Breaking The Script: My Billionaire Husband

The phone, buzzing incessantly with notifications, felt impossibly heavy in her hand. She dropped it onto the marble kitchen island with a sharp clatter, sending a sharp spike of pain straight through Justina's skull. The morning sun of Beverly Hills sliced through the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was too bright. It made the throbbing behind her eyes worse. She pressed her fingertips hard against her temples, trying to stop the room from spinning. "Post it now, Justina." Miles stood over her. His face was red. He tapped his thick index finger against the marble countertop, a rapid, irritating rhythm that made Justina's stomach churn. He leaned closer, his breath smelling of stale coffee and aggressive desperation. "If you do not press send on that tweet right now, you are going to owe the network three million dollars in breach of contract fees. Do you have three million dollars? Because I know you do not." Justina looked down at the glowing screen. The Twitter app was open. The draft was ready. It was the official promotional post for the reality show Perfect Match. The text was filled with words like soulmate and true love and forever. A wave of pure, physical nausea hit the back of her throat. She swallowed hard, tasting bile. "I cannot post this," she said. Her voice was thin. It sounded like it belonged to someone else. She tried to push the phone away. Miles slammed his hand down, his fingers wrapping tightly around her wrist. His grip was bruising. He pinned her hand to the cold marble. "You do not have a choice," he spat. "Press the button." The pressure on her wrist was cutting off her circulation. Her fingers felt numb. The crushing weight of the debt, the contract, and the sheer force of Miles's anger pressed down on her chest. She could not breathe. Her lungs forgot how to expand. With a shaking, numb finger, she tapped the blue Tweet button. Miles released her wrist immediately. He snatched the phone up. Less than three seconds later, the device started emitting a rapid, piercing series of notification chimes. It sounded like an alarm. Miles swiped at the screen, his eyes wide with a manic kind of joy. "Look at this engagement," he yelled. Justina rubbed her aching wrist. She forced herself to look at the screen he was shoving in her face. The comments were a waterfall of pure hatred. They moved so fast they blurred together, but the top comment was pinned at the top, gathering thousands of likes per second. "Sold her body for a few extra zeros. Enjoy your bald, Harvey Weinstein lookalike husband, you gold digging trash." Justina tried to swipe the comment away. Her fingers were trembling so badly she accidentally clicked on a picture thread. It was a series of crude, highly edited photos of her face pasted onto the bodies of women kneeling in front of a bloated, faceless old man. The air in the room felt too hot. "This is perfect," Miles said. He was actually smiling. He pulled out a notepad and started writing down the trending hashtag numbers. "Hate traffic is still traffic, Justina. We are going to monetize this." The massive flat-screen television on the living room wall was playing an entertainment news channel. The host was laughing loudly. The banner at the bottom of the screen read: Justina Cash's Sugar Daddy Scandal. The host used a mocking, exaggerated tone to describe her so-called marriage to an elderly media tycoon. Then the screen flashed to a different segment. The background music turned soft and sweet. A picture of Haylie Cunningham appeared. The banner changed to: America's Sweetheart Finds True Love. The host spoke in a gentle, admiring voice about Haylie's pure, untainted relationship. The contrast hit Justina like a physical blow to the stomach. Her heart contracted painfully. A hot, suffocating sense of humiliation crawled up her neck and burned her cheeks. Miles tossed a pile of fabric onto the marble island. "Wear this for the live broadcast tomorrow morning," he ordered. Justina looked at the fabric. It was a matching couple's outfit. It was neon pink, covered in cheap sequins, and the neckline was cut so low it was practically indecent. It was designed to make her look like a complete joke. She reached out to push the ugly fabric away. The moment her fingertips brushed the sequins, a violent shock ripped through her brain. It felt like a lightning bolt striking the center of her skull. She gasped, her mouth opening wide, but no sound came out. Images exploded behind her eyes. They were not her memories, but they felt more real than the marble under her hands. She saw herself wearing that exact neon pink dress. She saw herself crying hysterically in front of a camera crew. She saw millions of comments calling her a whore. She saw herself losing every contract, every friend, and eventually dying alone in a cheap motel, completely destroyed by the internet. She yanked her hand back from the dress. She scrambled backward, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She stared at the pink fabric like it was a piece of burning coal. Her chest heaved. She was hyperventilating. "What is wrong with you?" Miles shouted. He threw his hands up in the air. "Do not start acting like a diva right now. We are on a schedule." Justina clamped her hands over her ears. The noise in her head was deafening. Fragments of information were slamming together, forming a terrifying, impossible picture. She saw the cover of a book. The title was printed in elegant letters. The author's name was there. But the main character was Haylie Cunningham. Justina Cash was just a name on the back cover. A villain. A stupid, vain, brainless side character designed to make Haylie look better. A character destined to be ruined. The sheer volume of the realization crushed her. Her knees gave out. She collapsed onto the expensive Italian leather sofa, her body folding in on itself. Miles rolled his eyes. He pulled his phone out and dialed a number. "Get her some juice," he barked at an assistant who was hovering in the hallway. "She is doing that low blood sugar thing again." He turned his back on her and started pacing, talking loudly to a PR contact about maximizing the hate comments for tomorrow's launch. Justina sat on the sofa. She took a slow, rattling breath in through her nose. She let it out through her mouth. She stared at her own hands. They were shaking, but the panic was starting to recede. The fog in her brain was clearing. She looked at the phone on the table. She looked at the neon pink dress. She realized with absolute, terrifying clarity that she had been following a script her entire life. A script written to destroy her. Every stupid decision, every fake smile, every piece of trash clothing she wore was leading her to that motel room. Miles ended his call. He turned back to her. "Go to the makeup room," he commanded. "Try on the dress. We need to practice your loving wife routine." Justina did not say a word. She stood up. Her legs were steady now. She walked over to the marble island. She picked up the neon pink dress. Miles nodded, looking satisfied. Justina walked past him, went straight to the heavy stainless steel trash can in the corner of the kitchen, stepped on the pedal, and dropped the dress inside. Miles froze. His eyes bulged out of his head. His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. "What the hell are you doing?" he screamed. Justina turned to face him. She did not touch her hair. She did not press her temples. She just looked at him. Her eyes were completely dead. They were cold, flat, and filled with a quiet, murderous intent. Miles actually took a step back. He had never seen her look like that. Justina picked up a tall glass of ice water from the counter. She did not drink it. She raised the glass and poured the freezing water directly over her own head. The shock of the cold water hitting her scalp and running down her face made her gasp, but it washed away the heavy, suffocating layers of foundation and powder. It washed away the fake, helpless persona she had been wearing for years. She set the empty glass down with a sharp clink. She looked at her reflection in the dark screen of the television. Her hair was soaked. Her face was completely bare. Her skin was pale, but her jaw was set like stone. She looked beautiful. She looked real. She stared at her own reflection and made a silent promise. To hell with the script.