The morning sun blasted through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse bedroom.

Harrison groaned, squeezing his eyes shut. His head throbbed violently from the whiskey he had consumed the night before.

His phone buzzed relentlessly on the nightstand.

He reached out blindly, grabbed the device, and pressed it to his ear.

"Mr. Torres," his private attorney's crisp voice came through the speaker. "The fifty million dollar trust fund has been fully transferred to Ms. Cooper's account."

Harrison stared blankly at the ceiling.

"The divorce decree is officially active," the lawyer continued. "You are legally severed."

Harrison hung up without saying a word.

He turned his head and looked at the empty left side of the king-sized bed. The sheets were perfectly smooth.

A sudden, irrational spike of irritation flared in his chest.

He opened his phone and tapped on his iMessage app. He pulled up Iris's contact.

He wanted to send one last text. Just to prove he didn't care.

He typed: Take your money and stay the hell away from me.

He hit send.

Instantly, a bright red exclamation point popped up next to the blue bubble. Not Delivered.

Harrison stared at the screen. His thumb hovered over the glass.

She blocked him.

The woman who had spent three years pretending to worship the ground he walked on had blocked his number the second the check cleared.

A hot rush of anger flooded his brain.

He opened Instagram and typed her handle into the search bar. User not found.

He threw the blankets off, his jaw clenched tight. He grabbed his work tablet from his briefcase and logged into his assistant Elias's account.

He searched for Iris. Her profile popped up immediately.

She had posted a new Story, restricted to a close circle of friends.

Harrison tapped the glowing circle.

The screen filled with a photo of Iris. She was lying on the deck of a luxury yacht, wearing a tiny, neon-pink bikini. She was holding up a glass of champagne, laughing brightly at the camera.

The caption read: Finally escaped the cage! Single life is the best life! with a clinking glasses emoji.

Harrison's grip on the tablet tightened until the glass screen groaned under the pressure.

He hurled the tablet across the room. It smashed into the wall and shattered into pieces.

He stormed out of the bedroom, his bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor.

He walked into the massive, open-concept kitchen. He needed black coffee. Now.

He stood in front of the fifty-thousand-dollar custom Italian espresso machine. He stared at the complex array of chrome dials, levers, and buttons, a process she had always made look entirely effortless. For three years, a perfectly brewed cup of black coffee was simply waiting for him on the marble island the moment he walked in. He knew the basic mechanics, but his patience was nonexistent. He pressed what he thought was the correct sequence of extraction buttons and twisted the pressure valve.

The machine let out a high-pitched warning beep. It whirred aggressively, then sputtered, producing a weak, watery liquid that was an absolute insult to the premium beans. Finally, a jet of scalding hot steam shot out of the side pipe, narrowly missing Harrison's hand. He slammed his fist against the marble counter in sheer frustration.

He abandoned the kitchen and marched into his walk-in closet to get dressed.

He pulled out a navy blue tailored suit. He reached for the specific silver silk tie he always wore with it.

He stared at the wall of hundreds of neatly rolled ties. He had no idea where it was.

He spent twenty minutes tearing through the drawers, ruining the perfect organization. He couldn't find the tie. He also realized his favorite pair of sapphire cufflinks was missing.

A deep, suffocating sense of frustration settled over him.

Iris was a liar and a manipulator, but she had managed his life with terrifying efficiency. Without her, his daily routine was completely paralyzed.

Harrison grabbed a random black tie, threw it around his neck, and left the apartment.

When he stepped off the private elevator at the Torres Group headquarters, the air on the top floor instantly froze.

The employees took one look at his dark, murderous expression and glued their eyes to their monitors.

Elias, his assistant, nervously followed him into the CEO office, holding an iPad.

"Your schedule for today, sir-"

"Why isn't there a housekeeper at my apartment?" Harrison snapped, throwing his briefcase onto the desk.

Elias swallowed hard. "Sir, the former Mrs. Torres refused to let outside staff into the private residence. She insisted on handling all domestic duties personally."

Harrison's lip curled into a sneer at the word personally.

"Call the best agency in New York," Harrison ordered, sitting down heavily in his leather chair. "I want a top-tier estate manager hired by the end of the day."

"Yes, sir," Elias said, turning to leave.

"Wait." Harrison's voice was sharp.

He pointed a finger at Elias. His eyes were cold and calculating.

"Run an inventory on the penthouse. Find out exactly what she took when she moved out. I'm missing a pair of cufflinks."

Elias blinked in surprise. A billionaire CEO caring about a single pair of cufflinks was absurd. But he nodded quickly and rushed out the door.

Harrison leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The image of Iris laughing in that pink bikini burned against the back of his eyelids.

The divorce hadn't brought him peace. It had thrown his entire existence into chaos, and he hated her for it.

At three o'clock in the afternoon, Elias knocked timidly on the heavy oak door of the CEO's office.

He walked in carrying a thick stack of premium resumes.

Harrison looked up from a mountain of legal documents. His eyes were dark and deeply irritated. He glared at the resumes as if they were offensive.

"I contacted three elite domestic staffing agencies, sir," Elias reported, keeping his voice steady. "They are sending five candidates directly to the penthouse this evening for on-site interviews."

Harrison gave a curt nod, his attention already drifting back to his paperwork.

Elias hesitated. He pulled a single sheet of paper from his folder and placed it on the desk.

"Regarding the inventory, sir," Elias said carefully. "The former Mrs. Torres did not take your cufflinks. However... she left behind a significant amount of her own personal property in the master closet."

Harrison picked up the paper.

It was a long list. Hermes Birkin bags, custom Chanel dresses, Cartier jewelry. Millions of dollars worth of luxury goods, just abandoned.

Harrison's jaw tightened.

She had cried and begged for fifty million dollars, acting like she would starve on the streets. Now that she had the cash, she didn't even care enough to pack her own priceless belongings.

The blatant disrespect made the veins in Harrison's neck throb.

He slammed the paper down on the desk.

"Call her," Harrison ordered, his voice dangerously low. "Tell her she has until tonight to clear this garbage out of my apartment, or I am having it thrown into the incinerator."

Elias didn't dare argue. He pulled out his work phone, dialed Iris's number, and pressed the speaker button. He placed the phone on the desk.

The line rang. And rang.

Just as the call was about to go to voicemail, someone picked up.

Instantly, the deafening sound of heavy bass, electronic synths, and the roaring cheers of a crowd flooded the quiet office. But then, the chaotic music suddenly muffled, the heavy wooden thud of a door closing echoing through the line as if she had quickly ducked into a restroom or a soundproofed VIP hallway.

"Hello?" Iris's voice slurred slightly over the speaker, now clear enough to hear over the distant, vibrating bass. She sounded breathless and incredibly happy. "Who is interrupting my vibe?"

Elias cleared his throat loudly. "Ms. Cooper, this is Elias from the Torres Group. Mr. Torres has requested that you return to the penthouse immediately to remove your remaining personal items."

Iris let out a bright, careless laugh.

"Tell him I'm busy on a date," she yelled over the music. "I don't have time for that old junk. Tell him to throw it in the trash."

As soon as she finished speaking, her inner voice transmitted directly into Harrison's brain.

That uptight old man is probably staring at my bags, crying over my memory. I'm not going back just to let him guilt-trip me.

The words crying over my memory snapped the last thread of Harrison's self-control.

He shot out of his leather chair so fast it slammed into the wall behind him.

He snatched the phone off the desk, bringing the microphone right to his mouth.

"Iris Cooper," Harrison snarled. His voice was laced with pure, lethal venom.

The background noise on the other end of the line seemed to stutter. Iris clearly hadn't expected him to be listening. Her breathing hitched.

Harrison didn't give her a second to recover.

"If you are not standing in my apartment in exactly one hour," Harrison said, his tone absolute ice, "I will have my security team pack every single bag you own and dump them into the Hudson River."

He paused, letting the threat hang in the air.

"And then," he added softly, "I will call the bank and place a freeze on the international wire transfers of your trust fund. Let's see how you pay for your little Soho parties then."

The threat of losing her money shattered her arrogant facade instantly.

You wouldn't dare! her mind screamed in panic.

"The choice is entirely yours, Iris," Harrison stated, his voice a low, vibrating hum of absolute authority, completely ignoring the frantic mental scream echoing in his skull. "One hour. The clock is ticking."

He slammed his thumb onto the red end-call button and tossed the phone back to Elias.

The office fell dead silent. Elias stared at his shoes, pretending he hadn't just witnessed his billionaire boss threaten his ex-wife over handbags.

Harrison straightened his cuffs. He grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

"Change the interview location," Harrison commanded as he walked toward the door. "I'm going to the penthouse. I will conduct the interviews myself."

Meanwhile, in the middle of the sweaty Soho club, Iris stared at her dead phone screen.

Her hands were shaking with absolute fury. A handsome man tried to wrap his arm around her waist, but she shoved him away violently.

She stomped out of the club, her twelve-inch heels clicking furiously against the pavement.

She cursed Harrison's entire bloodline in her head as she aggressively flagged down a yellow cab, screaming at the driver to take her to Tribeca.

Back in the back of his Maybach, Harrison watched the city blur past the tinted windows.

A dark, twisted sense of anticipation curled in his stomach.

He couldn't wait to see the look on her face when she walked through his door.

The late afternoon sun painted the massive living room of the penthouse in shades of deep gold and crimson.

Five young women, all dressed in immaculate, conservative gray uniforms, stood in a perfectly straight line against the wall. They clutched their portfolios, looking terrified.

Harrison sat in the center of the room on a single leather armchair. His legs were crossed, his posture rigid.

His dark, predatory eyes scanned the candidates. He looked like a king preparing to execute his subjects.

Elias stood nervously to the side, holding his iPad. "Candidate number one, please step forward and state your qualifications."

Before the first girl could even open her mouth, the electronic keypad at the front entrance beeped aggressively.

The heavy oak door was shoved open with so much force it slammed against the wall, rattling the expensive artwork.

Every head in the room snapped toward the foyer.

Iris marched into the apartment.

She was wearing thigh-high, chunky combat boots that stomped loudly against the hardwood floor. She had on a skin-tight, black sequined slip dress, covered by an oversized leather motorcycle jacket covered in sharp metal studs.

To make matters worse, she was aggressively chewing a piece of bright pink bubblegum.

She blew a massive bubble and popped it with a loud smack.

Harrison's jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked violently in his cheek.

Iris pulled down her oversized black sunglasses. She looked at the line of beautiful, young women in uniforms.

A cruel, mocking smirk twisted her lips.

Instantly, her face crumpled into an expression of profound, theatrical heartbreak.

She pointed a trembling finger at Harrison. "You already replaced me?" she cried out, her voice echoing in the large room. "With a whole harem? I am such a pathetic fool!"

While she wailed aloud, her inner voice exploded in Harrison's skull with hysterical laughter.

Oh my god, look at this lineup! Is he hosting the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show in his living room? What a creep!

The words Victoria's Secret Fashion Show made Harrison's blood pressure spike to dangerous levels. His fingers gripped the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles turned stark white.

The five candidates exchanged horrified glances. They clearly thought they had walked into a volatile domestic dispute.

Harrison took a slow, deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to throw her off the balcony.

"They are interviewing for the estate manager position," Harrison said, his voice dripping with icy contempt. "Keep your filthy thoughts to yourself."

Iris rolled her eyes dramatically. She dragged her heavy boots across the floor, heading toward the pile of cardboard boxes near the hallway.

Estate manager? Please, her mind scoffed loudly. Do you need to check their measurements to see if they can clean a toilet? Dirty old man.

Harrison grabbed the crystal water glass from the side table and slammed it down onto the glass coffee table.

The loud bang made all five candidates jump out of their skin.

He pointed a lethal finger at the boxes. "Shut your mouth and pack your trash, Iris. Do not interrupt my interviews."

Iris crouched down next to the boxes. She grabbed an orange Hermes box and intentionally kicked it hard against the wall, making a loud thud to show her displeasure.

Elias quickly gestured to the first candidate. "Please, begin."

Candidate A stepped forward. Her hands were shaking. She started reciting her resume, her voice barely a whisper.

"I... I trained at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris," she stammered, intimidated by the suffocating tension in the room.

Iris slowly folded a silk dress, tossing it carelessly into a box.

Look at her nose, Iris's voice criticized directly into Harrison's brain. That is definitely a bad nose job. And she sounds like a dying mosquito. How is she going to manage this massive apartment?

Harrison squeezed his eyes shut. The mental commentary was relentless. It was impossible to focus on what the candidate was actually saying.

Candidate A saw Harrison grimace and panicked. Her voice trailed off, and she started stuttering uncontrollably.

Haha! Look at her! She's about to cry! Iris's mind cackled with malicious glee. Nobody can handle this tyrant's temper!

Harrison snapped.

He whipped his head around and glared at the back of Iris's head. His eyes burned with absolute, murderous intent.

Iris felt the heavy, terrifying weight of his stare. She froze mid-fold.

What is he glaring at me for? she thought defensively. I didn't even say anything out loud!

Harrison ground his teeth together. The fact that she was technically right infuriated him even more. He couldn't yell at her for something she hadn't spoken.

He turned back to the trembling candidate.

"Get to the point," Harrison snapped impatiently. "What makes you think you can handle my household?"

Candidate A took a deep breath, desperately clinging to her prepared speech.

"I specialize in high-end French cuisine, sir," she said, her voice gaining a fraction of confidence. "I assure you, I can perfectly replicate the loving, home-cooked dinners the former Mrs. Torres prepared for you every evening."