Breaking The Script: My Billionaire Husband

The freezing water dripped from Justina's chin and landed on the collar of her silk robe. The cold sensation grounded her. It pulled her entirely into the present moment.

She reached out, grabbed a thick Hermes towel from the back of a chair, and pressed it against her wet face. The rough texture of the terry cloth felt incredibly real against her skin.

Miles finally snapped out of his shock. His face twisted into a mask of pure rage. He lunged toward the stainless steel trash can, reaching his thick arm out to dig the neon pink dress out of the garbage.

Justina moved faster. She lifted her foot, clad in a simple hotel slipper, and slammed it down hard on the edge of the trash can lid.

The metal snapped shut with a loud, violent clang, missing Miles's fingers by an inch.

He snatched his hand back, his chest heaving.

"Are you out of your damn mind?" he screamed, his voice cracking. "You throw that dress away, you throw away the only narrative that can save you. If you do not play the part tomorrow, I will make sure you never get a single audition in Hollywood again. You will be nothing."

Justina lowered the towel. She did not yell. She did not cry.

She picked up her phone from the marble counter. Her thumb moved quickly across the screen, opening her email app. She scrolled past the hate mail and opened a blank note app. In the flood of new memories, she'd seen it all with perfect clarity: the emails, the account numbers, the exact dates of betrayal. She didn't have the physical proof yet, but she knew exactly what to say to make him believe she did.

She walked right up to Miles and shoved the glowing screen inches from his nose.

"Read the account numbers," she said. Her voice was completely flat. It lacked any emotion.

Miles squinted at the screen. The color drained from his face so fast he looked sick.

She began reciting the details from her newfound foresight, naming the specific offshore account under Miles's name and the exact dates of the past three months. She detailed how every single time Justina had a negative, brainless PR article published about her, a deposit was made. She named the sender: the PR firm that represented Haylie Cunningham.

"You want to tell me how this fits into your brilliant traffic strategy?" Justina asked. Her tone was like ice. "Are you trying to make me famous, Miles, or are you just getting paid to make Haylie look like a saint by comparison?"

Miles swallowed hard. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. He took a step back, his eyes darting around the room as if looking for an exit.

"Justina, listen to me," he stammered, raising his hands defensively. "This is how the industry works. It is cross-promotion. It generates heat for both of you. You do not understand the mechanics of..."

"You sold me out," she interrupted. The words were quiet, but they cut through the air like a knife. "You took money to ruin my reputation."

Miles bumped into a tall wooden coat rack behind him. It tipped over and crashed onto the hardwood floor with a loud clatter. He flinched.

Justina pointed a single, steady finger toward the massive oak front door.

"You are fired," she said. "My legal team will be in touch regarding the termination clause-and the evidence of your fraudulent activities."

Miles's fear instantly morphed back into anger. His face flushed purple.

"You cannot fire me!" he spat, spit flying from his lips. "You are a joke, Justina! You think you can survive without me? You think that disgusting, wrinkled old man you married is going to protect you? He bought you! You are nothing but a paid escort with a wedding ring!"

The words were meant to hurt, but Justina felt absolutely nothing.

When he mentioned her husband, a very clear image flashed in her mind. It was the day they signed the prenuptial agreement in a sterile, glass-walled boardroom.

She remembered looking across the mahogany table. She remembered seeing a face that belonged on a Greek statue, not a nursing home bed. She remembered the cold, terrifyingly sharp blue eyes that had stared at her with absolute indifference.

A small, mocking smile touched the corner of her lips.

She did not bother correcting Miles. Let him believe the rumors. Let the whole world believe them.

She reached over to the wall panel and pressed the intercom button.

"Security," she said clearly. "Come to the kitchen. Remove Miles from the property. If he resists, call the police."

She took her finger off the button.

Miles stared at her, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth to scream another insult, but the heavy sound of combat boots hitting the marble floor in the hallway stopped him. Two massive security guards in black suits appeared in the doorway.

"Get him out," Justina said, not even looking at Miles anymore.

The guards grabbed Miles by the arms. He struggled, kicking his feet and cursing loudly, but they dragged him backward down the hall. The heavy oak door opened and slammed shut.

The mansion fell into a deep, ringing silence.

Justina let out a long breath. Her shoulders dropped. The physical weight of Miles's presence was gone.

She turned and walked out of the kitchen, heading down the long hallway to her massive walk-in closet.

She pushed the double doors open and flipped the light switch. Rows and rows of clothing lit up.

It looked like a costume department for a circus. There were dresses covered in cheap feathers, neon crop tops, skirts so short they were basically belts, and endless racks of things designed to make her look loud, desperate, and cheap.

She felt a fresh wave of nausea.

She walked to the first rack and shoved all the sequined dresses to the far end. The hangers scraped loudly against the metal bar. She moved to the next rack and did the same. She pushed away the feathers, the neon, the deep V-necks.

She kept pushing until the center of the closet was completely empty.

She walked to the very back corner, to a small drawer she rarely opened. She pulled it out.

Inside was a simple, basic set of black Lululemon yoga clothes. No logos. No cutouts. Just plain, functional fabric.

She stripped off her wet silk robe and let it drop to the floor. She pulled on the black leggings. They fit perfectly, hugging her legs without restricting her movement. She pulled the matching black sports bra and long-sleeve top over her head.

She walked over to the full-length mirror at the end of the closet.

She stared at the woman in the glass. The black fabric contrasted sharply with her pale skin. Her hair was still damp, hanging loose around her shoulders. There was no makeup to hide the natural shape of her eyes or the sharp line of her jaw.

She looked clean. She looked strong. She nodded once at her reflection.

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her leggings.

She pulled it out. It was a text message from Julian, the executive producer of Perfect Match.

"Crew arrives at 8 AM sharp tomorrow. Be ready. Wear something that pops."

Justina stared at the word pops. She typed two letters.

"OK."

She hit send. Then, she opened her Instagram app. She went to her settings, scrolled down to the privacy section, and changed her comment permissions to followers only.

She locked the screen and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

She walked out of the closet and headed toward the kitchen island. She grabbed a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, twisted the cap off, and took a long drink. The carbonation burned the back of her throat in a good way.

On Twitter, the hate groups were already panicking. The HappilyNeverAfter hashtag was filling up with angry posts. They had noticed the Instagram comment restriction.

"She is scared!" one user posted. "She knows we are going to tear her apart tomorrow. She is hiding!"

Justina read the post on her iPad resting on the counter. She did not feel a single spike of anxiety. She felt completely hollowed out, leaving only a cold, hard sense of purpose.

She set the water bottle down and walked toward the master bedroom.

As she walked down the hallway, she passed a closed door. It was the guest suite. It was the room assigned to her legal husband.

She stopped walking. She stared at the dark wood of the door.

The prenuptial agreement had been very clear. Two hundred pages of legal jargon that boiled down to one rule: do not interfere with each other's lives.

This reality show was not her idea. It was a mandatory clause triggered by his family's trust fund requirements. They had to appear together in public to prove the marriage was stable.

Justina shrugged. Her shoulders moved smoothly under the black fabric.

As long as she did not act like the desperate, clinging fool the script wanted her to be, the ice king behind that door would probably just ignore her.

She walked away from his door and pushed open the door to the master bedroom.

She climbed into the massive, empty bed. She reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp.

The room went completely dark. Outside the window, the lights of Los Angeles glowed against the night sky.

Justina closed her eyes. She focused on the steady rhythm of her own breathing. In, out. In, out.

She forced her muscles to relax. She needed sleep. Tomorrow, the entire world was going to watch her, waiting for her to fail.

She was not going to give them the satisfaction.