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.

Hillary stopped at the edge of the table. Her perfume-Chanel No. 5 and cold ambition-wafted over them.

"Brielle," Hillary said smoothly. "What a surprise."

Brielle stood up and offered a cheek kiss. "Hillary! I didn't know you were visiting."

"Board matters," Hillary said. Her eyes didn't stay on Brielle. They slid to Christopher. "And who is your... companion?"

Christopher stood up. He turned slowly.

He looked Hillary in the eye. Her pupils contracted into pinpricks.

"Hello, ma'am," Christopher said. His voice was polite, deferential, and completely devoid of recognition. "I'm Chris."

Hillary stared at him. Her face was a mask of shock, quickly plastered over with icy rage.

"Chris," she repeated. The name tasted like poison in her mouth. "Just Chris?"

"Chris is my... study partner," Brielle lied smoothly. She sensed the tension but misread it completely. She thought Hillary was judging her for hanging out with a nobody.

"Study partner," Hillary echoed. "Is that what they call it these days?"

"We study... economics," Christopher said. "I'm helping Miss Harris with her notes."

Hillary looked at the notebook on the table. She looked at Christopher's cheap hoodie. She looked at Brielle, who was young, vibrant, and blonde.

A narrative formed in Hillary's head. He lied. He said he was going to school to better himself. Instead, he's here, playing puppy to a Harris.

Jealousy, hot and corrosive, flooded her veins.

"You look familiar," Hillary said, tilting her head. "Have I seen you waiting tables somewhere? Perhaps at the gala last night?"

It was a test. A dare. Admit who you are.

Christopher held her gaze. "I work a lot of odd jobs, ma'am. To pay tuition. It's possible."

He was betting everything on her pride. He was betting that Hillary Mitchell would rather die than admit to Brielle Harris that her husband was this man in a stained hoodie.

He won the bet.

Hillary's jaw tightened. "I see. Well, Brielle, be careful. The help can be so... unreliable."

Brielle bristled. "Chris is great. He's loyal." She reached out and grabbed Christopher's arm, pulling him closer. It was a territorial move, meant to annoy Hillary.

It worked.

Hillary stared at Brielle's hand on Christopher's arm. Her eyes burned.

"Loyalty is expensive," Hillary said coldly. "Make sure you're getting what you pay for."

She turned on her heel and walked away.

Christopher sat down. His legs were shaking so hard his knees knocked against the table leg.

"What a bitch," Brielle muttered, sitting back down. "She thinks she owns the world."

"She does," Christopher whispered.

Two minutes later, his phone buzzed.

Notification: Bank of America. Your supplementary card ending in 4098 has been suspended by the primary account holder.

Christopher stared at the screen. It wasn't just a warning. He had used that card to buy his train ticket this morning. Now he was stranded.

Then another text.

Hillary: Come home. Now.

He looked at Brielle. "I have to go."

"We have class."

"I have a family emergency," Christopher said. He grabbed his bag.

He walked out of the dining hall. He didn't run, but he walked fast. He went to the bathroom in the Science Center. He locked himself in a stall.

He pulled out his burner phone. He texted a number saved as The Old Man.

Message: She froze the assets. She knows I'm at the school. Need buffer.

The reply came in ten seconds.

Harrison: Handle it. Don't let her fire you. The stock is down 2%.

Christopher leaned his head against the cold metal of the stall door.

He wasn't a husband. He wasn't a student. He was a stock ticker.