Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

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.