Revival of an Elite the Fiery Wife Rules

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."