My Quiet Wife Is An Elite Genius

Iris walked to the garage complex. She pressed the button on the intercom.

"Arthur," she said. "I need a car to the station."

There was a pause, filled with static. Then Arthur's voice came through, sounding strained. "I apologize, Madam. Mr. Zimmerman has just frozen your transport privileges."

Iris looked at the row of gleaming luxury vehicles behind the glass doors. She let out a dry laugh. "Is this part of the performance review too?"

"Sir says... if you wish to go to the city, you can walk. Or you can come back inside and apologize."

Iris released the button, cutting him off.

She tightened her coat against the wind and turned toward the driveway. It was two miles to the main gate.

The sky was a bruised purple, threatening rain. Within minutes, the threat became a promise. A cold drizzle began to fall, soaking into her canvas bag.

Her sneakers weren't made for long treks on asphalt. The friction burned her heels with every step.

Up in the study, Francisco watched the security feed. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass.

"She's walking," Arthur reported, looking at the screen.

"Let her walk," Francisco said, taking a sip. "She won't make it two miles before she comes crying back."

A delivery truck roared past Iris, its tires hitting a pothole filled with muddy water. The spray hit her full on, coating her jeans and coat in brown sludge.

Iris stumbled, her knees buckling. She caught herself. She didn't stop to wipe it off. She just kept walking.

Ten minutes later, a low purr of an engine came up behind her. A red Ferrari slowed to a crawl. The window rolled down.

Annalise smiled from the driver's seat. It was a smile full of pity and poison. "Need a lift? I can drop you at the train station. You look like a drowned rat."

Iris wiped wet hair from her face. She looked at the pristine leather interior of the car. "No thanks," she said. "I don't ride in garbage trucks."

Annalise's face contorted. She slammed her foot on the gas. The tires squealed, kicking up gravel that stung Iris's shins. Exhaust fumes washed over her.

Iris coughed, bending over, hands on her knees. But when she straightened up, her spine was straighter than before.

It took an hour. Her heels were bleeding inside her shoes. Her clothes were heavy with water. But finally, the wrought iron gates loomed ahead.

She stepped onto the public road. She pulled out her phone. The signal bars flickered from "No Service" to one bar.

Her fingers shook as she dialed.

"Hello?" A loud, brash voice answered.

"Chloe," Iris whispered. Her voice cracked.

"Baby? Why are you calling me this early? Is everything okay?"

"Come get me," Iris said, fighting the sob that was clawing its way up her throat. "I'm at the junction of Route 27."

"You're crying," Chloe said, her voice dropping an octave. "What did that bastard do?"

"I'm free," Iris said. "But I need a ride."

She hung up and slid down the metal post of a road sign. She sat in the wet grass, hugging her knees.

A black sedan appeared in the distance. Iris's head snapped up. Her hand shot out, grabbing a jagged rock from the ground. Her muscles coiled, ready to strike. It was a reflex, old and buried, screaming danger.

The car wooshed past. Just a stranger.

Iris dropped the rock. Her hand was trembling. She stared at her palm, wondering when she had become this person again.