My Quiet Wife Is An Elite Genius

Iris smoothed the microscopic wrinkle on the collar of the white dress shirt. Her fingers lingered on the Egyptian cotton, the fabric cool against her sweating palms. She stood before the towering mahogany double doors of the study, her heart beating a frantic rhythm against her ribs that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with performance anxiety. She took a breath, holding it in her lungs until they burned, then exhaled slowly, plastering the Zimmerman Wife Smile onto her face. It was a muscle memory by now, a reflex as automatic as blinking. Inside the study, the sharp clink of crystal against crystal cut through the heavy silence of the hallway. Then came the sound of Francisco's laughter. It was a low, rumble of a sound that used to make her toes curl. Now, it just made her stomach twist. Iris raised her hand to knock. "Arthur is already drafting the renewal contract," a woman's voice purred from inside. Annalise. "Are you sure you want to keep her on the payroll, Francisco?" Iris's hand froze in mid-air. Her blood ran cold, the sensation starting at her fingertips and rushing straight to her core. She didn't move. She couldn't. "The current polls show she is the best asset for stabilizing the stock price," Francisco's voice was devoid of warmth, the same tone he used when discussing a merger or a hostile takeover. "She's harmless. As long as I pay the maintenance fees on time, she stays obedient." "Maintenance fees?" Annalise let out a short, cruel laugh. "You mean that fifty-thousand-dollar monthly allowance?" "It's a performance bonus," Francisco corrected, his voice dry. "For a vase that only knows how to smile, the price is fair." The world tilted on its axis. A high-pitched ringing filled Iris's ears, drowning out the hum of the central air conditioning. The shirt in her hand felt suddenly heavy, like lead. One corner of the pristine white fabric slipped from her grasp and brushed against the expensive Persian runner. She bit down on her lower lip. She bit down hard. The metallic tang of blood bloomed on her tongue, grounding her. She didn't storm in. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. Iris bent down. Her movements were slow, deliberate, like a bomb disposal expert handling a live wire. She picked up the shirt, brushing off a speck of invisible dust. Then she turned around. Her heels sank into the plush carpet, making her retreat silent. She walked back to the master bedroom, placing the shirt on the bed. She walked into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. The woman staring back was perfect. Hair coiffed, makeup flawless, diamonds glittering at her throat. She looked like a clown. The strains of a string quartet drifted up from the floor below. The gala was starting. A sharp rap on the door followed. "Madam," Arthur's voice came through the wood. "It is time." Iris opened the door. Her smile was brighter, sharper than it had ever been. "I'm ready, Arthur." The ballroom was a sea of black tuxedos and designer gowns. The air smelled of expensive perfume and old money. Francisco stood in the center of it all, a king in his court. Annalise stood six feet away, close enough to be relevant, far enough to be plausible. Iris glided to Francisco's side. She hooked her arm through his. Under the expensive fabric of his suit, she felt his bicep tense for a fraction of a second. He leaned down, his breath tickling her ear. "There are media here tonight. Don't make any mistakes." Iris looked up at him. She widened her eyes, projecting adoration. "Don't worry, darling," she said, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "I'll make sure I earn my performance bonus." Francisco frowned. He pulled back slightly, looking at her with a flicker of confusion, as if the vase on the shelf had suddenly spoken French. A camera flash blinded them. Iris leaned her head onto his shoulder, the picture of domestic bliss. Across the room, Annalise raised her champagne flute. Her eyes were mocking. Iris raised an imaginary glass in return, looking straight through Annalise as if she were made of glass. Half an hour later, Iris slipped away to the ladies' room. She turned on the cold water tap and splashed her face, not caring about the mascara running down her cheeks. She scrubbed at her skin, trying to wash away the feeling of his arm, his voice, his money. She pulled her phone from her clutch. She opened the file she had memorized but never truly read. The Prenuptial Agreement. She scrolled to the section on voluntary termination. Clause 4.2: In the event of voluntary dissolution of marriage by the Party of the Second Part (Iris Potter), said Party shall forfeit all claims to alimony, assets, and marital property. Zero. She would leave with nothing. Iris turned off the screen. She looked at her ruined makeup in the mirror. "Who cares," she whispered.