Miss Independent

Prologue

A/N: Hi there! This fanfiction is going to be released as a book in November 2020! All rights goes to nahbabe. 

The year before...

Justin

There was a sound that ripped me out of my thoughts. All this time I was listening to the engine rotors. Turning my head towards the windows, I noticed that we landed at a private airport in Queens. I sighed, wiping my face from fatigue with my hand. I looked at the glossy walls lined with panels and cream-colored leather seats. The jet was like a flying limousine - it worked from every angle. 

I realized that it was it. I was here. The return proves to be more difficult than I could have expected. You shouldn't tear old wounds. Scars are best left alone. The memories were like the ink you accidentally spilled on blank pages. No matter how much you want to erase it, it doesn't go away. At most, there are holes you can't patch. That's not why I've worked so hard on myself to fuck everything up like a house of cards. That's it. I'm back.

– How was your trip, Mr. Bieber? – asked the man from the crew, coming up with my jacket.

I got up from my seat, giving him a dry look. He looked like the student from the first bench, dressed in a neat uniform and a matching suit. He gave the impression of being a person who had waited all his life to take orders. He looked at me waiting, but when he did it too long, I felt nervous. 

What was I supposed to tell him? That their stewardess just sucked my dick on a plane for sixty millions while I drank whiskey more expensive than his monthly salary? I smiled at that thought. I noticed that he was smiling too. He must have thought I softened to him. Nothing could be further from the truth. 

People must know where they belong. When someone goes out in front of the line and doesn't stick to their responsibilities, they have to be put back in like a puzzle. I hated losing control and everyone around me knew that. I put my jacket on my shoulders and looked at a watch from Richard Mille. An hour - that's how long the flight from Toronto to New York took. A fucking hour.

– Is everything ready? – I asked, ignoring his question. 

He doesn't give a shit anyway, he just has to do his job.

– Your concierge is waiting in front of the plane. The limousine is ready. It will take you directly to the Four Seasons Hotel, just like you asked, sir – he said, by pressing the button that released the lock and the door was automatically opened. – I wish you a pleasant stay, Mr. Bieber – he added with a clear smile.

My eyes fell on him. The look on his face changed in a second. I ignored him. 

Enjoy your fucking stay. I snorted, shaking my head.

A very gloomy morning in Queens was a mockery of my mood. I went down the stairs, leaving the G650. I heard the sound of snapshots in the background and knew what I was going to see in the newspapers tomorrow. The security guards escorted me on the short way to the bentley. Getting into the limousine, I breathed deeply and bent my head on the headrest. I had a silent, crowdless arrival, not counting the chasing paparazzi, who would get fat brass for my picture from returning to the States. Luckily, my agents even made sure that the plane covered the view of the cameras until I left the airport.

Privacy and security can be bought with money. Actually, it can all be handled with their help. Just know how much and to whom to pay. My agent was busy taking down every article from the Internet or newspaper circulation that spoke ill of my past. When I came back to New York, I was supposed to be as clean as a tear, shown from a mild and injured side. This story was supposed to end happily. Somebody broke my heart so I started to take drugs, I was drunk and stoned for almost all the time. There were times when pilots had to wear oxygen masks because the smoke was floating like a fucking cloud over Houston. I lost a woman, I lost my mother, I got lost, but I slowly got back to the top. This material is worthy of a bestsellers book, for which a mass of awards could be won or a Hollywood screenplay, based on which the film will be screened, for which a mass of Oscars will be sprinkled.