Chapter 7
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."
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