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.

The Mitchell estate was silent when Christopher entered at 5:45 PM.

The maid, Maria, looked at him with pity and quickly looked away. "She's in the music room, Mr. Chris."

Christopher walked down the hall. The double doors to the music room were open.

Hillary was sitting at the grand piano. She wasn't playing. She was just pressing one key, over and over. A low A.

Bong. Bong. Bong.

Christopher stood in the doorway. "You froze the card."

Hillary didn't turn around. "That card is for my husband. My husband isn't a college boy's sidekick."

"It's a breach of contract," Christopher said. "I need transport. I need food."

Hillary spun around on the bench. Her face was twisted. "Are you sleeping with her?"

Christopher blinked. "What?"

"Brielle. Are you sleeping with her?"

"No," Christopher said. "She's... a client. Like you."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hillary stood up. She walked toward him. "Like me?"

"It's a job, Hillary. Being with her is a job. Being with you... was a job."

He said it simply. Brutally.

Hillary flinched as if he had slapped her. "I gave you a home. I gave you a life."

"You gave me a role," Christopher said. "And I played it."

Hillary's hand raised. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to scratch that indifferent look off his face. But she stopped.

She lowered her hand. She smoothed her skirt. The ice returned.

"Get out of my sight," she whispered. "Sleep in the servant's quarters. The basement room. You don't deserve the guest room."

Christopher nodded. "Fine."

He turned and walked away.

He went down the narrow stairs to the basement. The room was small, cold, and smelled of damp concrete. It was familiar. It smelled like the foster homes.

He sat on the narrow cot. He pulled his MP3 player from his pocket-an old iPod Classic he had hidden for years.

He put the wired earbuds in. He scrolled to a file named Lullaby_Unknown. It wasn't his music. It was a recording he had found years ago, a simple, haunting melody.

He pressed play.

He closed his eyes. He began to hum along. It wasn't a performance. It was a self-soothing mechanism, a low, vibration in his chest that helped regulate his breathing. He hummed the simple, repetitive tune, his voice cracking slightly with exhaustion.

Upstairs, Hillary couldn't sleep.

She paced the hallway. She felt humiliated. A client. Just a client.

She found herself walking toward the basement door. She wanted to yell at him again. She wanted to fire him. She wanted to beg him to love her.

She reached the door.

She heard something.

A voice.

It was humming. It wasn't perfect. It was raw, slightly off-key in places, but it was filled with a terrifying amount of pain. It was a human sound.

Hillary froze.

Christopher?

Christopher had a flat, nasal voice. Christopher had no rhythm. Christopher was boring.

This voice was... broken. And real.

She pressed her ear against the wood. The humming continued, a mournful loop.

Hillary's breath hitched.

She backed away. She didn't open the door.

She realized, with a terrifying clarity, that she didn't know the man in her basement at all.