One Night Stand With My Ex's Billionaire Enemy-Chapter 137 New Beginning

I was grateful Ashton had taken over the company. I really was.

But staying here like this—being the face of the brand, parading around with a title that didn’t belong to me—was already starting to mess with my head.

I hadn’t designed a single new piece since the buyout.

Every idea felt second-guessed before it even made it to my sketchpad.

While I debated whether I could fake an allergy to the paint fumes and just escape, my phone buzzed.

Bank notification. Another two million had landed.

Monthly transfer, right on schedule.

I hadn’t even touched the last batch.

Okay, I’d bought some clothes, a few handbags. That was it.

Counting the ten million Ashton had wrangled from his father and evil stepmother back at that birthday dinner, my account was now sitting just under fifteen million.

I stared at the number.

My fingers started moving before my brain even caught up.

A studio. My own. Small, focused, something that belonged entirely to me.

Even with Skyline’s real estate prices, where a black market heart transplant might be cheaper than your own apartment, I could still afford a decent space with what I had.

And I would have enough left over for everything else: staff, furniture, utilities, casting tools, inventory.

I could build a niche brand—custom commissions, limited releases, high-end but personal.

If I could convince Octavia to mention my studio in her post, we’d have instant credibility.

I wouldn’t need investors. I wouldn’t owe anyone anything.

This was what I used to dream about.

Now, it didn’t just feel possible—it felt overdue.

I couldn’t sit still.

Pacing as much as the space allowed, I was about to call Ashton, then figured, with the time of day, he was probably in a meeting.

I switched to texting instead.

He replied before I even sat down.

[Do whatever you want. You have my full support. Go for it.]

I read it again. And again.

My fingers curled around my phone.

A slow warmth spread through my chest, steady and grounding, like the rush after stepping into a hot shower on a freezing day.

I felt settled. Clear-headed. Ready to take on the world.

Then I messaged Yvaine.

[Thinking about opening my own studio. Thoughts?]

Yvaine: [Finally. I’ve been waiting for you to get out of Nyx Collective. When Octavia tagged you last month, I heard a bunch of brands started circling.]

Me: [They were all tiny. None better than Nyx.]

Yvaine: [Which is why you should do your own thing. Pick a space. Don’t just sit around in that sad office.]

Then she called me.

"I’ve got time this week," she said. "I’m bored out of my mind. Let’s go location hunting."

We met up that afternoon.

The very next day, we found the place.

Just one street over from Nyx, tucked between a tea shop and some massage parlor with tinted windows.

It used to be a florist. The owner was moving away and needed to let it go, fast.

There was a huge glass window at the front, clean and high. The sunlight poured through, bright and even.

The walls were pale cream, no ugly murals or tacky decals.

Just a clean space that smelled faintly of eucalyptus.

At the back, a narrow staircase led up to the second floor.

I could already picture it—a guest lounge, space for private client meetings, maybe even a coffee bar if I had money left after renovations.

I walked around twice, running my hand over the walls, checking the flooring for squeaks, eyeing the wiring.

It was perfect.

Spacious without feeling empty. Modern finishes, a good layout, and no awkward columns in the center of the room.

Yvaine liked it too. Mostly because, right across the street, there was a cake shop also up for rent.

"I’m taking that one," she said immediately. "If I run a bakery, maybe my mum will stop accusing me of freeloading. And Emmett can stop complaining for once."

"You and Emmett still at war?"

She rolled her eyes. "He called me an idiot. Said I’m immature. He barely talks to me now. Won’t even look at me if we’re in the same room. But he’s full of it. I’m his only sister. He’ll come crawling back when I’m rich."

She pushed her hair back and grinned. "Once I’m running an empire, he’ll be begging for a meeting."

"An empire built on cakes?"

"Why not? Frederick Belmont did it. Why not me?"

That spark in her voice pulled me in. I wanted to join this empire-building, too.

"What are you doing with the shop?"

"Cake, for now."

"You know how to bake?"

"God, no." She laughed. "I’ll gut the place and hire someone who won’t set the kitchen on fire. I’ll be the manager and official taster. You’ll be my first VIP customer."

"Fine by me."

We went out to dinner that night. She picked a place with brick walls, dim lights, and actual cloth napkins.

Her good mood carried all the way to dessert. "Once we’re both moved in, I can pop over anytime. No more waiting for you to get off work. I can just cross the street."

"That reminds me." I frowned, thinking. "I should install an intercom. No surprise visitors."

She ignored me and raised her glass. "To the future."

I lifted mine. "To the future."

We clinked glasses and drank.

After we both signed our leases, we started renovations. Mine first.

Most of the florist’s stuff was useless—cracked shelving, rusted hooks, water-stained counters.

All of it had to go.

Yvaine stuck a "Closed for Renovation" sign on her shop and left it alone.

She said she’d deal with it later.

For now, she was too busy treating my studio like a real-life Tycoon game, happily bossing around contractors and haggling over cabinet handles.

We were both buried in packing tape and delivery boxes, so I texted Priya.