The faculty lounge at the university was a sanctuary of beige armchairs and the smell of burnt espresso. Antoinette sat by the window, staring into the foam of her latte.

Heidy Hendrix, a Psychology professor with wild red hair and a penchant for oversized jewelry, sat opposite her.

"You look... better," Heidy noted. She eyed the glow in Antoinette's cheeks. It was the first time in months Antoinette didn't look like she had slept in a dumpster.

Antoinette smiled. It was a secret, smug smile.

"I think I met someone."

Heidy raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

Antoinette leaned forward. "It was... intense. He held my hands. He told me I was breathtaking. He said my ex was a fool."

She omitted the part about the contract. She omitted the timer. In her mind, the memory had already been rewritten. The payment wasn't a fee; it was a gift.

Heidy frowned. "Annie, be careful. Was this... the proxy?"

Antoinette waved her hand dismissively. "Technically. But he looked at me, Heidy. He cried. I saw it."

Heidy sighed. "Men like that are actors, Annie. They mirror what you want. It's a classic case of transference, you're projecting a savior archetype onto him because he's a blank slate."

"No," Antoinette insisted. "You didn't see his eyes."

Just then, movement outside the window caught her eye. Antoinette gasped. She pointed a manicured finger at the glass.

"That's him."

Heidy turned. Through the glass, she saw a young man walking down the campus path. He was wearing a faded hoodie and carrying a stack of library books. He looked tired.

"The student?" Heidy asked. "He looks like a broke puppy."

"He's struggling," Antoinette said, her voice softening. "That's why he works. He has so much potential."

As they watched, Kellen stopped. A student dropped a pen in front of him. Kellen picked it up and handed it back with a polite smile.

"See?" Antoinette said triumphantly. "He's naturally kind."

Heidy shrugged. "Maybe. Or maybe he likes older women. You are a catch, Annie."

The seed was planted. It took root in Antoinette's brain instantly. Her money wasn't buying his time. It was supporting his dreams. She was his patron. His muse.

She pulled out her phone. She typed a text.

I need you this afternoon. Personal shopping.

Outside, Kellen felt his phone vibrate. He stopped walking. He checked the screen. He sighed. He typed a reply.

My rate for shopping is double, Ms. Lowe.

Antoinette read the text and laughed. A girlish sound.

"He's playing hard to get," she said. "Cute."

She opened her banking app and transferred two thousand dollars.

Outside, Kellen saw the notification. His eyes widened. He looked at the phone, then up at the sky.

"Guess I'm a personal shopper now," he muttered.

Antoinette stood up, energized. "I'm going to dress him up."

Heidy watched her go, shaking her head. "This won't end well."

The boutique was on 5th Avenue, a temple of glass and chrome. Kellen entered, feeling the blast of air conditioning and the immediate, withering judgment of the security guard.

Antoinette was already there. She was holding a flute of champagne. She waved him over.

"Don't slouch," she said. "You're with me."

She began pulling items off the racks. Suits. Cashmere sweaters. Italian leather shoes.

"Try this. And this. No, that color is too poor on you."

Kellen went to the changing room. His arms were full of fabric that cost more than his entire life's earnings. He checked the tag on a gray sweater. $800.

"Insanity," he whispered.

He put it on. He stepped out.

The sweater fit perfectly. It clung to his shoulders and tapered at his waist.

Antoinette stopped drinking. Her eyes darkened. It wasn't just approval. It was possession. She walked over to him. She reached out and adjusted the collar. Her fingers lingered on his neck, warm and claiming.

"Much better," she purred. "Now you look like you belong to someone."

Kellen caught the phrasing. Belong to. A warning bell rang in his head. He cataloged it as a sign of escalating obsession, but his face remained a mask of polite appreciation.

"You have excellent taste, Ms. Lowe," he said, keeping his smile fixed.

She bought everything. Five bags full.

"These are for you," she said as the clerk handed over the black glossy bags. "Keep them."

Kellen blinked. "I couldn't possibly..."

"I insist," she cut him off. "I don't want you seen in rags. It reflects poorly on me."

Kellen mentally calculated the resale value on eBay. Used cashmere from this brand retained roughly 60% of its value if listed within the week. This was a four-thousand-dollar bonus.

"Thank you, Antoinette," he said, dropping the 'Ms. Lowe' deliberately.

Antoinette beamed.

They walked out onto the street. She grabbed his arm, parading him past the other shoppers. Kellen played the part. He carried the bags. He opened doors.

Suddenly, Antoinette stopped. She swayed. Her face went pale.

"I feel dizzy," she murmured. "The champagne... empty stomach..."

Kellen supported her weight instantly. He didn't let her fall.

"Let's get you a cab," he said.

He flagged down a yellow taxi with a sharp whistle. He opened the door and helped her in. She scooted over, patting the seat next to her.

Kellen closed the door.

"I'll take the bus with the bags," he lied smoothly. "Save you the detour."

Antoinette nodded, grateful for his "consideration."

"I'll see you soon, Kellen," she whispered, using his first name as if it were a secret between them.

Kellen tapped the roof of the cab. "Go."

The taxi drove off. Kellen stood on the sidewalk, holding ten thousand dollars worth of clothes. He let out a long breath. He turned and walked toward the bus stop.