The morning sun sliced through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. Iris was already dressed. She wore jeans and a simple gray sweater, clothes she hadn't touched in three years.

Francisco stirred. His hand reached out across the sheets, seeking the glass of water that was usually placed on his nightstand. His fingers hit empty wood.

He sat up, blinking against the light. He saw her sitting in the single armchair in the corner. A nondescript canvas duffel bag sat at her feet.

He rubbed his temples, his voice rough with sleep. "Where are you going dressed like that? We have the polo match at noon."

"I'm not going," Iris said. Her voice was steady, devoid of the soft lilt he was used to. "Mr. Zimmerman."

Francisco paused. His hand stilled on the duvet. "What kind of mood is this? Is this because I didn't dance with you last night?"

Iris stood up. She walked over to the bed and extended a piece of paper. "This is my resignation letter. Consider it a preview of the divorce papers."

Francisco didn't take the paper. He laughed, a short, incredulous sound. "Resignation? You think this is a game of house?"

"Since I'm an employee receiving a 'performance bonus'," Iris said, watching his face, "I assume I have the right to resign."

Francisco's pupils contracted. The realization hit him. She had heard.

He didn't apologize. He didn't look ashamed. Instead, his expression hardened into arrogance. "So? You think you're underpaid? Annalise brings billion-dollar contracts to the table. What do you bring, Iris? Clean shirts?"

The words were small, sharp daggers. Iris felt them puncture her chest, but she didn't bleed. Not anymore.

"So I decided to leave the shirts to you," she said. "And keep the dignity for myself."

She bent down and picked up the canvas bag. It was light.

Francisco gestured wildly at the room, at the walk-in closet filled with seasons of couture. "You're taking that? What about the gowns? The jewelry? The diamonds in the safe?"

"Props for Mrs. Zimmerman," Iris said, looking around the room as if she were a stranger. "Not belongings of Iris Potter."

She walked to the nightstand. She twisted the pink diamond ring off her finger. It left a pale indentation on her skin, a ghost of a shackle.

She dropped it onto the mahogany table. Clink. The sound was final.

Francisco threw the covers off, standing up. He was angry now, a vein pulsing in his neck. "You walk out that door, don't expect me to send a car for you. You'll be crawling back in an hour."

"Don't trouble yourself," Iris said, her hand on the doorknob. A fleeting image of a bloody night in Macau flashed through her mind-of this same man, unconscious and bleeding out as she worked frantically to save him. The irony was a bitter pill. He owed her his life, and he was haggling over a car service. "I don't need a ride."

She walked out. She didn't look back at the man who was staring at her with a mixture of rage and confusion, waiting for her to break.

In the hallway, she almost collided with Annalise. The woman was wearing a silk robe that cost more than Iris's entire college tuition. She had clearly just come from the guest wing. Or somewhere closer.

Annalise looked at the canvas bag, her eyebrows shooting up. "Going on vacation?"

Iris stopped. She looked Annalise up and down. "I'm making space. I suggest you change the sheets. I don't like people using my leftovers."

Annalise's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The shock of the retort froze her.

Iris walked past her, down the grand staircase. The house was silent. The butler, standing by the front door, looked at her with sad eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but Iris shook her head gently.

She stepped out the heavy front door. It closed behind her with a dull thud that vibrated through the soles of her sneakers.

Francisco stood at the bedroom window, watching the small figure on the massive driveway. He lit a cigarette, his hands shaking slightly. "She won't last three days."

Iris took a deep breath. The air was cold, biting, and smelled of the ocean. It tasted like freedom.

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.

The screech of tires announced Chloe's arrival. The beat-up Ford skidded to a halt on the shoulder, gravel spraying.

Chloe Vance jumped out before the engine even died. She took one look at Iris-soaked, muddy, shivering-and her face crumbled.

"Oh my god," Chloe breathed. She rushed forward, wrapping her arms around Iris's wet coat. "You look like a stray cat."

Iris melted. The tension holding her upright finally snapped. She leaned her entire weight against her friend. "Just drive. Anywhere."

They scrambled into the car. Chloe cranked the heat up to the maximum setting and threw a moth-eaten blanket over Iris's lap.

As the car merged onto the highway, heading toward the city, Chloe gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. "I'm going to burn his house down. I swear to god, Iris."

"Don't waste the gas," Iris said, staring out the window at the gray blur of trees. "I just want a divorce."

"Do you have money?" Chloe asked gently.

Iris opened her canvas bag. She pulled out a small wallet. "About two hundred dollars in cash."

Chloe let out a long breath. "Okay. My place is a shoebox, but the couch is yours."

"I need a job," Iris said. "Immediately."

"Your degree is in interior design," Chloe said, glancing at her. "But you haven't worked in three years. The gap..."

"No design," Iris cut in. "Takes too long to get paid. I'm going to play piano."

Chloe blinked. "Piano? Your hands are insured for signing checks, not playing dive bars."

Iris looked down at her hands. They were long, slender, and deceptively strong. "These hands can do a lot more than you think."

They arrived at Chloe's apartment in Queens. It was a fourth-floor walk-up. The air inside smelled of stale takeout and cheap air freshener. It was cramped, messy, and loud.

Iris loved it.

She started clearing off the couch, folding the blanket neatly. Chloe handed her a mug of instant coffee. It tasted like burnt dirt, but it was hot.

Iris opened Chloe's laptop. As it booted up, she instinctively ran a diagnostic, her fingers flying across the keys in a series of commands Chloe didn't recognize. She cleared the cache, checked for spyware, and encrypted the connection before even opening a browser. It was a reflex she hadn't needed in years, but one she'd never forgotten. She went straight to Craigslist. Her eyes scanned the listings with predatory focus.

Urgent. Pianist needed. The Velvet Lounge. High-end clientele. Must be skilled.

The Velvet Lounge. A watering hole for Wall Street wolves. The tips would be good.

Iris dialed the number. She dropped her voice, making it sound huskier, older. She asked for an audition.

"Come now," the voice on the other end barked.

Iris went to the bathroom. She stripped off her wet clothes. She borrowed a black dress from Chloe's closet. It was tight, shorter than anything she had worn in the Hamptons.

She pulled her hair up into a severe bun. She applied makeup-dark eyeliner, red lips. Heavy. A mask.

When she walked out, Chloe whistled. "Whoa. Dark Iris activated."

"It's for survival," Iris said. Her eyes were cold in the mirror.

She walked out of the apartment and into the Queens night. The wind was still cold, but she didn't feel it. She was going to war.