My Quiet Wife Is An Elite Genius

Francisco sat in his corner office, the Manhattan skyline spread out behind him like a conquered kingdom. He stared at the tablet on his desk.

Arthur stood by the door, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Has she returned?" Francisco asked without turning around.

"No, sir. But... we received an email from Madam's legal representation."

Francisco spun his chair around. "Representation? How can she afford a lawyer? Legal Aid?"

"No," Arthur said. "She drafted it herself. The formatting is... surprisingly professional."

Francisco swiped the tablet open. He scanned the document. It was short. Brutal. No asset division. Immediate dissolution.

He laughed, tossing the tablet onto the mahogany desk. "She's playing hard to get. She thinks if she asks for nothing, I'll beg her to stay."

"Sir?"

"Let her wait," Francisco said, turning back to the window. "Tell her I'm fully booked this week. We can discuss it next month."

"But sir," Arthur hesitated. "She cleared out her things..."

"Do as I say," Francisco snapped. "Cut her supplementary cards. Freeze any joint accounts. If she has a trust, lock it."

"Yes, sir." Arthur retreated.

Miles away, in the dim, smoky interior of The Velvet Lounge, Iris sat at a Steinway that had seen better days.

The manager, a rotund Italian man named Marco, crossed his arms. "Play something. Don't bore me."

Iris placed her hands on the keys. For a second, she closed her eyes. Then she struck.

She didn't play Mozart. She didn't play Bach. She played a jazz arrangement of Radiohead's "No Surprises." The chords were dissonant, haunting, filled with a quiet rage.

A job that slowly kills you...

The bartenders stopped wiping glasses. The few patrons turned their heads. The music filled the room, heavy and suffocatingly beautiful.

When the last note faded, Marco clapped once. "You're hired. Fifty an hour. Tips are yours. Start tonight."

"Deal," Iris said. "But I wear a mask."

Marco shrugged. "Whatever. Adds to the mystery."

Her phone buzzed in her bag. An email from Arthur. Mr. Zimmerman's schedule is full for the foreseeable future.

Iris read it and let out a dry chuckle. "Full schedule," she muttered. "Busy keeping Annalise warm."

She typed a reply: I can wait. But I'm not disappearing.

That night, she wore a black lace masquerade mask. Her fingers flew across the keys. She felt a control she hadn't felt in years.

Men in expensive suits sent drinks to the piano. She sent them back.

At 2 AM, she counted her tips. Two hundred and forty dollars in cash. The bills were grimy and smelled of beer.

She held them in her hand. They felt heavier than the Black Amex Francisco had given her. They felt real.

Francisco returned to the Hamptons estate. The house was vast, silent. He walked into the bedroom. The empty space on the nightstand where the ring used to be seemed to scream at him.

He felt a spike of irritation. He pulled out his phone and dialed Annalise.

"Dinner tomorrow," he said. "Le Coucou. Invite Muller. We need to close that German deal."