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.