The Cadillac Escalade smelled of leather and new car spray. The windows were tinted so dark that the streetlights outside were just blurry streaks of gray.

Christopher sat in the back, squeezed between two silent guards. Bruno was in the passenger seat.

They didn't speak. Christopher didn't ask where they were going. He felt the car turn onto the Long Island Expressway. The centrifugal force told him they were heading east. Back to the Gold Coast. Back to the cage.

Forty minutes later, the tires crunched on gravel.

The Mitchell Estate loomed in the darkness. It was a sprawling mansion that looked like it belonged in a gothic horror novel.

They dragged him out of the car and through the service entrance. They marched him straight to the library.

Hillary was sitting in her father's high-backed leather chair. The room was dimly lit by a green banker's lamp. She held a glass of whiskey in her hand. The amber liquid swirled as her hand trembled slightly.

"Sit," she said. She didn't look up.

Christopher sat in the chair opposite her. He made himself small. He clasped his hands between his knees.

"Hillary," he started, his voice shaky. "I don't understand."

She threw a folder onto the mahogany desk. It slid across the polished surface and stopped at his fingertips.

"Renewal contract," she said. "Double the salary. Five million a year."

Christopher looked at the folder. He didn't open it. He saw the text on the cover page. Indefinite Term.

"No," he whispered.

Hillary's head snapped up. Her eyes were red-rimmed. "Excuse me?"

"The contract ended. I did my job. I... I can't do it anymore."

Hillary stood up. She hurled her whiskey glass at the fireplace. It shattered against the brick, the sound exploding in the quiet room.

"You don't get to say no!" She screamed. "I made you! You were nothing before me. A waiter! A nobody!"

Christopher stared at the wet spot on the carpet where a shard of glass had landed. He didn't flinch. He knew why she was desperate. It wasn't love. It was public relations.

"I have a life," he lied.

"You have nothing!" Hillary walked around the desk. She loomed over him. "Calhoun hasn't signed the NDA yet. My father's stock is shaky. If the press finds out you left me the night of the Gala, the narrative spins out of control. I look weak."

The door to the library opened.

Harrison Mitchell walked in. He was wearing a silk robe, but his hair was perfectly combed. He looked like an older, more dangerous version of Hillary.

"Daddy," Hillary said, her voice dropping to a whine. "He's refusing."

Harrison walked over to Christopher. He placed a hand on the back of Christopher's chair. It felt heavy.

"Chris," Harrison said, his voice warm but hollow. "We're not unreasonable people. We just need a buffer period. Three months. Until the quarterly earnings report is out."

Christopher's mind clicked. Three months. That aligned perfectly with the Harris contract. And if he signed, maybe he could negotiate an advance. He needed money to live while the other five million was frozen.

He could use this.

He looked up at Harrison. He let the fear drain out of his face, replaced by a greedy glint.

"Double isn't enough," Christopher said.

Hillary gasped. "You greedy little-"

"Triple," Christopher said. "And I want my days free. I'll sleep here. I'll do the dinners. But from 8 AM to 6 PM, I'm off the clock. No questions asked."

Harrison studied him. He saw what he wanted to see: a poor boy trying to squeeze a few more dollars out of the rich man.

"Done," Harrison said. "Triple pay. Paid monthly. But you are back in the house by 6 PM sharp. And you wear the ring."

Harrison reached into his pocket and pulled out the platinum ring Christopher had dropped at the museum. He set it on the table.

Christopher looked at the ring. It was a shackle.

He picked it up and slid it back onto his finger. It felt cold and heavy.

"I need a car," Christopher said. "And a driver to drop me at the train station every morning."

"Fine," Hillary snapped. "Where are you going every day anyway?"

"School," Christopher said.

"School?" Hillary laughed. It was a cruel, barking sound. "You? You didn't even finish community college."

"I'm taking... extension courses," Christopher mumbled, looking down. "Self-improvement."

"Pathetic," Hillary sneered. "Trying to be something you're not."

"Go to bed, Chris," Harrison said, dismissing him. "Guest room. Not the master."

Christopher stood up. He walked out of the library. His legs felt heavy, but his mind was clear.

He went to the guest room on the second floor. He closed the door and locked it.

He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his shoe. He pried the heel open with his thumbnail. There was a small, black disk inside. The tracker Bruno had mentioned.

He took it to the bathroom and flushed it down the toilet.

He had secure housing. He had transportation. He had cash flow.

Now he just had to survive two different lives at the same time.

The morning air on the Ivy League campus was crisp, smelling of old leaves and privilege. Christopher pulled the hood of his gray sweatshirt up. It was a cheap Fruit of the Loom hoodie, pillowy and slightly faded-the uniform of the invisible.

He stood outside the main library, holding a cardboard carrier with four Starbucks cups.

His hands burned. The cups were hot. He shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"There he is," a voice chirped.

Brielle Harris came down the stone steps. She was surrounded by her court-three girls who looked like clones of her, all blonde hair and Lululemon leggings.

Brielle looked perfect. Not a hair out of place, her makeup subtle but expensive. She stopped in front of him and didn't even look at his face. She just reached for the cup marked B.

"Oat milk, two pumps sugar-free vanilla, extra hot?" she asked.

"Yes, Brielle," Christopher said, forcing a dopey smile onto his face. "Just how you like it."

One of the clones, a girl named Madison, giggled. "God, Brielle, he's like a lost puppy. Does he follow you everywhere?"

Brielle took a sip, her blue eyes darting to Christopher with a mix of annoyance and something else-ownership.

"My mom hired him," Brielle sighed dramatically, waving a hand. "Some sort of 'safety escort' program for the semester. It's so cringe. She thinks I can't handle myself."

She didn't know the specifics of the contract, only that he was paid to be there. She treated him like an embarrassing accessory she was forced to wear.

"Come on," Brielle commanded.

They walked toward the lecture hall. Christopher trailed five paces behind, the designated distance for a servant.

They entered the large amphitheater. It was packed. Brielle and her friends marched to the middle row. Christopher headed for the back, near the door.

As he walked up the aisle, a leg shot out.

It was Preston Hayes. Captain of the lacrosse team. His father owned half of Connecticut.

Christopher saw the leg. His reflexes, honed by years of dodging foster brothers and angry drunks, screamed at him to step over it.

But the role required him to fall.

Christopher caught his toe on Preston's sneaker. He pitched forward.

He twisted his body in mid-air. Not to save himself, but to save the coffee carrier. He hit the floor hard. His knees slammed into the thin carpet. His elbow cracked against the leg of a desk.

But the coffees didn't spill.

The room erupted in laughter.

"Watch it, loser!" Preston jeered. "Tripping over your own feet?"

Christopher scrambled up, clutching the coffees. "Sorry! I'm sorry!"

He looked frantic. His face turned red.

Brielle turned around in her seat. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at Christopher, then at Preston.

"Preston," Brielle's voice cut through the laughter. "Shut up."

The room went quiet.

"Aww, defending your pet?" Preston smirked.

"He's holding my coffee," Brielle said coldly. "And that coffee costs more than your GPA. If he spills it, you're licking it up."

Preston's smirk vanished. He muttered something and turned back to his phone.

Brielle looked at Christopher. For a second, her mask slipped. She saw the dust on his knees. She saw the way he was cradling the cardboard carrier like it was a baby.

"Sit down, Chris," she said, her voice softer than usual. "Don't be an idiot."

"Yes. Thanks, Brielle."

Christopher scuttled to the back corner and sat down. He opened his notebook.

The professor started talking about Macroeconomics. Christopher ignored him. He took a pen and began to draw on the lined paper.

He didn't take notes. He drew lines. Jagged, chaotic lines. He pressed the pen down until the paper tore. It looked like scribbles to anyone else, a mess of ink and frustration. It wasn't music. It was noise. The sound of the static in his head.

He slashed the pen across the page, creating a grid of black bars.

From the middle row, Brielle glanced back. She saw him scribbling frantically.

He's taking notes for me, she thought. He really is trying.

She felt a strange pang in her chest. Guilt? No, Harris women didn't feel guilt. Annoyance? Maybe.

The lecture ended. Christopher met her at the door.

"Here," he said, handing her the notebook. "I... I tried to get everything down."

He had flipped the page, hiding the chaotic drawings. The top page was just gibberish notes he had scribbled in the last thirty seconds.

"Thanks," Brielle said. She looked at his knee. The jeans were torn. There was a scrape with a bead of blood. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing," Christopher said.

"Don't bleed on my seats," she said, but she reached into her bag and pulled out a Hello Kitty band-aid. She shoved it into his chest. "Fix it."

Christopher took the band-aid. He looked at it, then at her.

"Thank you, Brielle."

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

Hillary: Where are you? Send location.

Christopher felt a cold drop of sweat slide down his back.

He typed back: Library. Studying. Trying to be better for you.

He hit send.

He was juggling chainsaws. And sooner or later, he was going to lose a hand.

By noon, the incident with Preston was all over Fizz, the anonymous campus social app.

Top Post: Harris's Simp eats floor. 10/10 landing.

Brielle was furious. Not for Christopher, but for her brand. Being associated with a clumsy oaf was damaging. She needed to reassert dominance. She needed to show that he was a useful asset, not a liability.

"Lunch," she commanded, standing outside the Science Center. "Dining Hall. You're sitting with me."

Christopher froze. "Miss Harris, I don't think-"

"I didn't ask what you think. I said move."

She marched toward the main dining hall. Christopher followed, his stomach churning. The dining hall was a public arena. Too many eyes.

They entered the hall. The smell of pizza and industrial cleaner hung in the air. It was crowded.

Brielle navigated to a table near the window. She sat down and pointed to the chair opposite her.

"Sit."

Christopher sat. He kept his hood up.

"Go get napkins," Brielle said, pointing to the dispenser near the entrance. "And a fork. A clean one."

Christopher stood up. He kept his head down and walked toward the utensil station.

As he reached for a fork, the double doors at the entrance swung open.

A hush fell over the front of the room.

Walking in was a phalanx of suits. In the center was the University President. And walking next to him, looking like a queen inspecting her subjects, was Hillary Mitchell.

Christopher's heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird.

What is she doing here?

Then he remembered. The Mitchell family had donated the new Art Wing. She was here for a site visit.

He was ten feet away from her.

He spun around, turning his back to the door. He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket. He hunched his shoulders up to his ears.

He couldn't go back to the table. The table was in her line of sight.

But he couldn't stay here.

"And here is the student dining area," the President was saying. "Vibrant. Energetic."

Hillary's heels clicked on the linoleum. Click. Click. Click.

Christopher started to walk. He moved diagonally, using a group of football players as a human shield. He aimed for Brielle's table, keeping his back to Hillary the entire time.

He reached the table and slid into the chair, practically collapsing.

"What took you so long?" Brielle asked, looking up from her salad. "Did you forge the fork yourself?"

"We need to leave," Christopher whispered. "Now."

"What? I haven't finished my kale."

"Brielle, please."

"You're acting weird. Weirder than usual." Brielle looked past him. Her eyes lit up. "Oh my god! Is that Hillary Mitchell?"

Christopher kicked her under the table. "Don't."

"Ow!" Brielle glared at him. Then she waved her hand high in the air. "Hillary! Hillary!"

Christopher closed his eyes. He wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

Hillary stopped mid-sentence. She looked across the sea of students. She saw Brielle Harris. They knew each other from the Hamptons circuit. Not friends, but acquaintances in the small world of generational wealth.

Then Hillary saw the figure sitting opposite Brielle.

The grey hoodie. The slump of the shoulders.

She knew those shoulders. She owned those shoulders.

Hillary said something to the President. He nodded.

She started walking toward them.

Christopher felt her approach. It was a change in atmospheric pressure. The air got colder.

Turn around, he told himself. Face the firing squad.

He couldn't hide. If he ran, it would be worse.

He took a deep breath. He composed his face into the mask of the polite stranger.

He waited for the execution.