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.

Kellen carried Antoinette to the bathroom. She was semi-conscious, mumbling incoherent strings of numbers and insults. He set her down gently on the closed lid of the toilet.

He wet a washcloth with warm water. He wrung it out, his movements efficient and clinical. He knelt in front of her and began to wipe the smeared makeup from her face. The black mascara came away, revealing pale skin and dark circles under her eyes.

"No one stays," she slurred, her head lolling to the side. "I'm too much. I'm always too much."

Kellen paused. He checked his watch. It was a cheap digital Casio. He pressed a button on the side. Beep.

"Contract Clause 4B," he murmured to himself. "Ten-Minute Affirmation of Love."

He took a deep breath. He closed his eyes for a second, flipping a switch in his brain. When he opened them, the cold indifference was gone. His eyes were soft, pooling with a warm, liquid adoration. His jaw relaxed. He leaned in, his presence becoming a protective blanket.

He took her cold, limp hands in his.

"Antoinette," he said. His voice dropped an octave. It was husky, intimate. "Look at me."

She opened her eyes, struggling to focus. She saw him. She saw the way he was looking at her-like she was the only source of light in the universe.

"You are the most breathtaking woman I have ever seen," he lied. The words flowed like honey.

She shook her head weakly. "No..."

"Yes," Kellen insisted. He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheekbone. "He was a fool to leave you. He was blind. You are brilliant. You are fire."

Antoinette leaned into his touch. She was starving for this. She drank his words like water in a desert.

He continued. He improvised a monologue about her intelligence, her strength, the way her mind worked. He used generic romantic tropes, but he delivered them with the conviction of a Shakespearean actor.

Antoinette started to cry, but it wasn't the ugly, angry crying of before. It was soft. It was a release.

"Do you mean it?" she whispered.

Kellen looked her dead in the eye. "With all my heart."

He held her gaze. He counted the seconds in his head. Five hundred eighty... five hundred ninety...

The timer on his watch vibrated silently against his wrist.

Kellen stood up immediately. The warmth vanished from his face as if a light switch had been flicked off. His posture straightened. His voice returned to its flat, professional tenor.

"Session complete, Ms. Lowe. I will help you to bed."

Antoinette blinked, confused. The sudden withdrawal of affection was like a physical slap. She reached for him, but he was already moving, pulling her up by the arm.

He guided her to the bedroom. He pulled back the silk duvet and helped her in. He placed a glass of water and two aspirin on the nightstand-liability protection. If she woke up with a headache, she couldn't sue him for negligence.

Antoinette grabbed his hand as he turned to leave.

"Stay?" she pleaded.

"Overnight fees were not discussed in the contract," Kellen stated coldly.

He pulled his hand away. He turned off the light.

He walked out of the bedroom and into the hallway. He wiped his hand on his pants, scrubbing the skin as if trying to clean off the lie he had just sold her.

He exited the apartment. The cool night air hit his face. He took a deep breath, expelling the scent of her perfume from his lungs.

"Psychopaths, all of them," he muttered.

He walked to the bus stop, checking his banking app again. The money from the Parker termination had cleared. The money from Antoinette was pending. He was safe. For now.