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.