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.

Harrison tore through the crowded VIP section like a bulldozer.

The sheer violence radiating from his posture forced the dancing bodies to part, clearing a direct path to the center of the floor.

Caspian trailed behind him, complaining loudly over the music. "Harrison, it's too loud in here, what are we-"

Caspian's voice died in his throat. His eyes caught the silver sequined dress grinding against the male model.

Harrison was less than fifteen feet away.

Iris threw her head back, laughing at something the model said. She spun around in a fluid dance move.

Her eyes swept across the crowd and slammed directly into Harrison's lethal stare.

Iris's pupils contracted to pinpricks.

Her lungs seized. It felt like a giant, invisible hand had just crushed her windpipe.

Her wild dancing froze instantly, leaving her suspended in an awkward, mid-air pose.

Oh my god! Oh my god! her mind shrieked in absolute terror. What is the devil doing here?! My reputation is ruined!

But Iris's survival instincts were terrifyingly fast.

In less than a second, she shoved the male model away.

She let out a sharp, fake cry of pain and deliberately twisted her ankle.

She collapsed dramatically onto the edge of a curved leather booth, clutching her leg.

She blindly grabbed a half-empty bottle of Tequila from the table and took a massive, reckless gulp.

The cheap liquor burned her throat. She coughed violently, forcing real, stinging tears into her eyes.

By the time Harrison, Caspian, and Jax reached the booth, the wild party girl was gone.

Instead, they found a shattered, broken woman, her makeup smeared with tears, desperately trying to drown her agonizing sorrow in alcohol.

Jax stared down at her, his jaw practically hitting the floor. He couldn't reconcile this half-naked, sobbing mess with the elegant Mrs. Torres.

Iris slowly tilted her head up.

She looked at Harrison with eyes full of unbearable agony and desperate, lingering love.

"Harrison?" she whimpered, her voice trembling violently. She reached out a shaking hand toward him, as if he were her only salvation.

Caspian's heart broke. He turned and shoved Harrison hard in the chest.

"Look at what you did to her!" Caspian yelled over the music. "You drove her to this!"

Harrison didn't even blink. He didn't move an inch.

He stared down at Iris's tear-streaked face. His lips curled into a cruel, sickening sneer.

Because right at that moment, her inner voice was broadcasting loud and clear.

Yes! Good boy! Yell at him! Make him feel guilty so he doesn't try to take back my fifty million!

The pure, concentrated hypocrisy made Harrison's stomach churn with physical disgust.

He stepped forward, his shadow falling over her trembling body.

Iris shrank back against the leather cushions. She pulled her knees to her chest, sobbing loudly.

"Please," she cried out. "Don't look at me like that! It hurts so much... I just wanted the pain to stop!"

If he grabs my arm and leaves a bruise, I am definitely suing for assault, her mind calculated coldly.

Harrison's remaining patience snapped.

He lunged forward.

His large hand clamped around her delicate wrist like a steel vice.

Iris let out a genuine, sharp gasp of pain as his fingers dug into her skin.

Jax stepped forward to intervene. "Harrison, stop!"

Harrison snapped his head toward Jax. His eyes were completely black with rage.

"If either of you touches me," Harrison snarled, his voice dropping to a terrifying register, "we are done."

Jax froze, stepping back with his hands raised.

Harrison yanked Iris upward.

He didn't care that she was wearing six-inch heels. He didn't care that she stumbled and nearly fell face-first onto the sticky floor.

"Harrison, please! Let me go!" Iris screamed, thrashing against his grip.

Watch the dress! Watch the dress! You're going to rip the sequins, you brute!

Harrison ignored her. He wrapped his thick arm tightly around her waist.

He practically lifted her off the ground, carrying her out of the VIP section by sheer force.

People stopped dancing. Dozens of eyes stared in shock.

The moment he grabbed her, two of his plainclothes security detail materialized from the crowd. They moved with lethal efficiency, instantly forming a solid, impenetrable barrier around Harrison and Iris, physically shoving onlookers back to clear a direct path toward the exit. "No photos! Back away!" one of the guards commanded, his voice cutting through the thumping music like a whip. Someone pulled out a phone to record the scene. One of Harrison's security detail instantly stepped in, snatching the phone and crushing it under his heavy boot.

Iris buried her face in Harrison's shoulder, weeping uncontrollably. She played the victim perfectly, cementing Harrison's public image as a ruthless monster.

Caspian and Jax stood frozen by the booth, watching the brutal exit in stunned silence.

Harrison kicked open the emergency exit door in the back alley.

The cool night wind hit his face, carrying the smell of exhaust fumes and wet asphalt.

A sleek black Maybach was idling by the curb.

Harrison ripped the back door open and shoved Iris roughly inside.

He climbed in right behind her and slammed the heavy door shut. The sound echoed like a vault locking.

The driver took one look at Harrison's face in the rearview mirror and instantly pressed the button to raise the soundproof partition.

The back of the Maybach became a sealed, silent tomb.

Iris huddled in the far corner of the leather seat. She kept her face buried in her hands, letting out soft, pathetic whimpers.

Harrison reached up and violently yanked his silk tie loose.

He turned his head. In the dim, ambient lighting of the car, his eyes looked dead.

"How long," Harrison said, his voice slicing through the silence like a razor blade, "are you going to keep acting?"

Iris's heart skipped a violent beat.

The Maybach tore down the empty streets of Manhattan.

The air pressure inside the sealed cabin was suffocating. Harrison sat completely still, his dark eyes locked onto Iris's trembling form in the corner.

Iris refused to meet his gaze. She wrapped her arms tightly around her bare shoulders.

She shivered violently, her teeth chattering as the car's air conditioning blew over her exposed skin. Tears continued to stream down her face in perfect, tragic lines.

This leather seat is freezing, her mind complained bitterly. If I knew he was going to kidnap me, I would have worn pants. My legs are going numb.

Harrison felt a sudden, exhausting wave of fatigue.

He had been ready to scream at her, to demand answers, but hearing her complain about the temperature completely derailed his fury.

He let out a hollow, humorless laugh and turned his face toward the window.

The car jerked to a halt in the private underground garage of his Tribeca penthouse.

Harrison shoved his door open. He reached across the seat, grabbed Iris by the upper arm, and dragged her out of the car.

Iris's high heels hit the concrete hard. Her ankle buckled.

She let out a soft cry and let her body fall forward, intentionally collapsing against Harrison's chest. She pressed her soft curves against his rigid muscles, hoping the physical contact would spark some lingering affection.

Harrison reacted as if she were covered in acid.

He shoved her backward with brutal force.

Iris slammed hard against the side of the Maybach. The impact knocked the wind out of her, and she let out a genuine groan of pain.

"Save the routine," Harrison said coldly.

He turned and marched toward the private elevator. Iris gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing with pure hatred at his back, and limped after him.

The elevator shot up to the penthouse. The doors slid open.

Harrison grabbed her arm again, hauled her into the massive, dimly lit living room, and threw her onto the expensive Italian leather sofa.

Iris tumbled onto the cushions. Her wild, wavy hair fell across her face.

She slowly pushed herself up. She looked at him with huge, devastated eyes, her chest heaving.

Harrison ripped his tie completely off and threw it onto the Persian rug.

He leaned forward, planting both hands heavily on the back of the sofa, trapping her in his shadow.

"What kind of monster are you?" Harrison hissed, his voice vibrating with disgust.

Iris flinched. Fresh tears welled up instantly.

"I love you!" she sobbed, her voice breaking perfectly. "I couldn't handle the divorce! I just wanted to drink until I forgot you!"

Harrison stared at her flawless performance. If he couldn't hear the truth, he would have fallen to his knees and begged for her forgiveness.

Iris watched his face. She needed to hit him where it hurt. She needed to remind him of their bond.

She started thinking about the nights they had spent on this exact sofa.

Honestly, his technique was always so boring, her inner voice sighed loudly in his head. Every time we did it, it felt like he was just completing a chore. I just treated it as a complimentary clause in our business contract.

The words hit Harrison like a physical bullet to the chest.

His brain completely short-circuited.

For three years, he had prided himself on being a dominant, attentive husband. He thought he controlled every aspect of their marriage, including their physical intimacy.

And she had viewed it as a chore. A complimentary clause.

A wave of absolute, crushing humiliation washed over him. It burned through his veins, destroying his pride, his ego, his entire sense of self.

He stood up straight. The anger drained out of his face, leaving behind a look of profound, sickening revulsion.

He looked at her as if she were a piece of rotting garbage on his floor.

Iris saw the drastic shift in his expression. She didn't understand what she had done wrong.

Panic flared in her chest. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his suit jacket.

Harrison took a massive step backward, dodging her touch with violent disgust.

He took a deep breath, fighting the urge to vomit.

He pointed a shaking finger toward the heavy oak front door.

"Get out," Harrison said. His voice was completely dead. There was no anger left, only absolute zero.

Iris froze. She had expected him to yell. She had expected him to break things.

She had never seen him look this disgusted.

Did he figure it out? her mind raced frantically. That look is terrifying. I need to get out of here before he snaps.

Iris scrambled off the sofa. She didn't bother fixing her twisted dress.

She grabbed her small clutch from the floor and practically ran toward the door.

Just before she grabbed the handle, she paused. She turned back, letting one final, perfect tear roll down her cheek.

Then she opened the door and fled.

The heavy door slammed shut. The massive penthouse plunged into a deafening silence.

Harrison's knees gave out. He collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.

A complimentary clause.

The words echoed in his empty apartment. He felt like the biggest joke in the world.

He didn't want simple revenge anymore. He wanted complete and utter annihilation. He wanted to prove that without him, she was nothing but a hollow shell. He wanted to give her the rope and watch her hang herself with it. By giving her exactly what she wanted, he would strip away her safety net and watch her true colors bleed out for the world to see.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed his executive assistant, Elias.

"Expedite the asset transfer," Harrison ordered, his voice cold and razor-sharp. "Get her money into her accounts by tomorrow morning. Let her have her millions. I want to see exactly how fast she destroys herself with it."