I was the ultimate trophy wife, a polished ornament in Francisco Zimmerman's billionaire empire. For three years, I perfected the "Zimmerman Wife Smile," playing the role of the devoted partner while smoothing the Egyptian cotton of his shirts. The illusion shattered when I stood outside his study and heard him laughing with his mistress, Annalise. "She's just a vase that only knows how to smile," Francisco's voice was cold, devoid of any warmth. "As long as I pay the maintenance fees on time, she stays obedient." I walked out that night with nothing but a canvas bag and the clothes on my back. But Francisco wasn't finished with his "asset." He froze my bank accounts and used his massive influence to blacklist me from every interior design firm in New York. He tracked my phone, watching me struggle from the shadows, waiting for me to starve so I would crawl back to his mansion. He even showed up at the dive bar where I was playing piano for rent money, mocking my desperation. "You have technique, but no heart," he sneered, tossing a silver coin into my tip jar as if I were a beggar. "You're hollow, Iris. Just like your pride." I couldn't believe this was the same man whose life I had saved during a bloody night in Macau. To him, I wasn't a wife; I was a stock price that needed stabilizing. The more I fought for my independence, the tighter he pulled the net, determined to break my spirit until I had no choice but to return to his gilded cage. Then, the morning sickness hit. I realized I wasn't just carrying my own life anymore-I was carrying his heir. If Francisco found out, he would never let us go; he would turn my child into another "performance bonus" for his brand. Looking at the sonogram, I knew a divorce would never be enough to escape a man who thought he owned the world. "I'm not going back," I whispered, staring at his yacht moored in the harbor. "To save this baby, Iris Potter has to die."
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.
Chapter 1 1
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Chapter 2 2
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Chapter 3 3
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Chapter 4 4
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Chapter 5 5
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Chapter 6 6
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Chapter 7 7
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Chapter 8 8
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Chapter 9 9
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Chapter 10 10
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Chapter 11 11
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Chapter 12 12
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Chapter 13 13
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Chapter 14 14
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Chapter 15 15
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Chapter 16 16
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Chapter 17 17
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Chapter 18 18
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Chapter 19 19
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Chapter 20 20
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Chapter 21 21
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Chapter 22 22
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Chapter 23 23
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Chapter 24 24
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Chapter 25 25
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Chapter 26 26
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Chapter 27 27
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Chapter 28 28
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Chapter 29 29
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Chapter 30 30
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Chapter 31 31
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Chapter 32 32
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Chapter 33 33
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Chapter 34 34
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Chapter 35 35
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Chapter 36 36
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Chapter 37 37
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Chapter 38 38
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Chapter 39 39
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Chapter 40 40
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