I Slapped My Fiancé—Then Married His Billionaire Nemesis

Family Showdown

I don’t even remember how I got out of that house.

All I had was one single, sharp conclusion echoing through my head—

I must not be their daughter.

And I had to find out the truth.

It was the only explanation I could cling to—because otherwise, how could I live with the idea that my own parents were capable of being this cruel?

The moment I got back to my apartment, I collapsed into bed. I didn’t move until my phone started ringing.

It was Ivanna.

I didn’t wait for her to ask anything—I just blurted out everything my parents had done.

And, yes… I also told her about the one-night stand.

I left out the proposal.

Ivanna let out a scream so high-pitched it could probably shatter glass and murder all the plants in my apartment.

“You had a one-night stand?! And you didn’t FaceTime me live from the scene?!”

I switched the phone to speaker and tossed it onto the couch, slumping back into the cushions with my eyes closed.

Her voice kept going like fireworks:

“Who is he? What mythological realm did this man descend from? Are you telling me you actually, finally, let Rhys go? Don’t tell me—he looks like Michelangelo carved him, or…”

She paused. I could picture her sitting up on her sofa, wrapped in a blanket, making that infamous, exaggerated gesture.

“A wand of unnatural proportions?”

“You are—so. Incredibly. Annoying,” I groaned, dragging a pillow over my face.

“You’re dodging the topic,” she snapped back instantly.

Yes.

Yes, I was.

I never hid things from Ivanna. Not even the ugliest parts of my story.

Not even… last night.

I slept with a man whose last name I couldn’t remember.

Just to peel Rhys’s residue off my skin—for a minute, an hour, a night—whatever it took to feel free again.

Was it liberating?

No.

It was revenge, escape, a cocktail of both with a guilt chaser.

But Ivanna wasn’t here to judge me.

She was here to douse the flames—even if it was only through the tiny speaker in my living room.

“At least tell me this,” she said suddenly, her voice lowering, softer. “Was he hot? Like, close-your-eyes-and-you-can-still-see-his-brow-bone hot?”

“…Hot,” I muttered into the pillow.

“And when he touched you… did it feel like he knew you were something rare? Like you were a limited edition made just for him?”

I clenched my jaw. Didn’t answer.

“Oh my god,” she breathed.

“You actually slept with someone who was worth it.”

I kept my eyes closed, and for some reason, that one sentence felt like a suture pulled gently over the tear in my chest.

My parents’ voices still echoed in my head—sharp, suffocating, like burnt toast you couldn’t scrape off.

The way they’d discarded me—so clinical, so composed. Like tossing out a baby bottle that had outlived its use.

“Mira,” her voice shifted again, quieter, steadier. “You can do anything. Screw up, break down, love the wrong person—it’s all fine. But you can’t carry all of this alone anymore.”

I said nothing.

Just pulled my knees to my chest and pressed my face into them.

“I’m here,” she whispered. “Wherever you go. Whatever you do. I’m here.”

I didn’t cry.

I swear I didn’t.

I just clenched my jaw, shut my eyes tighter, and swallowed the words thank you like a pill I couldn’t quite get down.

I glanced at the time.

I had to go to work.

Now that my parents had made it clear I was disposable, my job was the one thing I couldn’t afford to screw up.

Of course, they believed I worked as a barista.

They’d forbidden me from having a corporate job.

In their minds, once married, I should be home full-time—a perfect little housewife.

So I never told them what I really did.

Dragging my exhausted body out the door, I headed to Ground & Pound—my workplace.

The name? Chosen because the owner figured it had no real brand potential. Was it a sexy coffee shop? An underground MMA gym? Who knew? Who cared?

But it was decent.

Stable.

And for now—safe.

Well… until it no longer existed.

“Mira.”

My boss, Benny, greeted me like I was his parole officer—nervous, sweaty, probably two seconds away from peeing his pants.

He was in his forties, wore a man bun that did no favors for his hairline, and his arms were covered in tattoos best described as regrettable—one of which included a goat wearing sunglasses.

“You don’t need to be here today. I was just about to call you…” He stared at the floor. “You’re not on the schedule anymore.”

Excuse me?

“You’ve been… let go. I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to, but… I got a call. From your mom.”

My stomach dropped.

“She threatened to report us, said she’d have our license revoked if I didn’t fire you.” Benny kept staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t do anything.”

“She runs a luxury skincare company, Benny. Not the goddamn FBI.”

He shrugged helplessly. “She said she’d report us for health code violations. And you know she’s got connections. She could actually pull it off.”

I took a deep breath. Yelling at Benny wouldn’t do anything. This wasn’t his fault.

Before I did something stupid—like hurl a milk jug out the window—I stormed out.

I didn’t hate that job. Being a barista was just a side hustle.

What really paid the bills—what no one knew except Ivanna—was my jewelry design.

Ever since I was a kid, my mom had told me I was average. Ordinary. Talentless. Every time I tried to shine, she dragged me back into her shadow.

Eventually, I learned to obey. I buried my ambition, wore gray feathers like a peacock pretending to be a pigeon.

So no, I didn’t care about losing the coffee shop job.

What infuriated me wasn’t unemployment. It was that this—this power move—was her.

Her fingerprints were all over it.

It was her punishment. A response to me trying to escape Rhys. Trying to escape her.

She was sending me a message:

You don’t get to walk away.

I can destroy any scrap of pride you think you’ve earned—with one finger.

If she thought I’d come crawling back, like I used to, begging for her approval…

She could go to hell.

I wasn’t her puppet anymore.

I was done playing the good girl.

Thirty minutes later, I shoved open the front door of the Vance estate.

No knocking. I didn’t care.

I had come ready to start round two of our family war.

What I found instead was something far worse.

My parents were sitting on the ivory couch in the living room, sipping wine worth more than my rent, laughing—laughing—with a man I didn’t recognize.

The scene was picturesque. Like they’d stepped right out of How to Host the Perfect Suburban Power Dinner.

The man looked like a slimy, watered-down version of a 1950s mogul—maybe one who’d spent time in white-collar prison and came out with a tailor.

Custom suit. Shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, revealing a patch of chest hair that looked like someone had just trimmed a Christmas wreath.

His teeth were too white, his smile too polished—like greed dipped in varnish.

“Darling,” my mother cooed, sweet as syrup, “come meet Mr. Leonard Shaw, CEO of Alcott Shipping. A true self-made man. There’s so much you could learn from him—about turning raw talent into real success.”

It hit like a scented hammer to the face.

Leonard grinned ear to ear. His eyes—no, his eyes went straight under my skirt.

“Lovely to meet you, Miss Vance,” he said. “I do hope we get to talk more. I always enjoy mentoring young women. Especially smart, beautiful ones like yourself.”

I didn’t bother hiding my expression.

It wasn’t disgust. It was nausea.

He was practically licking his lips.

I could hear the soundtrack of Indecent Proposal playing in his head.

“Mira,” my mother warned in that sugar-coated threat tone, “don’t be rude. Shake Mr. Shaw’s hand.”

I didn’t move. I didn’t even blink.

If someone had thrown a raccoon at me in that moment, I’d have hugged it over touching Leonard’s hand.

Caroline’s laugh rang out, high and brittle, like she was trying to cover up my resistance.

“Young people are so sensitive these days, aren’t they?” she said to Leonard, with the practiced tone of someone saying she’ll come around.

Leonard just waved it off. “I like a girl with a little fire.”

Yeah, and I like dentists who don’t need pliers. We can’t all get what we want.

And my father—the same man who, just days ago, told me “we’ll take care of everything”—was now nodding at Leonard like a hotel concierge hoping for a good tip.

That’s when I understood.

This wasn’t an introduction.

It was a presentation.

I was the product on display tonight.

This wasn’t about meeting a “promising single man.”

This was a sale. I was being marketed like a financial package with a bonus gift.

When Leonard finally left—leaving behind a cloud of cologne and a trail of sleaze—I turned to face them.

“What the hell was that?”

My mother raised her wine glass, took a slow, triumphant sip.

“That,” she said with a smile, “was your future husband.”