Her dorm room was a disaster zone of cardboard boxes.

"So you're really doing it?"

Sarah, her roommate, was leaning against the doorframe. Her voice dripped with fake pity. "Marrying the loan shark? Congrats, Amelie. Aim low, shoot lower."

She ignored her. She was taping a box of textbooks.

There was a knock on the door. Sharp. Three raps.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "Probably the RA."

She opened the door. She froze.

Campbell filled the doorway. He had taken off his jacket. His dress shirt was rolled up to the elbows. His forearms were corded with muscle.

Sarah's mouth opened. "Who are you?"

"I'm here for my wife."

He stepped past her. He didn't even look at her. He walked straight to her.

Her face heated up. His wife. It sounded heavy. Real.

"Is this it?" he asked, gesturing to the two battered suitcases and three boxes.

She nodded: "I'm leaving the furniture."

He lifted two boxes as if they were filled with feathers.

Sarah was staring. Her eyes were wide, hungry. "Amelie, you hired a mover?"

Campbell stopped. He turned slowly.

"I'm her husband," he said. His voice was polite, but his eyes were ice. "And by the way, the three months of rent you owe her? Transfer it by tonight. Or my lawyer will be in touch."

Sarah went pale.

She looked at Campbell, shocked. She had never told him about the rent.

They walked down to the car. She asked: "How did you know about the rent?"

He paused while loading the trunk. "She looked guilty. Just a guess."

She nodded. He was smart. Street smart.

They got in the car. She looked at the marriage license again.

"Dunlap," she whispered. "Like the family that built the library."

He started the engine. "Common name. Like Smith."

"But your first name is Campbell. Like the CEO."

"My parents were ambitious," he said smoothly. "They named me after him. Hoped some of the money would rub off. It's a lot of pressure to live up to."

She smiled. It was a sad, funny story. It made him human.

They drove to the Upper East Side. The buildings got taller, the doormen more frequent. He pulled up to a pre-war limestone building that screamed old money.

A doorman rushed forward. He saw Campbell. He almost saluted.

Campbell lowered the window. He gave the man a look. A sharp, cutting glance.

"Welcome back, Mr. C," the doorman said. "Just... Mr. C."

"Rent must be insane here," she typed.

"Company housing," Campbell said. "Perk of the job."

They took the elevator. There were only two buttons. Lobby and Penthouse.

"We're going to the penthouse?"

"It's subdivided," he said quickly. "Into small units. I just rent one of the rooms."

The doors opened.

Marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Minimalist furniture that looked like art.

She gasped. "This is a 'small unit'?"

"It's... efficient," he said.

"I have to go into the office," Campbell said. "Make yourself at home. Your room is down the hall to the left."

She nodded. She needed space to process this. The 'room' was bigger than her entire dorm. It had an en-suite bathroom with a soaking tub.

Campbell disappeared.

He didn't go to an office. He went to the study at the far end of the apartment. He locked the door.

Three men were waiting for him. Or rather, waiting on the large screens mounted on the wall.

"So," Preston said, swirling a glass of amber liquid. "You actually did it. Civil Union?"

Wyatt, the one with the restless eyes, tapped a keyboard. A feed popped up on the side screen. It showed the living room. It showed her.

She was dusting a vase, moving with careful, terrified precision.

"That's her?" Wyatt asked. "The one you've been tracking for ten years?"

Campbell loosened his tie. He looked exhausted. "She is Mrs. Dunlap now."

"She's a patient, Cam," Xavier said. He was the doctor of the group. "Selective mutism. PTSD. You're taking advantage."

"I'm protecting her," Campbell snapped. "She doesn't talk. She's safe. She won't leak to the press."

"Bullshit," Preston said. "You married her because you're obsessed. Does she know you own the building? Does she know you own the bank that holds her aunt's mortgage?"

"No," Campbell said. "And she won't. To her, I'm just a guy with a decent job."

On the screen, she stopped moving. She was staring at a painting. A Rothko.

"Shit," Campbell muttered. "I forgot to cover the Rothko. She'll know it's real."

"She thinks it's a print," Wyatt said. "Look, she's checking for dust."

She wasn't checking for dust.

She was looking at the frame. There was a tiny disturbance in the air. A faint heat signature. She ran her finger along the edge.

Ventilation for electronics.

A camera.

She didn't react. She kept her face blank. She dusted the frame and walked away.

She went to her room. She locked the door. She opened her laptop. It was an old, heavy machine, but the software inside was military-grade.

She logged into the forum. The Surgeon.

A new message blinked.

Client: C.D. Symptoms: Severe migraine, resistance to triptans. Offer: 50k.

C.D.

Campbell Dunlap?

No. Too obvious. Probably just a coincidence.

She typed her reply. Accepted. Send medical history. No face-to-face.

In the study, Campbell's phone pinged.

"The Surgeon took the job," Wyatt said.

Campbell rubbed his temples. The pain was starting. A rhythmic thumping behind his eyes.

"Good," he said. "Wire the money."

He had no idea he was wiring fifty thousand dollars to the girl in the next room.

The card lay on the kitchen counter. It was black titanium.

Buy a dress. We see Lydia tonight.

The note was written in his sharp, angular handwriting.

She picked up the card. It was heavy. A Centurion card. She had heard of these. They were for billionaires.

"He's insane," she whispered. "This has to be a high-risk line of credit." Her mind raced, trying to fit this piece of data into the puzzle of the 'middle manager' he was pretending to be. It didn't fit.

She took the subway to Fifth Avenue. Campbell had texted her the address of a boutique. Not a department store. A maison.

She walked in. The air conditioning was set to a temperature that felt like money.

A sales assistant looked up from her phone. She saw her grey wool dress. She saw her canvas tote bag. She looked back at her phone.

She walked to the racks. She found a black dress. Simple. Elegant. She looked at the tag. $3,000.

She almost dropped it. She squinted. Maybe it was $300? No. Three zeros.

She tried it on. It fit like a second skin. It made her look... formidable.

She walked to the counter. The assistant sighed.

"We don't do layaway," she said.

She pulled out the black card.

Her eyes widened. She actually stopped breathing for a second. She looked from the card to her, then back to the card.

"Ms... Dunlap?" Her voice went up three octaves.

"Just run it," she whispered. "Before it declines."

She suppressed a laugh. "It won't decline, ma'am."

She swiped it. The machine beeped. Approved.

Suddenly, the manager was there. "Champagne? Truffles? We can close the store for you."

"No," she said. She grabbed the bag. "I have to go."

She ran out. They were too eager. It felt like a trap.

Back at the apartment, she Googled the card.

Centurion Card: Invite only. Initiation fee $10,000.

She stared at the screen.

This wasn't a scam. It was proof. He was lying about everything. She closed the laptop, her mind cold and clear. She would play along. For now.

Campbell came home an hour later. He looked tired.

"Did you get the dress?"

She held out the card. "Cam, you have to cut this up. These companies prey on people like you. The interest rates must be criminal."

He took the card. He looked at it. He looked at her.

For a moment, his face went blank. Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're right," he said gravely. "I... I got carried away. I wanted to impress you."

A terrible actor, she thought. But she nodded, playing the part of the concerned, naive wife. "I'll pay you back for the dress," she said. "Put it on my tab."

He looked at her with a softness that made her knees weak.

"Okay," he said. "But tonight, you have to wear it. And you have to act like you don't care about the price. We need to bluff Lydia."

"Act like a rich snob?"

"Exactly."