The black SUV turned off the Pacific Coast Highway and crunched onto the white gravel driveway of the Malibu beachfront villa.
The ocean breeze was strong here, carrying the sharp scent of salt and seaweed. The massive, glass-fronted house loomed ahead, surrounded by a swarm of production assistants and camera operators.
The SUV rolled to a smooth stop.
Before the driver could get out, Augustine pushed his door open. He stepped out into the bright sunlight. He reached down and gave the hem of his suit jacket a single, sharp tug, smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle.
Justina slid across the leather seat and stepped out after him.
She was still riding the high of her viral giveaway. She kept her chin tilted up, a confident, satisfied smile playing on her lips. She felt untouchable. She had just bought the love of the internet using his money.
Julian, the director, practically sprinted across the gravel toward them. A cameraman jogged backward in front of him, keeping the lens focused tightly on the couple.
Julian's face was flushed with excitement. He shoved the microphone toward Augustine.
"Mr. Hutchinson!" Julian yelled over the sound of the crashing waves. "The internet is losing its mind! Five thousand dollars for a door-holding fee? That has to be the most expensive chivalry in Hollywood history!"
The live chat on the monitors was moving at light speed, filled with money emojis and praise for the billionaire's casual generosity.
Justina crossed her arms over her chest. She stood tall, waiting for Augustine to give a stiff nod or a cold grunt of confirmation. She was ready to bask in the glow of her newly minted power-wife persona.
Augustine stopped walking.
He turned his body slowly. His icy blue eyes locked onto the camera lens.
The faint, dark smirk that Justina had seen in the car was gone. His face was a mask of absolute, terrifying seriousness.
He looked at Julian. His voice cut through the sound of the wind like a razor blade.
"A door-holding fee?" he repeated. His tone was flat, devoid of any warmth. "I believe there has been a misunderstanding."
Justina's confident smile froze. The muscles in her face locked up. The cold drop of unease in her stomach suddenly turned into a block of ice.
Augustine turned his head. He looked down at Justina.
The look in his eyes was lethal. It was the look of a master chess player calling checkmate.
"That five thousand dollars was not a tip," Augustine said, his voice carrying perfectly into the microphone.
He paused, letting the silence stretch for one agonizing second.
"It was a reimbursement," he stated clearly. "For the batch of custom, high-altitude Guatemalan coffee beans she purchased for the estate last Tuesday when Mr. Peters could not secure our usual supplier."
The wind blew Justina's hair across her face. She did not move to brush it away.
Her brain simply stopped working. She stared at his perfect, aristocratic face. Her mind frantically scrolled through the memories of the past week. Tuesday. Mr. Peters looking stressed. A phone call to a boutique importer. She had swiped her personal black card-the one reserved for absolute emergencies, with a credit limit that was a painful reminder of her dwindling liquidity. But securing the beans, and thus maintaining the fragile peace at the estate, had felt like a survival necessity right then. Five thousand dollars. Her breath left her lungs in a sharp, painful rush.
It was her money.
He had just paid her back her own money.
And she had just given it away to ten random strangers on the internet.
The live chat on the monitors went completely still for two seconds as the math clicked in a million different brains.
Then, the internet exploded in a tidal wave of absolute, hysterical laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA NO WAY!"
"OMG SHE GAVE AWAY HER OWN MONEY!"
"HE SET HER UP! THE ICE KING IS A SAVAGE!"
"I am crying. She looked so proud of herself and he just destroyed her."
Justina felt a rush of heat explode in her chest and shoot straight up her neck. Her cheeks burned with a fierce, humiliating fire.
She dropped her arms from her chest. Her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. Her fingernails dug painfully into her palms.
She glared at Augustine. Her eyes were wide, burning with pure, unadulterated rage. She looked like she wanted to lunge forward and rip the expensive silk tie right off his neck.
"You..." she started, her voice trembling with anger. "You did that on purpose."
Augustine did not flinch. He did not laugh. He maintained his perfect, aristocratic posture.
He simply tilted his head a fraction of an inch to the right.
"I always settle my debts, Mrs. Hutchinson," he said smoothly. "What you choose to do with your own funds is entirely your business."
He held her furious gaze. The air between them crackled with electricity. It was a silent, violent clash of wills. He was challenging her. He was mocking her.
And the worst part was, he had won.
The camera captured every second of the standoff. The intense, burning glare from Justina. The cool, arrogant dominance from Augustine.
The audience at home stopped laughing and started screaming for a different reason.
"The tension! You could cut it with a knife!"
"They hate each other but the chemistry is insane!"
"Enemies to lovers trope in real life! I am eating this up!"
Augustine held her gaze for one more second, letting his victory sink in. Then, he turned his back on her and walked calmly toward the entrance of the villa, leaving her standing in the gravel, fuming in the California sun.
