Help this man get back at his ex wife

The man name was Richard. A fitting name for a man who was about to be a massive dick. Harry pocketed the cash with the smooth efficiency of a croupier. "Alright, Richard. Let's go make your ex-wife's night memorable."

Getting past the penthouse floor security was easier than expected. They weren't checking for invitations, just for confidence and the look of people who belonged. Harry, radiating an aura of expensive ownership, and Richard, radiating the righteous fury of a man reclaiming his kingdom, were waved through without a second glance.

The penthouse suite was a vision of minimalist chic, all white sofas, glass walls, and panoramic views of the city lights. And it was packed. The atmosphere was less of a debaucherous orgy and more of a curated, cocktail-fueled display of power. Beautiful people in various states of undress lounged on fur rugs, their conversations a low murmur beneath a pulsing electronic beat. This was the high end. But there are a few people getting naughty.

Then Harry saw her. Richard's ex. A woman with silver-blonde hair pinned up in an effortless chignon, wearing a flowing silk gown that was, to Harry's trained eye, already bunched at the hips. She held court from a large circular sofa, a glass of champagne in one hand, a handsome young man's head in her lap. She radiated a cold, predatory confidence. She was beautiful, in the way a statue is beautiful. Cold and untouchable.

Richard tensed beside her, a coiled spring of venom. "There she is," he breathed, his knuckles white.

Harry took his arm, her touch a calming, proprietary gesture. "Relax, darling," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "Let me handle the performance."

She guided him towards a spot deliberately chosen for maximum visibility. It was near the bar, in the direct line of sight of the queen on her sofa.

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