The coffee shop on the edge of the university campus smelled of burnt beans and damp wool. Kellen sat in a corner booth, nursing a black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The caffeine was doing little to combat the fatigue settling behind his eyes, but he couldn't afford a refill.

He refreshed the app on his phone. The address for the proxy gig was a penthouse apartment three blocks away. The listing details were sparse, but the pay rate was triple the standard hourly wage. Hazard pay usually meant heavy lifting or illegal substances. Kellen hoped for heavy lifting.

He finished the dregs of the coffee, the bitter taste coating his tongue, and stood up. He adjusted his jacket. It was still damp from the rain at the Parker estate.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of a door made of dark, solid wood. He could hear sound coming from inside. It wasn't music. It was the distinct, shattering crash of porcelain hitting a wall.

Kellen hesitated. He checked his reflection in the brass number plate-Apartment 4B. He smoothed his hair, practicing his empathetic listener face. He softened his eyes, relaxed his jaw, and tilted his head slightly to the side.

He knocked. Three sharp, polite raps.

The noise inside stopped instantly. Silence stretched for ten seconds. Then, the lock clicked. The door was ripped open.

Antoinette Lowe stood there. Kellen recognized her immediately. She was a tenured professor in the Economics department, known for failing half her class and publishing papers that terrified policymakers. Now, she looked like a train wreck. Her blonde hair was a tangled bird's nest. Her mascara had run down her cheeks in black rivers. She was holding a half-empty wine glass in one hand and gripping the doorframe with the other.

"Who are you?" she snapped. Her voice was hoarse.

"Kellen Lawrence," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "The agency sent me. For the rehearsal?"

Antoinette stared at him. Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked him up and down, analyzing him like a fluctuating stock market graph. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her nails digging into his sleeve through the fabric.

"You're late," she hissed, pulling him inside.

Kellen stumbled into the foyer. The apartment was massive, decorated in minimalist whites and grays, but it looked like a war zone. White roses were scattered across the floor, their heads torn off. A wedding cake topper lay decapitated near the coat rack. Shards of a vase glittered on the hardwood floor.

Antoinette dragged him into the living room. She pointed a shaking finger at a pile of fabric on the floor.

"Put it on," she commanded.

Kellen looked at the heap. It was a black tuxedo. A Tom Ford. He did a quick mental appraisal-five thousand dollars, easily.

"Where can I change?" he asked.

She waved her hand vaguely toward a hallway. "Just put it on. And hurry up. The silence is too loud."

Kellen walked to the bathroom. He locked the door and stripped off his damp suit. He pulled on the tuxedo pants. They were a little loose at the waist, but the length was perfect. The jacket fit his shoulders as if it had been tailored for him. It was a creepy coincidence. He looked in the mirror. He looked like a groom. He looked like money.

He stepped out, adjusting the onyx cufflinks.

Antoinette was sitting on the white sofa, refilling her glass. She looked up as he entered. Her hand froze. Her expression shifted from drunken anger to a haunted, hollow grief. Her lower lip trembled.

"You look just like him," she whispered. "The bastard."

She stood up suddenly, her movement jerky. She grabbed a velvet throw pillow from the couch and hurled it at his face.

"Why did you leave?!" she screamed.

Kellen saw the pillow coming. His reflexes, honed from dodging foster brothers and angry landlords, kicked in. He could have batted it away. Instead, he let it hit him square in the chest. He stumbled back a step, feigning impact.

Antoinette advanced on him. She threw a book next. It missed his head by an inch, thudding against the wall.

"You promised! You said forever!" she yelled, her voice breaking into a sob.

Kellen stood perfectly still. He clasped his hands in front of him. He became a target. A vessel. He let her scream. He let her project every ounce of her pain onto him. This was the job. He wasn't Kellen Lawrence right now. He was the Ghost of the Groom.

Antoinette ran out of things to throw. She collapsed onto the rug, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with violent sobs.

Kellen waited a beat. He walked over to the side table and picked up a box of tissues. He approached her slowly, announcing his presence with heavy footsteps so he wouldn't startle her. He knelt down, keeping a respectful distance. He offered the box.

She slapped it out of his hand. The box skittered across the floor.

"Get out!" she choked out.

Kellen didn't move. He retrieved the box and placed it on the floor, slightly closer to her this time. He sat back on his heels, waiting.

Antoinette looked up. Her face was a mess of tears and snot. She glared at him with pure hatred, but beneath it was a desperate need for him to stay.

"You're just here for the money, aren't you?" she spat. "You don't care. You're just a hired body."

Kellen met her gaze. He didn't flinch.

"I am whatever you need me to be, Ms. Lowe," he said. His voice was flat, professional, devoid of judgment.

Antoinette stared at him. She let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like glass breaking. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"Good," she said. "Then pour me another drink. And stand there. Just stand there and look guilty."

Kellen stood up. He walked to the bar cart. He poured the wine. He calculated his overtime rate as the liquid filled the glass.

The following evening, the air in Antoinette's apartment was heavy with the smell of lemon polish and lingering resentment. Kellen stood in the kitchen, his posture perfect. He had arrived five minutes early.

Antoinette walked in. She was sober today, but her eyes were cold, hard chips of ice. She was holding a black garment bag. She shoved it into his chest.

"The tuxedo was for yesterday," she said. Her voice was crisp, academic. "Today, you serve a different function."

Kellen unzipped the bag. He stared. Inside was a black dress with white lace trim. A French Maid costume. It came with a headband that had small, white cat ears attached to it.

Kellen paused. His internal dignity let out a small, dying scream. He looked at the flimsy fabric. He looked at Antoinette. She was waiting for him to refuse. She was waiting for him to storm out so she could feel justified in her belief that everyone leaves.

"Is there a bonus for the ears?" Kellen asked. His face was a mask of professional curiosity.

Antoinette blinked. She hadn't expected that. She reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of bills. She threw them on the marble counter.

"Yes. Five hundred."

Kellen nodded. He took the bag and the cash. He walked to the bathroom.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The dress was tight across his chest. The skirt hit mid-thigh. He placed the cat ears on his head. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a joke.

"For Grandpa Artie," he whispered to his reflection.

He walked out. He didn't tug at the hem. He didn't hunch his shoulders. He walked with the same confident stride he used when wearing a suit.

Antoinette was sitting at the kitchen island. She looked him up and down, a sneer curling her lip.

"Cook dinner," she commanded. "Something French. And don't burn it."

Kellen moved to the stove. He tied an apron over the dress. He picked up a chef's knife. The weight of the handle felt good in his hand. He found an onion and began to chop.

Antoinette watched him. She expected clumsiness. She expected him to be a pretty boy with soft hands.

Kellen diced the onion with machine-gun speed. The blade moved in a blur, the tip never leaving the cutting board. Tap-tap-tap-tap. It was a rhythm he had learned in the back of a diner when he was sixteen, working off the books to pay for his foster brother's inhaler.

Antoinette stood up. She walked behind him. As he turned to the fridge, she stuck her foot out. It was subtle, a petty attempt to make him stumble.

Kellen saw the movement in his peripheral vision. He didn't look down. He simply adjusted his stride, stepping over her foot with the grace of a dancer. He balanced a tray of vegetables in one hand, not spilling a single pea.

"You're surprisingly graceful for a gigolo," she sneered.

"I aim to please, Ma'am," Kellen said. His voice was monotone.

He sautéed the chicken. He deglazed the pan with wine. The smell of Coq au Vin filled the kitchen, rich and savory. Antoinette's stomach growled. It was a loud, human sound that cut through her arrogance. She flushed.

Kellen plated the food. He arranged the chicken and vegetables with artistic precision, wiping the rim of the plate with a clean cloth. He set it before her.

She took a bite. She chewed slowly, trying to find a fault. Her eyes widened slightly. It was delicious. It was better than the restaurant she had gone to last week.

"It's too salty," she lied. She pushed the plate away.

"I will note that for next time," Kellen said. He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his apron and scribbled a fake note.

"Clean the floor," she said. "While I eat."

Kellen put the notebook away. He got a bucket and a rag. He got down on his hands and knees. The cold tile bit into his skin. He began to scrub. He focused on the pattern of the grout. He analyzed the brand of floor wax-it was cheap, likely supermarket brand, inconsistent with the rest of the apartment. A sign of neglect, he noted. A crack in her perfect facade.

Antoinette ate the "salty" food. She watched him crawl on the floor in the dress. She wanted to feel powerful. She wanted to feel like she was in control. But watching him work, seeing the focused, unembarrassed set of his jaw, she felt a strange frustration. He wasn't breaking. He wasn't humiliated. He was just... working.

She broke off a piece of crusty bread and dropped it on the floor.

"Oops," she said.

Kellen stopped scrubbing. He looked at the bread. He looked at her shoes-Manolo Blahniks. He picked up the bread.

"No trouble at all," he said.

He put the bread in his pocket and continued scrubbing. Antoinette gripped her fork until her knuckles turned white. She couldn't touch him. He was armored in indifference.

The study was lined with books that smelled of dust and intellectual superiority. Antoinette dragged Kellen into the room by his wrist. She had finished the wine and opened a bottle of scotch.

"Sit," she ordered, pointing to a wooden stool in the center of the room.

Kellen sat. He removed the cat ears, placing them on his lap.

Antoinette paced back and forth, holding a thick textbook titled Advanced Macroeconomic Theory. She slammed it shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

"You're probably too stupid to understand this," she slurred. "You're just a body. A pretty, empty shell. But I need to practice my lecture."

She opened the book and began to read aloud. She was talking about fiscal multipliers and government spending. Her words were running together. She was getting angry at the text, angry at the numbers.

She stumbled over an equation. She stared at the page, her brow furrowing.

"This is wrong," she muttered. "Why doesn't it balance?"

She looked at Kellen. His blank face seemed to mock her. She grabbed a heavy whiteboard marker and threw it at him.

"Pay attention!" she screamed.

Kellen tilted his head to the left. The marker whizzed past his ear and hit the wall with a plastic thwack. He didn't blink.

Antoinette marched up to him. "Explain it to me! Tell me what the Keynesian multiplier is!"

Kellen looked at her. He knew the answer. He had taken a free online course from MIT two years ago, studying at the public library until they kicked him out at closing time. He knew the formula better than he knew his own social security number.

He cleared his throat. He looked at the floor, feigning confusion.

"Is it... perhaps... related to how money circulates, Ma'am? Like... one dollar spent becomes someone else's income?"

Antoinette paused. She blinked, her brain trying to process his answer through the fog of alcohol.

"Lucky guess," she muttered.

She turned back to the whiteboard. She started writing furiously. She made a mistake in the third line of the calculation. A simple sign error. It would ruin the entire proof.

Kellen watched. His fingers twitched. He wanted to correct her. It was a physical itch in his brain.

"Ms. Lowe?" he asked softly.

"What?" she snapped, not turning around.

"I think... didn't you say the marginal propensity to consume was positive?"

Antoinette stopped. She looked at the board. She saw the minus sign she had written. She erased it aggressively with her thumb.

"Obviously," she said. "I was testing you."

She turned around, swaying slightly. She lost her balance. Her heel caught on the edge of the rug. She tipped backward.

Kellen was off the stool instantly. He moved with a speed that belied his relaxed posture. He caught her by the elbows, steadying her before she could hit the bookshelf.

For a second, they were close. Too close. She smelled of expensive scotch and despair. He could feel the heat radiating off her skin. She looked up at him, her eyes unfocused. In the dim light of the study, with his dark hair falling over his forehead, he looked like the man who had left her at the altar.

She raised her hand. Her palm was open, ready to slap the ghost she saw in front of her.

Kellen didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He stared her down, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Do it, his eyes seemed to say. Add it to the bill.

Antoinette's hand hovered in the air. It trembled. Then, it dropped to her side. The anger drained out of her, leaving her empty. Tears welled up in her eyes again.

"Class dismissed," she whispered.

She slid out of his grip and sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest. Kellen stood over her, the textbook in his hand. He glanced at the page she had been struggling with, memorizing the next chapter's primary thesis for himself.