to the menu like it had just in**lted my entire bloodline. Yvaine gave me a sideways glance and scoffed. "Relax. Tonight's on me." I exhaled with something dangerously close to gratitude. Considering I'd nearly broken off an engagement, risked being exiled to some remote tropical island by my parents, and needed to budget for anti-snake spray, I needed all the charity I could get. Price tags aside, the view was elite: ambitious young actors, outrageously good-looking models, and a legion of finance bros who looked like they gave TED talks while wearing Burberry. It was a glittering buffet of vanity and hormones, wrapped in velvet lighting and the illusion of power. We found a table near the b*r and hadn't even ordered drinks when a bartender locked eyes on us. Well. He was hard to miss-tall, sculpted features, sleeves rolled to the elbows just enough to show off well-trained forearms. He shouldn't be mixing drinks-he should be in the Louvre. Or at the very least starring in Dior's newest fragrance campaign. Maybe that's why this club was so expensive: even the staff had to be perfect. "Two 75s, French br**dy," Before I could even locate the cheapest drink on the menu, Yvaine had already tossed her order at the ba**ender. "Make it strong." And of course, she didn't forget to flash her signature smile-the one that balanced perfectly between s**y and innocent, chin tilted just enough to say "Oops, didn't mean to flirt." The ba**ender reached effortlessly for the g*n, giving her a half-smile. "Rough night?" "More like an engagement-level disaster," she said, casually pointing her thumb at me. "And it's wrapping up real soon." I glanced at her. "Thrilled that my personal life is now public broadcast." She patted my hand with mock sympathy. "Sweetie, this place runs on romantic catastrophes. Without bad decisions, no one would be buying drinks." Then she turned away and melted into the crowd, flipping into Social Queen Mode like someone had hit a switch. In under ten seconds, she completed a visual sweep-like a hawk zeroing in on prey-before spinning back around and pointing her perfectly manicured finger toward the edge of the dance floor. "Okay, listen. You need a rebound. Exhibit A: Six-foot-two, hair neater than your ex-fiancé's moral compass, shirt unbuttoned just enough to scream s**y without slipping into cheap. He either owns a yacht or, at the very least, a VIP card." I shook my head. "Nope." Her eyes flicked to a new direction. "Exhibit B: struggling musician. Dressed like payday hasn't happened yet, but he's hot enough you'd forgive him. You'd fund his next album and still sl**p like a baby." "Pass." She sighed, then pointed again. "Fine. Exhibit C: total dad vibes-but the good kind. Like 'books your doctor's appointment and your breakfast' dad, not 'calls the waitress 'sweetheart' and thinks climate change is a myth' dad." I gr**ned into my hands. "Yvaine, please." She didn't back down. "Mira, you cannot sit here like a decorative wall gecko. Tonight is about rebooting your life, not stitching up emotional wounds." Just as she geared up for a fourth round of rebound recommendations, she suddenly froze. It was like someone had hit mute on her entire system. Then, far too casually, she said, "Hey, want to hit the bathroom?" I narrowed my eyes. "No?" "...Or maybe let's move tables? The vibe here's weird." Her smile was tight, and her voice cracked like a pair of worn-out heels. Weird vibe? We'd only been sitting for ten minutes, and we just ordered drinks. By Yvaine's standards, we hadn't even made it past the opening credits. Then I followed her gaze. A half-private booth. Rhys. He had his arm draped around a woman. Her head rested on his shoulder, makeup flawless, smile polished and effortless. I didn't need more details. That face-I would never forget it. Four years ago, a girl vanished under mysterious circumstances. I, in all my na?ve glory, believed she had simply "stepped aside," choosing to selflessly walk away from a future with Rhys. And now, here was Catherine-perched on my ex-fiancé's lap, locked in a pose so in**mate. I had told myself I was over it. Over him. We'd broken up. It was done. Time to move on. Until I heard what came next. "Honestly, I didn't think she'd fall apart over a coffee mug." Catherine's voice was soft, full of false pity-the kind that sounded like she'd just k**led someone and was now gently tucking a blanket over the body. She gently swirled the w**e in her glass, her lips curling into a near-perfect smile. "Of course I put that mug somewhere obvious. I wanted her to notice. After all, she still doesn't know you've been seeing me behind her back. It was time she caught a little hint, wasn't it?" She looked up at Rhys, eyes glowing with admiration. "Honestly though, darling, your performance was spot-on. Even I almost believed you were worried she'd find out about us, instead of just helping me pull off the scene." "She's so st**id-of course she thought you were upset about the mug, not terrified of exposing your af**ir." Rhys chuckled softly, smug and relaxed. "I had to act like I cared. She spends every day trying to be the perfect girlfriend. If she found out all her effort still couldn't compete with you, she'd lose it." Catherine laughed under her breath and patted his ch**t. "Don't worry. Knowing Mira, she's probably still scrambling to fix things. She's the type who always believes that if she just tries hard enough, people will finally see her worth." Her laugh turned soft, laced with pity so sharp it felt like a bl**e. "But the harder she tries, the more pathetic she looks. And me? I just 'happened' to return home. Her parents don't know a thing. They didn't even get the chance to stop me. Tomorrow, I'll be seeing them in broad daylight-because she gave up the engagement herself, and you, dear, are blameless." Catherine leaned back with a triumphant sigh. "Isn't this the best ending? I never gave up on you. I was just waiting for her to step aside." Rhys nodded slowly, a small smirk on his lips. "You're right. You always are." A loud roar rang in my ears, and my heartbeat pounded against my skull like a war drum. Yvaine must've been saying something-pleading with me to stay calm, not to do anything st**id-but I didn't hear a word. I wasn't the same Mira who swallowed her pride for praise anymore. I slipped free from Yvaine's grip and turned to the bartender. "Your best red. Put it on Rhys Granger's tab." The ba**ender-bless his beautiful, rule-breaking soul-didn't even flinch. He handed me the bottle like I'd just ordered mineral water. With the bottle in hand, I had a mission. A singular, burning purpose. The bouncer moved to stop me, but one look at my face-like a vengeful goddess straight from h**l-made him wisely back off, hands raised in surrender. I marched straight toward Rhys and Catherine. They were lip-locked in some dramatic, second-rate soap opera make-out scene. I raised the bottle-and smashed it, with all my strength. Glass shattered with a sharp crack, spraying across the table. Rhys's forehead split instantly, a trail of bl**d beginning to drip down between his brows. Catherine screamed and leapt off his lap. "Mirabelle?! Are you insane?! What are you doing here?!" She scrambled to find a lie, panic rising in her voice. "You're misunderstanding, it's not what you think-" Rhys cut her off, his hand gripping her arm, his gaze dark and cold. "Don't bother explaining, Catherine. It doesn't matter. My parents will take your side, no matter what. We're just correcting an old mistake." Catherine's panic twisted into smugness in an instant. She curled into his side with sickening sweetness and cooed, "Oh, honey, your head's bl**ding. We have to get to the hospital." Before I could say anything, Yvaine rushed to my side, fury radiating from every pore. She raised her hand, ready to s**p Catherine straight back to whatever pit she'd crawled out of. "You disgusting, two-faced bi**h-!" I grabbed her wrist, steady and cold. "Yvaine, let them go. If they stay here one more second, I might lose my appetite permanently." I locked eyes with Catherine's smug little face and raised my voice deliberately. "After all, the theme of this place is premium taste, not some clearance aisle for secondhand tr**h." Catherine's smile froze on her lips. Rhys's face darkened, but they had no chance to respond. Yvaine, emboldened, lifted her chin and sneered at the bouncers. "Well? What are you waiting for? Kindly es**rt these two walking health code violations off the premises." Chapter 4 Key Guy As soon as they were gone, Yvaine dragged me out of the club. D**n 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 r*w-they'd been sl**ping together behind my back all along. And me? I was just the fo**ish, 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 godd**n as**oles!" 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 b*r. 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 ni**tclub. 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 b*r. "Wh**key sour. Large. Keep them coming." "Ma'am, maybe you should slow down," the ba**ender 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 ba**ender sighed but obliged. "That guy's right," a smooth, magnetic voice murmured beside me. "Too much al**hol can impair cognitive function and judgment. Unless you want to wake up in a stranger's b*d 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 al**hol." 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... fl**ting 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 wh**key 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 b*d, asking if his to**h was hard enough. My heart skipped a beat. My cheeks flushed instantly. My fingertips tightened against the edge of the b*r. 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 b*r. 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 ho**l 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 h**l 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 sh**ts 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 s*x. 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 al**hol 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. Gr**ning, I rolled out of bed. Gr**ned 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?" S**it. 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 h**s. 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. Chapter 5 Proposal "We need to talk." He stood in front of me, his voice disturbingly calm-as if he were announcing the fridge had broken, not that I had thrown him onto a b*d the night before. Talk? My brain instantly began sorting through possibilities. Talk about what? A debrief? A review? Was he proposing some kind of... "long-term se**al partnership"? Definitely not a proposal. That sort of thing only happens in soap operas written by people with hopelessly romantic minds. Was he worried I'd cling to him? After all-it was me who started this. I was the one who dragged him out of the bar. I was the one who opened the ho**l door. I was the one who pi**ed him down without a second thought. "Look," I said, adopting the most mature, responsible tone I could muster, "last night was a mistake. A reckless, impulsive, but... undeniably enjoyable mistake." I tried not to look at his shoulders. Nor at his ch**t. Not at the water droplets sliding down his collarbone, tracing over sculpted mu**le. "I'm not going to ask you to take responsibility. I won't call you crying about emotional trauma. I'm not that kind of girl." He didn't say anything. Seeing no reaction, I turned to the door-aiming for a graceful exit, complete with a closure monologue. But just as my hand reached the doorknob, a warm, wet palm landed on the back of mine. I froze. Slowly, I turned around. He was looking at me with an expression I couldn't place-somewhere between surprise and... seriousness. "You don't remember me?" he asked softly. I blinked, caught off guard. I answered quickly, almost defensively: "Of course I do. You're my new neighbor. Helped me find my keys the other night." Technically true. Totally accurate. What I didn't say-and never would-was that even without those trivial interactions, I remembered him. That face was unforgettable. Or, more precisely, that face standing in front of me in just a white towel, with water dripping down those a*s... yeah. Not something easily erased from memory. I swallowed hard. The trick was: don't look directly at him. Like an eclipse. Too bad that strategy had completely failed. Worse still, even though I was fully dressed and he was practically na**d, somehow, under his gaze, I felt like the one who was completely ex**sed. I tried to speak-to say something, anything to shift the focus. But he didn't press further. He just stood there, watching me, as if waiting for the moment my real reaction would finally come. The silence stretched. Then he said, "It's fine. Doesn't matter." I blinked. What? "Can I go now?" I asked dryly. His hand still hadn't moved. He looked at me again, then-unhurriedly-said: "Will you marry me?" ... What?! "You're not serious." I finally found my voice. "I'm completely serious," he replied, as if he were announcing a quarterly financial report. "I just returned to the country. My parents want me to get married as soon as possible. In their eyes, a married man means stability. And only a stable man can inherit the family business." I fell silent. Two days ago, I vowed I'd bring home someone better than Rhys. Someone impressive enough to silence my parents. Now, the universe had sent an answer-just with a thick layer of irony. But I knew. Marriage shouldn't be like this. I'd already lived through a loveless engagement once. All it left was a house full of silence, hollow in**macy, and a slow, brutal erosion of my self-respect. I opened my mouth to say no. But at that moment, my phone rang. The sharp ringtone cut through the quiet like a kn**e. I glanced at the screen-and felt like a bomb had exploded in my ch**t. Caroline Vance. My mother. Catherine was back. She must have called to announce something important. I looked at that face-familiar yet distant-then back down at my phone. And finally, I said the words: "I can't accept." I walked out of the ho**l suite, the ringtone still shrieking behind me. I answered, not because I wanted to, but because I needed-desperately-to sever the tie that kept dragging me back into the past. "Why didn't you pick up your phone? Were you trying to give me a heart attack?" My mother's voice came rapid-fire, like machine-g*n fire. "I thought you were dead in a ditch or kidnapped by some maniac! Get home. Now. We need to talk." "I'm already on my way," I said coldly, hanging up before she could start round two. I gave the driver my parents' address and collapsed into the backseat, like someone bracing for a colonoscopy without anesthesia. Okay. Let's get this over with. My neighbor-aka my one-n1ght st**d-was probably insane. But while I still had a drop of al**hol-induced courage left in my bl**d-while the old Mira, desperate for love, hadn't crept back in-I had to move fast. I had to throw this ruined mess back in their perfect little faces. The Vance family estate sat in the kind of suburban enclave that didn't welcome anyone who couldn't afford a BMW. No subway stops. No bus routes. Just an elegantly worded "keep out, poor people." At the wrought-iron gate, I took a deep breath. I felt like a boxer entering the ring. Shoulders squared. Chin up. Emotional armor locked in place. The moment I entered the living room, I could sense the ambush. My father-Franklin Vance-sat alone in his leather chair, wearing the same expression he probably used to fire underperforming hedge fund managers. Beside him, my mother, Caroline, with her perfect hair and perfectly aligned pearl necklace, smiled the way a doctor does when saying, "The cancer's spread." To their left, Rhys sat on the sofa, all solemn and brooding, as if waiting for a divorce lawyer to direct his next pose. And on the right? Catherine, obviously. All we were missing was a gavel and a court reporter. This was a trial. I was the defendant. And the verdict had already been written. Mother struck first. "What took you so long? I called you hours ago." She crossed her arms, her tone colder than the AC. "Traffic," I lied. If I told them I'd just escaped from a man in a towel, they'd have me hospitalized. "So? Why am I here?" My tone was sharp, iced over. No one answered. Not until Rhys stood, a bandage still across his forehead. The sight of him looking vaguely wounded brought me a small, grim satisfaction. "You left this at my place," he said slowly, holding something in his hand. "Your bear alarm clock." I stared at it. A cheap, scuffed electronic clock shaped like a cartoon bear, its plastic face scratched and faded from over a decade of use. And now, this relic was their opening move? Rage rose in my throat, but I swallowed it. "Thanks," I said flatly. "That's... thoughtful." I snatched up the ridiculous little clock and turned to leave. Come on. No one calls a full-blown family meeting just to return an alarm clock. I knew better. This was about humiliation. About putting me in my place. They were the real family. I was always the outsider-invited in only when they needed a benchwarmer. "Wait," my mother said, her voice even colder than before. I paused. Didn't turn around. She folded her arms again and smiled-a tight, poisonous smile you only see when a doctor says "Stage four." "Now that Catherine's back," she said, "and since you and Rhys have broken up, we believe it's time-he and Catherine should be engaged." I gave a short, humorless laugh. Turned around slowly, letting the sarcasm drip from my lips. "By all means. Plan whatever you want. It's not like you've ever asked for my opinion before." "We used to ask," she shot back, her voice sharp, "back when you were still the sensible daughter. The one with potential." She stepped closer. "You're too emotional, Mira. Your insecurity made you paranoid-accusing Rhys, trying to control him. You didn't trust him, and that's what destroyed the relationship." Her words were bl**es. Light in tone. Ruthless in effect. "So this is on you. And you'll make that clear in the press. Tell them you fell for someone else. That's why you ended the engagement." I froze. Something ripped open inside my ch**t-like they'd torn it apart with their bare hands. I looked at them-all of them-my parents, Rhys, Catherine. So calm. So deliberate. Like a script they'd rehearsed for weeks. What had I done to deserve this? Where had I gone so wrong? I was ready to explode. To storm out. But that's when my father finally stood. Like a judge preparing to read the sentence. "You don't have to worry about finding someone new," he said with absolute finality. "We've already made arrangements-" &6&