Meets up with a new man for the night who wants to get into the party

Harry slept through the morning, the gold mesh bikini discarded in a heap on the floor. Her winnings were scattered across the floor like pirate treasure, a testament to a successful night. When she finally rose, her body bore the pleasant, heavy ache of thorough use. After a long shower that did little to wash away the scent of last night's debauchery, she counted her take. 1700.

A decent start, but the fire of competition still smoldered. Ginny might be all red lipstick and wide-eyed innocence, but she had that Weasley grit. Hermione, with her methodical approach, could be turning tricks with spreadsheet-like efficiency. Harry couldn't get complacent. Ronnie had that bimbo charm that all guys loves.

She decided to change her hunting ground. The industrial estate had been fruitful. The real money was in desperation, and desperation had many addresses. That evening, she found herself in the lobby of a sleek, modern hotel in the financial district, the kind of place where men with more money than sense stayed after closing deals they'd forget by morning.

She sat in a plush armchair, one leg crossed over the other, the simple black dress she'd bought clinging to her form. She wasn't advertising, merely existing in the space, a piece of expensive art waiting to be purchased. It didn't take long. A man in a tailored suit, but with a tie loosened and the haggard look of a man who'd spent the day fighting a war he was losing, approached her. He was handsome in a sharp, cruel way, but his eyes held a raw, wounded fury.

"You're not like the others," he said, his voice low and rough. He didn't offer a drink or engage in pleasantries.

Harry offered a small, knowing smile. "The others charge by the hour. I charge by the problem. What's yours?"

He let out a short, bitter laugh. "My ex-wife. She's here. Somewhere in this hotel. Hosting one of her... parties. On the penthouse floor. She took me for everything in the divorce, but I know her. She has a weakness. She needs to be desired. She needs to be the one in control." He leaned closer, the scent of expensive whiskey and rage clinging to him. "I want to get in. And when I see her... I want you with me. I want you on your knees."

Harry's interest piqued. This wasn't just access, it was psychological warfare. Far more lucrative.

"Go on," she prompted, her tone languid.

"I want you to worship my cock," he snarled, the words a venomous whisper. "I want to walk in and find her, some queen holding court, and I want her to see you. To see you looking up at me like I'm a god, with my dick so far down your throat you can't speak. I want her to see what she threw away. I want that picture burned into her memory for the rest of her miserable life. It's not about fucking you. It's about breaking her. Right there, in front of everyone."

This was delicious. Petty, cruel, and utterly detached from any genuine pleasure. Harry could work with this. His plan a little stupid but Harry couldn't turn down good work.

"A performance piece," she mused, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against her lips. "Art therapy for the wronged ex-husband. That will cost extra. The emotional labor alone is exhausting."

"Name your price," he said without hesitation.

"Two thousand. Half now to secure my services as your psychological weapon of mass destruction. The other half when the deed is done." she stated flatly.

He didn't blink. He pulled a money clip from his pocket and peeled off ten crisp hundred-pound notes, laying them on the small table between them like a sacrifice.

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