Fifty Million Reasons To Hate Him

Harrison pushed open the heavy glass door of the Midtown Manhattan law firm.

The harsh fluorescent lights of the conference room stung his eyes for a fraction of a second.

His gaze immediately locked onto Iris. She sat perfectly straight at the edge of the massive mahogany table.

His heart gave a single, cold thud.

This was it. The end of a three-year mistake. The ultimate release.

A private attorney slid a thick, fifty-page divorce settlement agreement to the center of the table.

Harrison's eyes skimmed the bold print. Fifty million dollars. A trust fund designed to make her go away quietly.

He didn't hesitate. He pulled the cap off his Montblanc pen.

Across the table, Iris sat in a pristine, understated Chanel suit. Her delicate shoulders trembled.

A single, heavy tear hung precariously on her lower lash line. She looked shattered. She looked like a woman losing her entire world.

Harrison felt a familiar wave of exhaustion wash over him. He was so incredibly sick of her tears.

He averted his eyes, letting his gaze drop to the signature line.

He pressed the gold nib of the pen hard against the crisp paper.

The pen scratched.

Right as the black ink bled into the first letter of his name, a sharp, piercing female voice exploded inside his skull.

Freedom! Long live freedom! I finally shook off this absolute bastard!

Harrison's pupils dilated. His wrist violently jerked.

He snapped his head up, his eyes darting around the dead-silent room.

The two attorneys sat frozen, holding their breath.

Iris was still looking down, her shoulders shaking as she softly sobbed into her hands.

No one had spoken. The room was practically a vacuum.

Harrison slowly lifted his left hand and rubbed his temples. The pressure in his head was immense.

He had been working hundred-hour weeks on the Torres Group merger. He was sleep-deprived. He was hallucinating. That had to be it.

He forced his eyes back down to the smeared ink on the paper. He took a slow, deep breath, gripping the pen tighter.

He braced his hand to write.

God, why is he so slow? Just sign the damn paper so I can go buy that limited-edition Birkin.

Harrison's hand turned to stone.

A thick pool of black ink bled onto the page, ruining the signature line.

He stared dead at Iris. He stared at her flawless, tear-stained face, his chest tight.

Iris sensed the pause. She slowly lifted her head. Her eyes were red-rimmed and swimming with moisture.

"Harrison?" she whispered.

Her voice was incredibly soft. It was the raspy, broken sound of a devastated wife. "Is something wrong? Are you feeling sick?"

Harrison watched her glossy red lips move.

But the voice echoing in his brain was entirely different.

What are you staring at? Hurry up and sign, you bloodsucking capitalist.

The intense sensory mismatch hit Harrison like a physical blow. His stomach violently cramped.

He shoved his chair back. The legs scraped harshly against the expensive carpet.

He stood up so fast the chair nearly tipped over.

The two attorneys jumped to their feet, their faces pale with panic.

"Mr. Torres?" the lead attorney stammered. "Is there an issue with the terms?"

Iris flinched. She shrank back into her seat, a fresh tear rolling down her cheek.

Her hands gripped a silk handkerchief, twisting the fabric until her knuckles turned white. She was the picture of a terrified, abandoned woman.

Harrison ignored the lawyers. He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

He stood towering over Iris, his shadow swallowing her small frame. He stared down into her eyes, searching for a crack in the mask.

Iris lowered her head, avoiding his aggressive, predatory gaze.

What the hell is this psycho doing now? the voice shrieked in his head. Is my fifty million flying out the window?

The internal monologue was crystal clear. It wasn't a hallucination.

Harrison took a slow half-step back. The shock hit his bloodstream like ice water.

For three years, she had been the perfect, submissive wife. She never raised her voice. She never demanded anything.

And right now, in her head, she was cursing him out like a sailor.

A sickening wave of humiliation burned the back of his throat. He had been played.

He clenched his fists at his sides. The thick blue veins on the backs of his hands bulged against his skin.

Iris noticed his hesitation. She slowly reached out with a trembling, slender finger.

She gently caught the edge of his suit cuff.

"Please, Harrison," she begged aloud, her voice cracking. "Don't back out now."

Harrison ripped his arm away as if she had burned him.

He looked at her trembling lip, while her voice echoed in his skull.

Ugh, this suit fabric is so scratchy. I hate touching him.

A dark, humorless laugh scraped its way out of Harrison's throat.

The corners of his mouth curled into a terrifying, ice-cold smile.

He turned around and walked slowly back to his chair. He sat down and picked up the Montblanc pen.

Iris let out a tiny, barely audible sigh of relief. A flash of cunning satisfaction danced in her eyes for a fraction of a second.

Harrison saw it.

He hovered the tip of the pen a millimeter above the paper. He watched Iris's shoulders tense as she waited for the ink to drop.

He loved the sudden rush of power. He loved holding her by the throat without her even knowing it.

"Actually," Harrison said, his voice a low, smooth drawl.

He set the pen down.

"I don't think a lump-sum payment of fifty million is appropriate."

Iris's head snapped up.

The fake sorrow vanished from her face, replaced by raw, unfiltered panic.

Are you fucking kidding me?!

The scream in his head was so loud Harrison actually winced. The sheer force of her mental rage was deafening.

The attorney frantically pulled out a legal pad, wiping sweat from his forehead. The air in the room dropped ten degrees.

Harrison leaned back in his chair. He crossed his arms over his chest.

He stared coldly at the woman teetering on the edge of a mental breakdown.

He wasn't going to expose her. Not yet. He wanted to see exactly how far she was willing to take this performance. He wanted to watch the mask crack under pressure, to study the intricate lies she had woven around him for three long years.

Harrison picked up the pen and casually tossed it onto the mahogany table.

The sharp clatter of the metal hitting the wood echoed like a gunshot in the silent room.

Iris flinched as if the sound had physically struck her chest.

The lead attorney nervously flipped through the heavy stack of documents.

"Mr. Torres," the lawyer asked, his voice tight. "How would you like to restructure the trust fund payout?"

Harrison kept his arms crossed. His dark eyes never left Iris's pale face.

"Make it a ten-year installment plan," Harrison said flatly. "To ensure the capital remains secure."

Iris sucked in a sharp breath.

Her hands shot down to her lap, gripping the fabric of her expensive silk skirt. Her fingernails dug so hard into her own thighs he was surprised she didn't draw blood.

She forced her facial muscles to relax.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and brimming with fresh tears.

"Harrison," she choked out, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Do you really have so little faith in me? After everything?"

Ten years?! her inner voice roared, vibrating against his skull. By the time I get that money I'll be old and wrinkled! You cold-blooded vampire!

The sheer toxicity of her thoughts felt like a physical slap to his face.

Harrison narrowed his eyes. The muscles in his jaw ticked. He had to force his hands to stay flat on the table to keep from reaching across and wrapping them around her neck.

Iris pushed her chair back and stood up.

She swayed slightly on her heels, looking as though the emotional weight was crushing her fragile bones.

She took two slow steps toward him.

She reached out and rested her hand gently on his broad shoulder.

"I gave up my entire life for this family," she whispered, a tear finally spilling over her lashes. "I just want to be able to start over."

Harrison inhaled the faint, familiar scent of her Jo Malone perfume.

This perfume cost me a fortune, her voice sneered in his head. I researched his ex-girlfriend's favorite scent just to hook him. Is it not working?

A wave of pure nausea hit Harrison's stomach.

He violently shoved her hand off his shoulder.

The force of his movement threw Iris off balance. She stumbled backward in her heels, her arms flailing as she nearly crashed into the floor.

The lawyer gasped and lunged forward to catch her.

Harrison shot the man a look so lethal the lawyer froze mid-step and backed away.

Iris caught herself on the edge of her chair. She collapsed into the seat, burying her face in her hands.

She began to sob loudly, her shoulders heaving with the effort.

Harrison stared down at her shaking form.

If I throw myself on the floor and get a bruise, can I sue him for another two million in emotional distress?

Harrison let out a harsh, bitter laugh.

He turned his head to the sweating attorney.

"Draft the addendum right now," Harrison ordered, his voice like cracking ice. "Put the ten-year installment plan in writing."

Iris's sobbing stopped instantly.

She lowered her hands. The vulnerability was gone from her eyes, replaced by a dark, desperate calculation.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. She wiped her wet cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Fine," Iris said. Her voice was suddenly steady, laced with a tragic resolve. "If that is what you want, Harrison. I accept."

Harrison blinked. He hadn't expected her to cave that quickly.

The second I get that first check, her mind hissed venomously, I am hiring someone to take a baseball bat to his limited-edition Porsche.

The extreme contrast between her tragic surrender and her violent mental threats was absurd.

Harrison felt a strange, twisted sense of amusement rise in his chest.

Letting her walk away with a structured settlement felt too easy. It was boring.

He wanted to see what else this two-faced woman was capable of. He wanted to watch her squirm in the wild.

As the lead attorney frantically typed on his laptop, his fingers a blur across the keys, the low hum of a portable printer in the corner filled the tense silence. It took three agonizing minutes for the machine to spit out the modified document. During that time, Harrison's dark eyes remained locked onto Iris. He watched the subtle twitch of her jaw, the way she carefully maintained her posture of defeat while her mind likely plotted arson and vandalism. He realized a slow bleed was less satisfying than a clean, brutal break.

Harrison reached across the table.

He grabbed the freshly printed addendum right out of the lawyer's hands.

He gripped the top of the paper and ripped it straight down the middle.

The sound of tearing paper made Iris jump.

She stared at the two halves of the document fluttering to the floor. Her mind raced with frantic confusion.

What is he doing? Did I overplay it? Does he know?

Harrison didn't look at her. He picked up his Montblanc pen.

He flipped to the signature page of the original, lump-sum agreement.

He pressed the nib down and slashed his signature across the line, pressing so hard the ink bled through to the next page.

He shoved the heavy stack of papers across the polished wood toward Iris.

"Take your money," Harrison said, his voice devoid of any human emotion. "And get the hell out of my life."

Iris stared at his signature.

She bit her inner lip hard to stop herself from smiling. She picked up a cheap plastic pen from the table with trembling fingers.

Maintaining her devastated expression, she slowly signed her name.

"The divorce is finalized," the lawyer announced quietly.

Harrison stood up. He adjusted the lapels of his suit jacket.

He didn't spare Iris a single glance. He turned on his heel and strode out of the conference room.

Iris dragged her feet as she followed him out into the hallway.

They stepped into the private elevator together. The doors slid shut, sealing them in a tight, soundproof metal box.

The air pressure in the small space was suffocating.

They stood back-to-back. Harrison stared straight ahead at his own reflection in the polished metal doors.

A slow, mocking smirk crept onto his lips.

Behind him, Iris stood with her head bowed, looking like a defeated prisoner.

But inside her head, a massive, deafening crowd was cheering.

Pop the champagne! I am rich! I am free!

The mental screaming was so loud Harrison actually felt a dull ache behind his eyes.

The heavy bass of the electronic music vibrated through the soundproof walls of the VIP booth.

Harrison sat deep in the plush leather sofa at The Core Club in Manhattan.

He picked up a crystal glass of neat whiskey and threw it back, letting the alcohol burn a path down his throat.

His friend, Caspian Thorne, swirled an amber liquid in his own glass. Caspian sighed and clapped a hand on Harrison's shoulder.

"You were too hard on her, man," Caspian said, shaking his head. "Iris didn't deserve that kind of cold exit."

Jax Dalton leaned forward from the opposite chair, nodding in agreement.

"She was a rare one, Harrison," Jax said. "On the surface, she was the perfect traditional wife. You have to admit, she played the part flawlessly. I just worry that without the Torres name protecting her, the mask might not be enough to keep her from getting eaten alive in this city."

Harrison stared at the empty glass in his hand.

He remembered the way Iris had cursed him out in the elevator. He remembered her plotting to destroy his cars.

A dark, sarcastic laugh erupted from his chest.

He slammed the heavy crystal glass down onto the marble table.

The sharp crack of glass against stone made Caspian and Jax jump. They exchanged a nervous look, assuming they had hit a raw nerve.

Harrison stood up. He waved off the cigar Jax was offering him.

"I need air," Harrison muttered.

He turned and pushed open the heavy wooden door of the private booth.

The moment he stepped into the hallway, the chaotic noise of the club assaulted his senses.

Neon laser lights sliced through the dim, smoke-filled air. The corridor smelled heavily of spilled vodka, sweat, and expensive cologne.

Harrison shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking toward the restrooms.

Suddenly, a voice sliced straight through the thumping bass and the chatter of a hundred people.

It was a sharp, ecstatic female voice, ringing directly inside his skull.

Twelve o'clock! That blonde guy by the bar! Those abs have to be an eight-pack. I am taking him home tonight!

Harrison's expensive leather shoes locked onto the floor.

A drunk man stumbled out of a doorway and slammed hard into his shoulder. Harrison didn't even blink.

He slowly turned his head.

That was Iris's voice. There was absolutely no mistaking it.

But it was impossible. His ex-wife wouldn't even wear a skirt above her knees, let alone step foot in a place like this.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He forced his brain to filter out the pounding music and the shouting crowds.

He focused entirely on the mental frequency.

God, these Christian Louboutins are literal torture devices, the voice complained loudly in his mind. Once that check clears, I'm buying a hundred pairs of flat sneakers.

Harrison snapped his eyes open.

His gaze locked onto the far end of the club, toward the sunken VIP dance floor guarded by heavy velvet ropes and two massive bouncers.

He started walking. His strides were long and aggressive.

He shoved past two socialites who tried to grab his arm, his face set in a terrifying scowl.

The bouncers at the VIP entrance recognized the CEO of the Torres Group instantly. They scrambled to unhook the velvet rope, bowing their heads as he stormed past them.

The VIP section was a massive, sunken pit of writhing bodies.

Harrison stood at the top of the carpeted stairs. His eyes scanned the chaotic crowd like a sniper looking for a target.

Her voice kept feeding into his brain, offering explicit, filthy commentary on the bodies of the men dancing around her.

Finally, his eyes cut through the flashing strobe lights.

He locked onto a woman in the dead center of the floor.

She was wearing a silver sequined dress so short it barely covered her thighs. She was grinding her hips against a tall male model.

Her back was to Harrison. Her normally sleek, straight hair was styled into wild, voluminous waves that whipped through the air as she danced.

Harrison narrowed his eyes. He watched the fluid, highly practiced roll of her hips.

His heart hammered against his ribs. The sheer audacity of it made his blood boil.

Right then, the woman spun around.

She grabbed a champagne flute from a passing tray and threw her head back, downing the drink in one gulp.

A sweeping spotlight hit her face.

Heavy, dark smoky eye makeup. Glossy red lips.

It was his fragile, helpless, heartbroken ex-wife. Iris Cooper.

Harrison felt all the blood in his body rush straight to his head.

His jaw clamped shut so hard his teeth ground together. He gripped the metal railing beside the stairs, his knuckles turning pure white.

He spun around and marched back the way he came.

He kicked the door of his private booth open. It slammed against the wall with a deafening bang.

Caspian and Jax dropped their drinks, staring in shock at the absolute murder in Harrison's eyes.

Harrison snatched his suit jacket off the back of the sofa.

He glared at his two best friends, his chest heaving with suppressed rage.

"Get up," Harrison commanded, his voice a lethal growl. "Both of you."

"What's going on?" Caspian asked, standing up nervously.

"I'm going to show you exactly what kind of helpless, traditional wife she really is," Harrison spat.

Caspian and Jax exchanged a bewildered look, but the terrifying aura radiating from Harrison left no room for argument.

They followed him out of the booth.

Harrison led the charge back toward the VIP dance floor, his eyes fixed on the silver sequins flashing in the dark.

The storm was about to break.