Fifty shades of 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.