My Quiet Wife Is An Elite Genius

Iris was wiping down the keys of the upright piano in the back room of The Velvet Lounge when Marco burst in. He looked frantic, sweat beading on his forehead.

"Iris, get your mask," he panted. "The pianist at Le Coucou just had his appendix burst. They need a sub right now."

Iris froze. Le Coucou. That was the heart of the beast. "Marco, no. I can't go there. I know people who eat there."

"Double pay," Marco pleaded. "And the tips there are triple what you get here. Please. I owe the owner a favor."

Iris looked at her worn-out sneakers. She thought about the rent Chloe refused to take but desperately needed.

"One night," she said. "Just tonight."

An hour later, she was sitting behind a grand piano in the corner of Le Coucou. She wore a long black dress provided by the restaurant and a Venetian mask that covered the upper half of her face.

The lighting was low, designed for intimacy and secrets. She blended into the shadows.

The hostess led a group to the VIP table, five meters from the piano.

Iris's fingers slipped on a C-sharp. She recovered instantly, turning the mistake into a trill, but her heart hammered against her ribs.

Francisco. Annalise. And a stern-looking older man.

Francisco sat with his back to her. Annalise sat facing him, which meant she was facing the piano.

"Excellent choice of venue," the older man, Muller, said, sitting down. "And the music... Chopin. Very emotive."

"It's just background noise, Mr. Muller," Francisco said, waving a hand dismissively. He didn't even glance at the musician.

Annalise squinted at the pianist. The figure looked familiar, the posture... but the mask and the dim light threw her off. She shrugged and turned her attention to the menu.

Iris forced herself to breathe. In. Out. She had to be perfect. She had to be invisible.

"So, Francisco," Muller said, unfolding his napkin. "I was sorry to hear about your wife's recent illness. I hope her sabbatical is proving restful? A stable home life is so important for investor confidence."

"She's recovering wonderfully," Francisco said smoothly. "My wife is... taking a sabbatical. It plays well with the 'independent woman' narrative the media loves. When she returns, it will be a triumphant story."

"Managed," Iris thought, her fingers hitting the keys harder. "Like a stock portfolio."

The music swelled, becoming turbulent, angry. It was Rachmaninoff now, stormy and violent.

Muller paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. "That pianist... she has a lot of anger."

Francisco finally turned. He looked over his shoulder.

Iris met his gaze through the eyeholes of the mask. Her heart stopped.

Francisco stared. The eyes... they looked like hers. But Iris couldn't play like this. Iris played simple sonatas at Christmas parties. This woman played like she wanted to break the instrument.

"Probably a breakup," Francisco sneered, turning back. "Melodramatic."

"I like it," Muller said. "I want to buy her a drink. Thank her."

Francisco frowned. He wanted to keep Muller happy. He snapped his fingers at a waiter. "Bring the pianist here."

The waiter approached the piano. "Miss? The gentleman at table one requests your presence."

Iris looked at Marco, who was hovering by the kitchen door. He clasped his hands in a pleading gesture.

She stood up. Her legs felt like wood. She walked over to the table. She kept her head bowed slightly.

"Your music has soul," Muller said, raising his glass.

Francisco leaned back in his chair. He stared at her hands. No ring. Bare fingers.

"Take off the mask," Francisco commanded. His voice was cold, authoritative. "It's rude to hide your face from guests."