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.

The interior of the black SUV was completely silent. The heavy doors blocked out the noise of the Los Angeles traffic. The only sound was the low, steady hum of the engine as they merged onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

A small, fixed camera was mounted on the dashboard, pointing directly at the back seat. It streamed their every move to the millions of viewers who refused to look away.

Augustine sat on the left side of the spacious back seat. He had his head resting against the leather headrest, his eyes closed. His chest rose and fell in a slow, controlled rhythm. He looked completely detached from the world.

Justina sat on the right side. She stared out the tinted window at the passing palm trees.

The silence was thick. It felt heavy in her lungs. She could feel the heat radiating from his body across the center console. The internet was watching them with a microscope, analyzing the distance between their shoulders, the direction of their feet.

She hated the quiet. It made her hyper-aware of her own racing heartbeat.

She decided to break the tension. She needed to regain control of the narrative, to prove to the audience-and to herself-that she was not affected by his stupid chivalrous door-holding trick.

She turned her head. She reached her hand across the empty space and poked his arm. Her finger pressed into the expensive, dark fabric of his suit sleeve.

Augustine's eyes snapped open.

The icy blue irises locked onto her face. He did not move his head. He just stared at her, his brow furrowing in deep, silent irritation at being touched.

Justina did not flinch. She let a slow, cunning smile spread across her lips.

"Mr. Hutchinson," she said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Augustine did not answer. He just waited.

"Outside the car, I played along with your little 'protective gentleman' act for the cameras," she said, leaning slightly closer. "It was a great performance. Very convincing. But since we are business partners, I believe I am owed a performance fee for my cooperation."

The live chat, which had been quietly watching them sit in silence, suddenly flared to life.

"LMAO she is asking him for money!"

"She is so shameless, I love it."

"Get paid, queen!"

Augustine stared at her for a long moment. His jaw tightened. He looked at her as if she were a particularly annoying insect buzzing around his head.

He did not argue. He did not roll his eyes.

He reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a sleek, black iPhone.

He held the phone in his right hand. His thumb moved quickly across the screen. He did not look at her. He did not say a word. He just tapped the glass a few times.

A second later, a sharp, cheerful ding echoed in the quiet car.

It came from Justina's phone, which was resting on her lap.

She looked down. The screen lit up with a push notification.

A notification from AmEx popped up on her screen: A $5,000 credit has been applied to your account by Augustine Hutchinson.

Justina's breath hitched. Her eyes widened behind her sunglasses. She stared at the numbers. Five thousand dollars. For a ten-second interaction by a car door.

The dashboard camera caught the reflection of the bright screen on her sunglasses. The internet sleuths immediately zoomed in.

"HOLY SHIT DID HE JUST SEND HER 5K?!"

"FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR OPENING A DOOR?!"

"I will open every door in his house for the rest of his life for that kind of money."

Justina felt a rush of adrenaline. She looked up at Augustine. He was putting his phone back into his pocket, his face completely bored.

She felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to show off. She wanted to prove that his money meant nothing to her, that she was in total control of this game.

She picked up her phone. She turned the screen around, holding it up so the dashboard camera could see it clearly.

"Well," she said, her voice loud and bright. "Since my husband is feeling so incredibly generous today, I think it would be selfish to keep this all to myself."

She looked directly into the camera lens.

"Listen up, live stream," she said, grinning widely. "Take a screenshot of this moment. I am going to randomly select ten people from the chat right now. We are splitting this five thousand dollars. Consider it a welcome gift from the Hutchinson family."

The internet completely broke.

The viewer count spiked so hard the video feed stuttered. Millions of comments flooded the screen in a blur of text.

"ME ME ME!"

"SHE IS GIVING AWAY HIS MONEY I AM DEAD!"

"Robin Hood of Beverly Hills! We stan a generous queen!"

The hashtag JustinaGiveaway instantly took over the entire Twitter platform. Her public approval rating, which had been in the gutter an hour ago, was now shooting toward the stars.

Justina lowered the phone. She felt a massive wave of triumph. She had taken his arrogant display of wealth and turned it into a massive PR victory for herself.

She turned her head to look at Augustine, expecting to see him scowling in defeat.

She flashed him a brilliant, victorious smile.

Augustine was looking out the window. His face was turned away from the camera.

But as Justina watched him, she saw the corner of his mouth twitch.

It was a microscopic movement. A tiny, almost invisible curve of his lips.

He was smiling.

It was not a smile of defeat. It was a dark, knowing, deeply amused smirk. It was the look of a predator watching a mouse walk willingly into a trap.

Justina's victorious smile faltered. A cold drop of unease hit the bottom of her stomach.

Why was he smiling?

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.