Too Late, Madam: Your Husband Quit

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.