Chapter 7 7

The heavy front doors of the Beverly Hills mansion closed behind them.

The production crew had instructed all the couples to travel in shared vehicles to the main filming location-a massive beachfront villa in Malibu.

The California sun was blinding. The heat radiated off the paved driveway.

Justina stood next to the sleek, black SUV waiting for them. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pair of oversized, black Tom Ford sunglasses, and slid them onto her face. The dark lenses hid her eyes, giving her a shield against the glaring light and the intrusive cameras.

A cameraman with a handheld rig hurried down the steps, pointing the lens directly at her face. The live feed was still running, capturing the behind-the-scenes transit. The viewer count had not dropped; it had doubled.

Julian's voice crackled through the cameraman's earpiece. "Ask her about his face. Keep the camera tight." The cameraman relayed the question, his voice flat and impersonal from behind the lens: "Justina, the chat is going crazy. They want to know... looking at a man with Mr. Hutchinson's face, how do you actually keep it strictly business? Is it even physically possible not to feel anything?"

Justina let out a short, breathy laugh. She reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The movement was casual, lazy.

She leaned her hip against the hot metal of the SUV and looked directly into the camera lens.

"Come on," she said, her tone dripping with playful sarcasm. "Look at him. He belongs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He is like a Greek marble statue."

She gestured vaguely toward the front door of the house.

"He is perfect. He is incredibly expensive. But he is freezing cold. If you touch him, you might get frostbite. Who in their right mind falls in love with a statue that has no body heat?"

The chat box on the live stream filled with crying-laughing emojis.

"She is so real for this."

"Ice King confirmed!"

"I would risk the frostbite, honestly."

At that exact moment, the heavy oak door of the mansion swung open.

Augustine stepped out onto the top of the stairs. The sun hit his dark suit, highlighting the broad, powerful lines of his shoulders.

He paused on the top step. He had heard every single word.

The cameraman instantly whipped the lens away from Justina and zoomed in on Augustine's face.

The camera captured the exact moment his jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck tightened. His icy blue eyes narrowed into dangerous, sharp slits behind the glare of the sun.

The chat exploded.

"OH MY GOD HE HEARD HER!"

"BUSTED!"

"Look at his face! He is going to murder her or kiss her, I cannot tell!"

"The statue is angry! I repeat, the statue has feelings!"

Justina felt the sudden shift in the air pressure. The back of her neck prickled. She turned her head slowly.

She saw Augustine standing on the stairs, staring directly at her.

Even behind her dark sunglasses, her eyes widened in a brief flash of panic. Her stomach did a quick, nervous flip. She quickly suppressed it, forcing her shoulders to relax. She gave him a small, innocent shrug, pretending she had not just insulted his humanity on national television.

Augustine began to walk down the stairs.

He did not rush. He took slow, measured steps. The hard leather of his shoes clicked against the stone steps. Every step felt heavy, deliberate, and full of a dark, predatory energy.

He walked straight toward her.

Justina's breath caught in her throat. He stopped less than a foot away from her. The physical proximity was overwhelming. The scent of his cologne-a sharp, clean mix of cedarwood and cold ocean air-filled her lungs.

She instinctively leaned backward, pressing her spine against the door of the SUV. She thought he was going to say something biting. She thought he was going to retaliate for the statue comment.

He did not look at her face.

He reached his long arm past her shoulder. His knuckles brushed the fabric of her sleeve.

He grabbed the heavy handle of the SUV door and pulled it open.

As Justina moved to step inside the dark interior of the car, Augustine lifted his other hand.

He placed his large, broad palm flat against the roof of the car, directly above the door frame.

It was a classic, deeply ingrained gesture of old-money chivalry. A physical barrier to ensure the woman entering the car did not bump her head.

Justina froze with one foot inside the vehicle.

She tilted her head back. She looked up at his hand resting on the metal roof. Then she looked at his face.

They were inches apart. She could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw. She could see the tiny flecks of silver in his blue eyes.

His expression was completely blank, but the physical action-the heavy, protective cage his body formed around her-screamed of possession.

They stayed frozen like that for two full seconds. The air between them felt thick, crackling with a sudden, violent sexual tension.

The internet lost its collective mind.

"AHHHHH THE HAND ON THE ROOF!"

"HE IS PROTECTING HER HEAD!"

"Plastic marriage my ass! That is pure, subconscious instinct!"

"He called her a business partner but his body language says MINE."

Justina felt a hot flush of blood rush to her ears. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a rapid, uncomfortable rhythm.

She quickly ducked her head, breaking the magnetic pull of his stare, and scrambled into the back seat of the SUV. She slid all the way to the far side, pressing herself against the opposite window.

Augustine dropped his hand from the roof. He turned his head and shot one final, freezing glare at the cameraman. It was a silent, terrifying warning to back off.

He climbed into the SUV, his long legs taking up most of the space. He grabbed the door handle and pulled it shut with a heavy, solid thud.

The tinted windows rolled up, cutting off the cameras and sealing them inside the quiet, dark cabin.

The black SUV pulled away from the curb, heading toward the Pacific Coast Highway.

On Twitter, the hashtag PlasticMarriageRealLove skyrocketed past a million mentions, taking the number one trending spot worldwide.