The Master Of Deception's Richest Game

The coffee shop on the edge of the university campus smelled of burnt beans and damp wool. Kellen sat in a corner booth, nursing a black coffee that had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The caffeine was doing little to combat the fatigue settling behind his eyes, but he couldn't afford a refill.

He refreshed the app on his phone. The address for the proxy gig was a penthouse apartment three blocks away. The listing details were sparse, but the pay rate was triple the standard hourly wage. Hazard pay usually meant heavy lifting or illegal substances. Kellen hoped for heavy lifting.

He finished the dregs of the coffee, the bitter taste coating his tongue, and stood up. He adjusted his jacket. It was still damp from the rain at the Parker estate.

Ten minutes later, he stood in front of a door made of dark, solid wood. He could hear sound coming from inside. It wasn't music. It was the distinct, shattering crash of porcelain hitting a wall.

Kellen hesitated. He checked his reflection in the brass number plate-Apartment 4B. He smoothed his hair, practicing his empathetic listener face. He softened his eyes, relaxed his jaw, and tilted his head slightly to the side.

He knocked. Three sharp, polite raps.

The noise inside stopped instantly. Silence stretched for ten seconds. Then, the lock clicked. The door was ripped open.

Antoinette Lowe stood there. Kellen recognized her immediately. She was a tenured professor in the Economics department, known for failing half her class and publishing papers that terrified policymakers. Now, she looked like a train wreck. Her blonde hair was a tangled bird's nest. Her mascara had run down her cheeks in black rivers. She was holding a half-empty wine glass in one hand and gripping the doorframe with the other.

"Who are you?" she snapped. Her voice was hoarse.

"Kellen Lawrence," he said, keeping his voice low and soothing. "The agency sent me. For the rehearsal?"

Antoinette stared at him. Her eyes were bloodshot. She looked him up and down, analyzing him like a fluctuating stock market graph. She grabbed his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her nails digging into his sleeve through the fabric.

"You're late," she hissed, pulling him inside.

Kellen stumbled into the foyer. The apartment was massive, decorated in minimalist whites and grays, but it looked like a war zone. White roses were scattered across the floor, their heads torn off. A wedding cake topper lay decapitated near the coat rack. Shards of a vase glittered on the hardwood floor.

Antoinette dragged him into the living room. She pointed a shaking finger at a pile of fabric on the floor.

"Put it on," she commanded.

Kellen looked at the heap. It was a black tuxedo. A Tom Ford. He did a quick mental appraisal-five thousand dollars, easily.

"Where can I change?" he asked.

She waved her hand vaguely toward a hallway. "Just put it on. And hurry up. The silence is too loud."

Kellen walked to the bathroom. He locked the door and stripped off his damp suit. He pulled on the tuxedo pants. They were a little loose at the waist, but the length was perfect. The jacket fit his shoulders as if it had been tailored for him. It was a creepy coincidence. He looked in the mirror. He looked like a groom. He looked like money.

He stepped out, adjusting the onyx cufflinks.

Antoinette was sitting on the white sofa, refilling her glass. She looked up as he entered. Her hand froze. Her expression shifted from drunken anger to a haunted, hollow grief. Her lower lip trembled.

"You look just like him," she whispered. "The bastard."

She stood up suddenly, her movement jerky. She grabbed a velvet throw pillow from the couch and hurled it at his face.

"Why did you leave?!" she screamed.

Kellen saw the pillow coming. His reflexes, honed from dodging foster brothers and angry landlords, kicked in. He could have batted it away. Instead, he let it hit him square in the chest. He stumbled back a step, feigning impact.

Antoinette advanced on him. She threw a book next. It missed his head by an inch, thudding against the wall.

"You promised! You said forever!" she yelled, her voice breaking into a sob.

Kellen stood perfectly still. He clasped his hands in front of him. He became a target. A vessel. He let her scream. He let her project every ounce of her pain onto him. This was the job. He wasn't Kellen Lawrence right now. He was the Ghost of the Groom.

Antoinette ran out of things to throw. She collapsed onto the rug, burying her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook with violent sobs.

Kellen waited a beat. He walked over to the side table and picked up a box of tissues. He approached her slowly, announcing his presence with heavy footsteps so he wouldn't startle her. He knelt down, keeping a respectful distance. He offered the box.

She slapped it out of his hand. The box skittered across the floor.

"Get out!" she choked out.

Kellen didn't move. He retrieved the box and placed it on the floor, slightly closer to her this time. He sat back on his heels, waiting.

Antoinette looked up. Her face was a mess of tears and snot. She glared at him with pure hatred, but beneath it was a desperate need for him to stay.

"You're just here for the money, aren't you?" she spat. "You don't care. You're just a hired body."

Kellen met her gaze. He didn't flinch.

"I am whatever you need me to be, Ms. Lowe," he said. His voice was flat, professional, devoid of judgment.

Antoinette stared at him. She let out a short, bitter laugh that sounded like glass breaking. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

"Good," she said. "Then pour me another drink. And stand there. Just stand there and look guilty."

Kellen stood up. He walked to the bar cart. He poured the wine. He calculated his overtime rate as the liquid filled the glass.