Fifty Million Reasons To Hate Him

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.