Fifty Million Reasons To Hate Him

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.