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."

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."

The air at the table solidified. Iris stood rigid, her knuckles white as she gripped the fabric of her dress.

"Francisco, don't be boorish," Annalise interjected. She reached out and touched his hand, her eyes flashing with possessiveness. She didn't want him looking at another woman, even a servant. "Maybe she has a scar? Or a deformity? Don't scare the poor artist."

Francisco didn't look at Annalise. He kept his eyes on Iris. That familiarity was itching at the back of his brain, a splinter he couldn't pull out.

Iris cleared her throat. She dropped her voice, making it raspy, guttural. "Apologies, sir. I am recovering from a... highly contagious flu. For your safety, the mask stays on."

Muller recoiled slightly, pressing his napkin to his mouth. "Oh. Good heavens. Keep it on, by all means."

Francisco lost interest instantly. He turned away, his lip curling in disgust. "If you're sick, you shouldn't be spreading germs in a place like this. Unprofessional."

Iris felt a laugh bubbling up in her chest, bitter and sharp. This is the man I loved.

Annalise, sensing an opportunity to play the benevolent queen, opened her clutch. "Well, you played decently, despite the illness."

She pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. It was at least a thousand dollars. She held it out between two manicured fingers, like one would offer a treat to a dog.

"Take it," Annalise said. "Consider it medical expenses. Francisco is always so strict."

It was a humiliation. A public charity.

Iris looked at the money. The old Iris would have walked away. The old Iris would have cried.

The new Iris saw rent. The new Iris saw food.

She reached out. Her hand was steady. She took the cash.

"Thank you, Madam," Iris said, bowing slightly. "For your generosity. I wish you both... a lifetime of what you deserve."

Francisco's head snapped up. The tone was wrong. It wasn't grateful. It was mocking.

Iris turned and walked away. Her stride was long, confident.

She sat back at the piano. She didn't play a sad song. She played a jaunty, upbeat ragtime tune. It was jarring. It was a middle finger in musical form.

Francisco ground his teeth. The happy music felt like it was laughing at him.

When dinner ended, the group stood up. They walked past the piano toward the exit.

Francisco stopped. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a coin. He tossed it into the glass tip jar on the piano.

Clink.

"You have technique," Francisco said, looking down at her. "But no heart. It's hollow. Just like my ex-wife."

Iris's hands slammed onto the keys. A discordant, ugly chord rang out, silencing the room for a second.

Francisco smirked. He had gotten under her skin. He felt like he had won. He turned and walked out, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him.

Iris stared at his back, her vision blurring with rage.

She reached into the jar and pulled out the coin. It was a rare, antique silver dollar. He probably didn't even know what it was. Just pocket change to him.

Marco rushed over. "Are you okay? He's a shark, that one."

Iris gripped the silver coin in her fist until the metal bit into her palm.

"I got what I needed," she said. "A reminder that he isn't worth saving."