Breaking The Script: My Billionaire Husband

The man stepped out of the shadows of the foyer and into the harsh, bright lights of the camera crew. He was over six feet two inches tall. The physical space he occupied seemed to instantly drain the oxygen from the room. He was wearing a dark navy suit. It was not a designer label bought off a rack in Beverly Hills. It was bespoke. The fabric draped across his broad shoulders and narrow waist with the kind of flawless precision that only came from Savile Row. He reached up with one large, long-fingered hand and pulled at the knot of his dark silk tie, loosening it just a fraction of an inch. His face was a study in terrifying perfection. High, sharp cheekbones. A strong, unforgiving jawline. But it was his eyes that made people stop breathing. They were a pale, icy blue, and they swept over the messy camera cables and the sweating crew members with a look of absolute, chilling disdain. Julian's fingers went numb. The laminated question card slipped from his grip and hit the floor with a sharp smack. His mouth hung open. He could not form a single word. On the live stream, the chat box completely stopped. One million people were watching, and for three agonizing seconds, not a single person typed a letter. The internet held its breath. Mr. Peters, the elderly butler, bowed his head deeply. His voice rang out, clear and respectful in the dead silence. "Good morning, Mr. Hutchinson." Augustine Hutchinson IV did not smile. He gave a single, microscopic nod of his head. He reached his left hand over to his right wrist. He unclasped his watch. It was a Patek Philippe, heavy and silver. He tossed it casually onto the marble console table near the archway. The heavy metal hit the stone with a loud, sharp crack. That sound broke the spell. The live chat exploded with a force that caused the video feed to lag. "WTF?! WHO IS THAT?!" "Is that a model? Did the producers hire an actor?!" "Wait. The butler just called him Mr. Hutchinson. Justina's husband's name is Hutchinson!" Inside the HappilyNeverAfter hate group, the administrators were frantically typing. "Search the name! Search Augustine Hutchinson right now!" Three seconds later, a screenshot was dropped into the main Twitter feed. It spread like a virus. It was a page from the Forbes billionaire index. It detailed the net worth of the Hutchinson family. They were not new money. They did not own tacky media conglomerates. They were old money. Railroads, real estate, banking. They were American royalty. And Augustine Hutchinson IV was the sole heir. The chat shifted from confusion to absolute, mind-bending shock. "An old, ugly media tycoon? The tabloids lied to us!" "He is gorgeous. He is literally a billionaire god." "I am shaking. The haters look so stupid right now. I look stupid right now." The people who had spent the last hour typing death threats and calling Justina a gold-digging whore suddenly felt the crushing weight of their own humiliation. The narrative had flipped so violently it gave them whiplash. Augustine ignored the red light of the camera. He ignored Julian. He walked slowly across the living room carpet. He stopped in front of the gray linen sofa. He looked down at Justina. Justina sat perfectly still. She felt the cold radiation of his presence. She looked up into his icy blue eyes. He frowned slightly. His gaze moved over her wet, messy hair. It dropped to her bare face, pausing for a fraction of a second on the lack of makeup, before sweeping over the plain black Lululemon clothes. A tiny flicker of something-confusion, or maybe calculation-flashed in his eyes, but it was gone before she could be sure. Justina did not shrink back. She did not break eye contact. She lifted her porcelain teacup, holding it up in the air between them in a silent, mocking toast. Julian finally found his lungs. He sucked in a massive breath of air. "Mr. Hutchinson!" he stammered, his voice shaking. "Welcome to the broadcast. We are so thrilled to have you join the recording." Augustine slowly turned his head. He looked at Julian as if the director were a stain on the carpet. He did not raise his voice. He did not yell. He simply spoke two words, his tone flat and freezing. "Too loud." The sheer arrogance of it-the absolute dismissal of a major network director on live television-sent a shockwave through the female audience watching at home. "Oh my god, the coldness. I am obsessed." "He told the director to shut up. I am literally on my knees." "I forgive Justina. I would do anything to marry that man." Justina lowered her teacup. She placed it on the silver tray. She shifted her weight on the sofa, moving her legs to the side. She patted the empty cushion next to her with her hand. "Sit," she said. Augustine looked at the spot her hand had touched. His jaw tightened. He had a severe aversion to physical proximity. The idea of sitting on a sofa surrounded by sweating strangers and camera equipment made his skin crawl. Everyone in the room, including Julian, expected him to turn around and walk away. Instead, Augustine moved. He walked around the coffee table. He approached the sofa. But he did not sit where she patted. He walked to the absolute furthest edge of the massive, custom-built sofa. He sat down on the very corner, his back ramrod straight. There was at least six feet of empty cushion between them. It looked like a massive, uncrossable ocean. The chat, which had been swooning a second ago, instantly seized on this visual. The hate groups, desperate for a lifeline, started typing again. "Look at the distance! They are miles apart!" "He hates her! You can see it in his eyes. He is disgusted by her." "This is a fake marriage! They do not even want to sit next to each other!" Julian saw the comments flashing on his monitor. His producer instincts kicked in. The shock value of the handsome billionaire was great, but a fake marriage scandal was even better. He gripped his microphone tighter. He signaled the cameraman to widen the shot, making sure the massive gap between the husband and wife was perfectly framed. He prepared to ask the question that would tear their perfect facade to shreds.