Archer McKnight loosened his tie as he stepped out of the Vanguard Tech building into the afternoon sun. Another rejection. That made nine in the last three months. He'd barely made it five minutes into the interview before the hiring manager's expression changed. The moment Helios Systems came up, Archer could see the mental shutters come down.

"I'm sorry, Mr. McKnight, but we're looking for candidates with more... stable work histories," the woman had said, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I was Senior Lead Programmer at Helios for four years," Archer had replied, trying to keep the defensiveness from his voice. "The company's collapse had nothing to do with my department. I actually filed several reports warning about the issues with the Obsidian acquisition."

But it didn't matter. Once they heard Helios, all they saw was the spectacular implosion that had made headlines for weeks. Nobody cared that he'd fought against the corner-cutting or that he'd been the one to document the security vulnerabilities in the hastily integrated systems. In their eyes, he was tainted goods.

Archer checked his watch, a Yves Vellier, beautiful, expensive, a cherished gift from Clara. Still thirty minutes before he was supposed to meet his wife at the Palais Bistro at the Rixton Hotel on Sixth Street. His stomach fluttered at the thought.

The last few months had been different between them and he blamed himself. After nearly a year since he was let go, she had been forced to take on the financial weight for the both of them.

He had felt the distance, and it had worried him. So when she had called him that morning as she drove into the city, inviting him to meet at the bistro after his interview, he had felt a lightening of the heart.

This lunch felt significant. Important. She was reaching out to him. Maybe things were still bleak on the employment front, but he was happy, his wife was still standing by him.

Maybe things would finally start turning around.

He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, feeling the small card from Nexus Innovations. An internship. At thirty-four. The thought would have been humiliating six months ago, but now ... now it felt like a lifeline. Three months as an intern, then potential for a junior developer position. Starting over from nearly the bottom.

"For my child," he whispered to himself as he walked toward the Rixton Hotel. "I can do this for my child."

The pregnancy test he'd found hidden in the bathroom trash three days ago explained so much ... Clara's emotional distance, her sudden aversion to his touch, her mysterious appointments. She was probably waiting until she was past the first trimester to tell him. Today might be the day.

The Palais Bistro gleamed with polished brass and dark wood. Clara had never suggested meeting here before ... it was well outside their - well, his - budget, especially now ... but maybe she wanted their moment to be special. Archer spotted her immediately in a corner booth, her blonde hair catching the light. Something tight in his chest loosened at the sight of her.

She was beautiful, model-thin with long legs and small high breasts above a trim waist. Her face was a fashion photographer's dream, with high cheekbones, arched eyes and full lips.

He was still confused that, of all the men that she could have had at her beck and call, she had chosen to spend her life with him. Their wedding day had been the happiest day of his life.

"Clara," he said, leaning down to kiss her.

She turned her face, almost ... flinching, and his lips brushed her cheek instead. The familiar sting of rejection washed over him, but he pushed it away.

Soon, he thought. Soon she'll tell me, and everything will make sense again.

"Sit down, Archer," she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

He sat, confused, noting the untouched water glass in front of her, the absence of menus. "Is everything okay?" he asked. "I thought we were having lunch?"

Clara's eyes flickered toward the entrance, and something in her expression changed. Archer turned to follow her gaze and saw a tall man in an impeccably tailored suit walking toward them. Dark hair, confident stride, the kind of face that appeared on magazine covers.

That had appeared on magazine covers. Many magazine covers. Handsome, wealthy, and by all accounts brilliant, the current COO and heir to the Rixton Hotel Group's Chief Executive's chair on his uncle's retirement, he was one of the country's most eligible bachelors.

He was invariably pictured with a supermodel or actress on his arm, usually looking up adoringly at him ... the same way Clara was looking at him now.

Dylan Rixton slid into the booth ... beside Clara.

"What's going on?" Archer asked, a sudden weight settling in his chest.

"Archer, this is Dylan Rixton," Clara said, unnecessarily, her voice steady but higher than normal. "Dylan, my husband, Archer."

Dylan didn't offer his hand. Instead, he wrapped an arm around Clara's shoulders, and she leaned into him.

"Clara and I have been seeing each other," Dylan said, watching Archer's face with cold interest. "For about six months now."

The world tilted. Six months. Half a year. While Archer had been desperately hunting for jobs, coming home to Clara's increasingly cold reception, she had been ...

He remembered her excitement as she told him about her firm assigning her to the Rixton Group's account, handling their merger with another chain ... a little over seven months ago.

"I love him," Clara said, her fingers intertwining with Dylan's on the table. "I've never felt this way before, Archer. Not with you. Not with anyone."

Words failed him. His mouth opened and closed.

"Dylan has asked me to marry him," Clara continued. Her free hand pushed a manila envelope across the table. On top of it sat two rings ... her engagement ring and wedding band. The ones Archer had saved for months to buy. "I've said yes."

"You ... " Archer's voice cracked as he saw the ring on her hand that wasn't his. "You can't be serious. Clara, we've been married for five years. We were going to start a family. I saw the pregnancy test ... "

Clara looked surprised at that, but then she looked regretful. "I'm sorry you saw that," Clara said, her hand moving to her stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture. "But it's not yours. I'm carrying Dylan's child."

The weight of her words crushed something vital inside him. "How could you do this? To me?" he whispered. "To us?"

"I've already moved everything I really need to Dylan's," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You can go back to the apartment and pack up what you need. I'll be in Paris with Dylan for the next two weeks, so you'll have time. Just sign the papers, Archer. Make this easy."

"Easy?" The word tasted like ash.

"Your signature. On every highlighted line," Clara said, pushing a pen toward him.

Archer stared at the envelope, at the rings glinting accusingly in the bistro's soft lighting. His life, reduced to a stack of papers and discarded jewelry.

"Do you have any idea what I've been going through? What I've ... " he began.

"Don't make a scene," Dylan cut in, his voice low but commanding. "Not here. Not in my hotel."

Rage rose in Archer's throat, but it had nowhere to go. He was trapped in a nightmare, a public execution of his marriage with the executioner urging him to cooperate for a quicker death.

With shaking hands, he opened the envelope. Divorce papers. Pages of them. He couldn't focus enough to read beyond "Dissolution of Marriage" at the top. Clara's elegant signature was already on every highlighted line on the right.

"Five years," he said again, but it wasn't a protest anymore. Just disbelief ... and resignation.

"You need to sign, Archer," Clara said, voice soft. "Let's not make it any worse ... for the both of us."

He looked up and saw her face, and he signed.

Each scratch of the pen across paper felt like a razor across his skin. When he finished, he pushed the papers back, leaving the rings where they lay.

"Is that all?" he asked, voice hollow.

"Not quite," said a familiar voice.

Archer looked up to see Patricia Walker approaching their table, her attorney's briefcase clutched in one hand. Clara's best friend. His friend too, he'd thought.

"Patricia?" The betrayal doubled, then tripled. "You knew about this?"

"I'm handling the paperwork for Clara and Dylan," Patricia said, avoiding his eyes as she collected the signed documents.

"I thought we ... I thought we were ... How could you do this to ...?"

Patricia looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Archer, but you have to understand ... Clara needs someone who can match her pace, her ambition. You've been weighing her down. You're ... an anchor."

Clara winced at Patricia's bluntness. "Pat, that's not necessary."

"It's the truth," Patricia insisted, tucking the papers away.

"I'm an anchor," Archer repeated numbly.

Clara reached across the table, stopping just short of touching his hand. "I'm just following my heart, Archer. Please understand. Dylan is simply... better for me," she said, as if that explained everything. "We connect on a level that you and I never did. Never could."

Archer was finding it hard to breathe. To think.

Dylan cleared his throat. "There's one more thing. As part of the settlement, ten thousand dollars has been transferred to your account ... "

"I don't want your money," Archer spat.

"It's non-negotiable," Dylan continued smoothly. "It's already done. But the transfer comes with conditions. You signed a non-disclosure agreement as part of the divorce papers."

Patricia smoothly cut in. "They're about to take their relationship public. The story is that you two have been separated, and they met and fell in love. Say anything to the contrary, anything negative or defamatory, about Clara, about Dylan, about their relationship to anyone ... media, friends, social media ... and there will be trouble, Archer."

"Simply put," Dylan Rixton said, calmly. "Your employment and financial troubles will be ten times worse than they are now. I'll make sure of it. Do you understand me?"

Archer stared at him, at the casual cruelty behind the polished facade. Then at Clara, who at least had the decency to look uncomfortable.

Finally at Patricia, who met his gaze with professional detachment, as if she hadn't spent holidays at their dinner table, hadn't cried on his shoulder when her own relationship ended last year.

"I understand," Archer said, standing up so abruptly his chair nearly toppled backward. He stared at Clara, who stared back at him ... pity in her eyes, hand in hand with her new love. "I understand perfectly."

"He is better for me," his wife had said. 'He is the better man. Why would I pick you ... over him?'

He turned and walked away, vision blurring, body moving on autopilot toward the exit.

Breakfast was a gyro he had bought on the way out of the subway as he hurried for his appointment at Vanguard. He would have thought it was mostly digested now.

But as he stumbled out of the hotel, desperate to get away, he realized that the gyro wanted out. He fell to his hands and knees and as his stomach emptied out in the alley a block away from where his world had been shattered.

________________________________

Belinda Matthews finished covering Linda's shift, and, for a wonder, Greg, the head server allowed her fifteen minutes to rest before starting her own.

She stared across at the booth she had been cleaning as she overheard the man named Archer being broken by his wife. By someone he thought was a friend.

And by a man she had admired, and, like most women in the city, had even entertained a fantasy or two about, especially since she took this job.

She'd heard rumors of more than one marriage being shattered thanks to Dylan Rixton, including, it was said, that of a sous-chef in another Rixton holding.

That woman never got a ring though. No woman had ever gotten a proposal from Dylan Rixton, except this 'Clara.' So maybe it was true love and what she had heard needed to happen?

But actually witnessing it, hearing every painful moment of a man being ambushed and having his heart broken ... it had been horrifying.

She had heard the way his voice had broken, the sound of utter defeat and surrender, of being judged and found wanting.

She had heard Dylan Rixton threaten him to be silent after taking his wife.

She had peeked out and seen his face, discreetly seen him leave the bistro, his gait increasingly resembling a drunken stagger.

She suddenly wanted to leave this place. She certainly didn't want to contribute any more of her labor for a man like Dylan Rixton to accrue more wealth.

But she needed the money, at least until she found a new roommate. Darla fully moving out to live with her fiancee had left her in the lurch, but she couldn't begrudge the other woman her happiness.

She saw Greg suddenly turn a glare in her direction and she sighed and got back on her aching feet.

________________________________

Belinda rolled her shoulders as she punched out, the digital clock on the time system reading 11:42 PM. Her feet throbbed, her lower back ached, and the beginnings of a headache pulsed behind her eyes. Fourteen hours on her feet with only two fifteen-minute breaks. The Rixton's management prided itself on its 'premium guest experience,' but that commitment certainly didn't extend to the staff.

"Night, Bellie," called Mira from behind the bar, the only one who'd bothered to learn her name in the few weeks she'd been working there.

"Night," Bellie replied, summoning a tired smile.

Outside, the night air was unexpectedly cool against her skin after the warmth of the kitchen. Bellie pulled her light jacket tighter around her shoulders and started toward the subway station. Her bag weighed heavily on her shoulder, textbooks and her laptop making it feel like she was carrying bricks. A paper on microfinancing in post-conflict zones was due in forty-eight hours, and she had barely started the research.

She mentally calculated the hours. If she got home by 12:30, she could work until 3:00 AM, catch four hours of sleep, then continue before her 9:00 AM class. Not ideal, but she'd operated on less before. The substitute teacher certification had been supposed to provide a more flexible schedule than waitressing, but the calls had been few and far between since the start of the semester.

Her phone buzzed. A text from the landlord: 'Reminder: Rent due in full by the 3rd. No exceptions this month, Belinda.'

Bellie sighed. The rent on the two-bedroom had been manageable with Darla there, but since her roommate had moved in with her fiancee last month, Bellie had been scrambling. She'd posted on every housing board she could find, but nothing had panned out yet. Even the most promising prospect had ghosted her three days ago.

"Seven more days," she muttered. "Something will work out."

But even as she said it, she knew it probably wouldn't. The money from tonight's shift would go toward groceries and the electric bill. She was still a few hundred short on rent, and her tuition installment was coming due as well. The hostel near campus was looking more likely by the day ... a shared room with six other women, no privacy, no quiet place to study.

Her mind was so preoccupied with these calculations that she almost missed the hunched figure in the alley between two buildings. Almost. A streetlight cast just enough illumination for her to see a man sitting on the ground, back against the brick wall, knees drawn up to his chest. His once-crisp dress shirt was rumpled, his tie askew.

She recognized him immediately.

The husband from earlier. Archer. The one whose life had been systematically dismantled while she was frozen in the next booth, rag in hand, unable to stop herself overhearing the slow-motion car crash of his marriage.

She hesitated. It wasn't safe to approach strangers in alleyways at midnight, especially not in the city. But he looked so utterly defeated, and she couldn't shake the memory of how cruelly he'd been treated. She took a cautious step closer.

"Are you okay?" she asked, immediately feeling foolish. Of course he wasn't okay.

His head snapped up, eyes unfocused for a moment before finding her face. "No," he said simply, his voice hoarse. "No, I'm not."

A puddle of vomit glistened unpleasantly near him, and the sour smell made Bellie's nose wrinkle. How long had he been sitting here? Hours, by the look of him.

"I..." Bellie hesitated again. "I was cleaning the table next to you earlier. I heard what happened. With your wife. With Dylan Rixton. I'm really sorry."

Recognition dawned in his eyes. "Not ... not you," he mumbled.

"Yeah." She shifted her weight, unsure what to do. "Look, maybe you should go home? Get some sleep? Tomorrow you can pack your things like she ... "

"I'm never going back there," he interrupted, a flash of anger breaking through his despondency. "Never setting foot in that apartment again. Don't want anything she has ever touched." He laughed, a hollow sound with no humor in it. "You know what I realized, sitting here? They've been fucking in our bed. In my bed. For months."

Bellie flinched at the crudeness, at the raw pain behind it. She took a step back. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have ... "

"No, wait," Archer called, his voice softening. "I'm sorry. That was... thank you. For stopping. For being concerned. Not many would."

Something in his tone ... genuine gratitude beneath the devastation ... made Bellie pause. She looked at him more carefully. He wasn't drunk, she realized. Just broken.

The words came out before she could stop them. "I have a spare room."

He blinked at her. "What?"

'What indeed', she thought. What was she doing? "I have a spare room," she repeated, scarcely believing herself. "If you need a place to stay tonight. Just tonight," she added quickly.

Archer stared at her in disbelief. "You don't know me. I'm a stranger. That's not... that's not smart."

He was right, of course. But something about watching someone lose everything in an instant had shaken something loose in her. Maybe it was empathy. Maybe it was the fear that she was one disaster away from sitting in an alley herself.

"Give me your driver's license," she said, surprising them both with her decisiveness.

"What?"

"Your driver's license. I'll take a picture of it and send it to my sister and my friend. They'll know who you are and where you're staying. For safety."

Archer considered this, then slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed her his license.

Belinda took a photo and sent it to Marissa, her sister in Ballier, and to Darla, with a quick text: 'This guy is crashing in your former room tonight. Had a bad day. Just so someone knows.'

Darla replied immediately: '???!!!'

Mari a moment later: 'Call me RIGHT NOW'

Bellie ignored both, tucking her phone away. "Done," she told Archer, handing back his license. "My place is about twenty minutes from here by subway. It's nothing fancy."

"Why?" he asked, making no move to get up. "Why would you do this for someone you don't know?"

Bellie shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable with her own impulsiveness. "Because I've had bad days too," she said finally. "And I'm about to be short on rent. Consider it karma banking." She didn't mention that she'd just watched his heart being stomped on by two people he trusted, and that maybe, just maybe, the universe owed him a small kindness.

He pulled himself up slowly, unsteady on his feet for a moment. "I'm Archer McKnight," he said formally, as if they were meeting at a business function rather than in an alley with him looking like he'd been hit by a truck.

"Belinda Matthews," she replied. "But everyone calls me Bellie."

"Thank you, Bellie," he said, with such genuine gratitude that she felt her cheeks warm.

She turned toward the subway entrance. "Come on. Last train's in ten minutes."

Archer followed, a respectable distance behind her, his footsteps echoing in the empty street as they walked away from the gleaming facade of the Rixton Hotel, where both their lives had taken unexpected turns.

________________________________

Bellie shifted the weight of her grocery bags as she fumbled with her keys outside her apartment door. Her Saturday morning Economic Theory class had been particularly grueling, the professor launching into a complex discussion of sustainable development indicators that left even the most prepared students floundering. She'd barely managed to stay awake, her brief three hours of sleep catching up with her.

After she had hastily made up the second bedroom, despite Archer protesting that she was going through too much trouble, and he had gone in, she'd spent nearly an hour on the phone with Marissa.

"Are you completely insane?" her sister had demanded. "You let a strange man into your apartment? What if he's dangerous?"

"He's not dangerous," Bellie had insisted, keeping her voice low. "He's ... broken."

"That's worse! Broken people do desperate things, Bellie!"

It had taken considerable effort to calm Marissa down, with promises to text every few hours and keep her pepper spray handy. The call with Darla had gone only marginally better.

"Girl, I know you have a good heart, but this is next-level crazy," Darla had said.

"I know," Bellie had admitted. "I'm just ... going with my gut here ... I'm not getting serial killer vibes."

Yet despite her confident words, she'd still taken Darla's words to heart and locked her bedroom door before finally collapsing into bed. Not because she truly feared Archer, but because it was the sensible thing to do with a stranger in her home. She'd finally drifted off around 2:30 AM, her half-written paper abandoned on her laptop.

She heard the muffled sobs coming from the second room when she tip-toed out to the fridge for a glass of water. They were deep, wrenching sounds that spoke of absolute desolation. It had made her chest tight with secondhand grief, but she'd known better than to intrude. Some pain needed privacy.

Now, as she pushed open her apartment door, the first thing that struck her was the smell ... something clean and fresh, with hints of lemon. The second was the sight of Archer McKnight in her small kitchen, a dishrag in his hand, wiping down her countertops.

He looked up. "Oh, you're back."

Bellie stood frozen for a moment, taking in the scene. Her usually cluttered kitchen gleamed. The dishes that had been piled in the sink were now stacked neatly on the drying rack. The stack of mail and papers that normally occupied the small kitchen table had been arranged into tidy piles.

"You... cleaned," she said, stating the obvious.

Archer put down the rag, looking suddenly self-conscious. "Hope that's okay. I wanted to do something useful while I waited for you. So I could thank you before I left."

"Left?" Bellie finally stepped into the apartment, setting her grocery bags on the now-spotless counter. "Where are you going?"

He shrugged, a small, defeated gesture. "I don't know yet. Away from here, I guess. Fresh start somewhere."

"With no plan? No place to stay?" She started unpacking her groceries ... affordable staples, store-brand cereal, the half-price vegetables that were just on the edge of too ripe.

"I've got my laptop. My credit cards. For now, that's enough to get me... somewhere."

Bellie studied him. In the daylight, he looked both better and worse than he had in the alley. His eyes were clearer, but the dark circles beneath them were more pronounced. He'd clearly showered ... his hair was still slightly damp ... and he wore the same clothes as yesterday, though they looked less rumpled.

"Stay until Monday," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Stay until Monday," she repeated, more firmly this time. "Take the weekend to figure out what you actually want to do, not just what you're running from. Make a plan."

Archer shifted uncomfortably. "I appreciate it, but I've already imposed enough. I don't want to be in your way."

"It's just two more days," Bellie said, continuing to unpack groceries. "I've got a room that I'm not using."

"But ... you don't know me ..."

"Are you a serial killer?"

He huffed. "No."

"Criminal on the run from the law?"

"No."

"Are you somehow going to make me cook and clean up after you?"

He shook his head. "No. I just really don't want to be a burden."

"I think we just conclusively established that you're not going to be a burden." She gave him an encouraging smile.

He managed a weak smile back. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Bellie wasn't entirely sure why she was doing this, but something told her it was the right thing. No one should have to make major life decisions in the immediate aftermath of trauma. "The second room's yours until Monday."

"Thank you." The weight of his gratitude almost made her uncomfortable. "Let me cook for you at least. As a thank you. I make a decent pasta."

"Deal," she said, relieved to move to practical matters. "I bought spaghetti and some vegetables."

Archer nodded, already looking more animated at the idea of having a purpose, however small. Then he hesitated. "Do you know if there's a charity shop or something nearby? Secondhand clothing store?"

"There's a SecondLife about three blocks west," Bellie replied, curiosity piqued. "Why?"

Archer glanced down at his dress shoes ... expensive Italian leather that even Bellie could recognize as high-end. "I'd like to trade these in. Maybe get something more... practical."

She understood immediately. It wasn't just about practicality. It was about shedding his old life, piece by piece. The designer suit, the expensive shoes, the cashmere coat hanging by her door ... all remnants of a life that no longer existed.

"I can show you where it is, if you want," she offered.

"I'd appreciate that." He seemed relieved she hadn't pressed for more explanation.

Bellie nodded and moved toward the refrigerator, suddenly aware that she was functioning on too little sleep and too much caffeine. She had assignments to complete, a part-time job that barely covered expenses, and now a heartbroken stranger in her apartment until Monday.

Yet somehow, for reasons she couldn't fully articulate, letting Archer McKnight stay felt like the right choice. Maybe it was the way he'd cleaned her kitchen without being asked. Maybe it was the memory of those devastating sobs she'd heard. Or maybe it was simply that, in a city that often felt coldly indifferent, they'd each recognized a fellow struggler in the other.

"Eggs?" she asked, holding up the carton.

"Eggs would be great," he replied, and for just a moment, the weight that had been pulling his shoulders down seemed to lighten.

________________________________

The aroma of sautéed garlic and herbs filled the small apartment as Archer stirred the simmering pot of homemade marinara. After their trip to SecondLife yesterday ... where he'd traded his designer clothes for jeans, plain t-shirts, and more practical shoes ... they'd spent the afternoon talking. Nothing particularly deep, just getting to know each other in the casual way of people who find themselves unexpectedly sharing space.

He'd learned that Bellie was pursuing her Masters in Economics and Development Finance, that she'd grown up in Lorrimore with her sister Marissa, and that she had a fondness for crime documentaries and salted caramel ice cream.

In turn, he'd told her about his years coding, his love of classic sci-fi novels, and his dream of someday developing educational software for kids. He'd also told her about his older brother - a police officer in Camlyn raising three children with his wife.

She had given him her phone to call James. He had smashed his in the alley; his display screen had been a picture of him and Clara on holiday two years before. Before the board of Helios voted to acquire Obsidian and the downward spiral had begun.

James' outpouring of invective and curses had been worthy of the sailor he had been, and it had warmed his heart, especially when he saw Bellie blush and try to hide her smile at the words being yelled out.

He avoided any mention of Clara.

Now, as Sunday evening settled over the city, Archer found himself surprisingly at ease in Bellie's small kitchen. She sat cross-legged on the couch, textbook open on her lap, glasses perched on her nose, while the TV murmured in the background ... some cooking competition she wasn't really watching.

"It'll be ready in about five minutes," he called, tasting the sauce once more before adjusting the seasoning.

"Smells amazing," Bellie replied without looking up from her book. "I can't remember the last time someone cooked for me."

A sharp knock at the door interrupted the moment. Bellie looked up, frowning slightly.

"Are you expecting someone?" Archer asked, turning down the heat under the pot.

"No, but ... " The knock came again, more insistent this time. Bellie sighed and set her book aside. "Probably Mrs. Hernandez from downstairs complaining about the noise again, though we're barely making any."

She opened the door to reveal a petite woman with glossy black hair cut in a sharp bob, dressed in skinny jeans and a fitted blazer. Her perfectly applied makeup contrasted with the expression of barely contained curiosity on her face.

"Darla!" Bellie exclaimed, clearly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"Just checking in on my best friend," Darla replied, her eyes immediately moving past Bellie to where Archer stood in the kitchen. "You know, the one who's been housing a strange man and hasn't answered my last six texts."

"I've been studying," Bellie said defensively, stepping aside to let Darla in. "And my phone's on silent."

Darla entered, her gaze never leaving Archer, sizing him up with the precision of a jeweler examining a suspicious gem.

"Darla, this is my... friend, Archer," Bellie said, the word 'friend' seeming to surprise even her as it came out. "Archer, this is Darla, my former roommate and current mother hen."

"Nice to meet you," Archer said, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel before extending one to Darla. "I just made dinner. There's plenty if you'd like some."

Darla's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly, but she took his hand in a firm shake. "Thanks. It does smell good."

An awkward silence fell as Darla continued her unabashed assessment of him. Archer turned back to the stove, ladling the pasta and sauce into three bowls.

"Here," he said, offering one to Darla. "It's just pasta with marinara, nothing fancy."

Darla accepted the bowl, took a tentative bite, and her expression shifted. "Wow, this is actually really good. You made this from scratch?"

"It's just crushed tomatoes and a few herbs," Archer said with a modest shrug. "Hard to mess up."

"Bellie burns water," Darla said, taking another appreciative bite.

"Thanks a lot," Bellie muttered, accepting her own bowl from Archer.

"I need to borrow you for a minute," Darla said suddenly, setting her bowl down and grabbing Bellie's arm. "Girl talk."

Before Bellie could protest, Darla was dragging her toward the bedroom, leaving Archer alone in the living room. The door closed with a decisive click, but the apartment was small enough that he could still hear their hushed, urgent voices.

"What is happening?" Darla's voice, not quite as hushed as she probably thought.

"Nothing is happening," Bellie replied. "He needed a place to stay for a few days."

"He's not at all bad looking and he sounds smart," Darla observed. "And he cooks? Where did you find him again?"

"I told you, he had a bad day..."

Their voices dropped lower, and Archer moved to the couch, uncomfortable with eavesdropping. He picked up the remote and began flipping through channels while he ate. Monday was coming fast. He had no real plan, just a vague notion of finding a hotel and then maybe heading west. Away from this city, away from memories of Clara.

The doorbell rang again, interrupting his thoughts. He glanced toward the closed bedroom door, then set his bowl down and approached the door cautiously. Through the peephole, he could see a woman with wild, purple-streaked hair and multiple facial piercings, dressed in a flowing skirt and torn t-shirt layered with dangling crystal necklaces.

He hesitated, then called out, "Bellie? Someone's at the door."

Bellie emerged from the bedroom, Darla close behind her. "Who is it?" she asked, moving toward the door.

"I don't know. Some woman."

Bellie peeked through the peephole and grimaced slightly before opening the door.

"Hi, I'm Willow Moonstone," the woman announced, her voice carrying a sing-song quality. "The landlord said you have a room to rent? I'm totally interested in the vibe here." A strong whiff of patchouli and what was unmistakably marijuana accompanied her entrance.

"Oh, yes," Bellie said, her smile a bit strained. "Please come in."

Willow swept into the apartment, crystals jangling. "Oh wow, what a beautiful space! I can feel the energy here." She closed her eyes and began humming softly, swaying slightly. "So much potential for ritual work."

Darla shot Bellie a wide-eyed look that clearly said 'Are you kidding me?'

"So, um, Willow," Bellie said. "The room is this way."

As Bellie led Willow toward the second room, the woman's eyes landed on Archer. "Oh, hello, masculine energy! Are you the brother? Boyfriend? I'm totally cool with couples, by the way. As long as you're respectful of moon rituals and midnight chanting. I'm a practicing Wiccan, third degree priestess."

"He's just a friend," Bellie said quickly.

"Cool, cool. Does the building allow burning sage? I need to cleanse my space regularly. The last place I lived, the landlord was totally oppressive about open flames. Such negative energy."

"I'm not actually sure about that," Bellie said, her voice growing fainter as they disappeared into the second room.

Darla sidled up to Archer. "If Bellie ends up with that as a roommate, I'm staging an intervention," she whispered.

Archer nodded absently, his attention caught by the continuing conversation.

"... rent is due on the first," Bellie was saying as they reentered the living room.

"Oh, that's perfect," Willow replied. "I get my disability check on the thirtieth. I have fibromyalgia and chronic creativity syndrome. The government doesn't recognize the second one yet, but they should."

"And you mentioned you have a steady income?" Bellie pressed.

"Oh, totally. Disability, plus I sell my crystal healing kits online. And my grandmother sends me money sometimes when Mercury isn't in retrograde." Willow's eyes wandered to the TV, which Archer had muted. "Oh my goddess, is that Dylan Rixton? He's so dreamy. Did you see he has a new girlfriend? It's all over the internet."

Archer froze, his gaze snapping to the screen. There they were ... Dylan and Clara, emerging from some upscale restaurant, photographers crowding around them. Clara looked radiant in a sleek black dress, her hand possessively wrapped around Dylan's arm as she gazed up at him adoringly. The caption at the bottom read: "Hotel Heir Dylan Rixton and attorney Clara Payne make first public appearance."

Bellie looked at him in alarm, but Darla had already grabbed the remote and raised the volume.

"... the city's newest power couple," the anchor was saying. "Rixton Group heir Dylan Rixton and prominent attorney Clara Payne have confirmed their relationship, with a spokesperson stating that they are 'deeply in love and looking forward to building a future together.' Sources close to the couple say they met when Payne's law firm represented the Rixton Group in their recent acquisition of the Beaumont Hotel chain."

The screen cut to an 'impromptu' interview outside the restaurant, Clara looking polished and composed. "Dylan and I connected immediately over our shared values and vision for the future," she said, smiling professionally at the interviewer. "We're very happy."

"And what about your previous marriage?" the interviewer asked.

Clara's expression didn't flicker. "My ex-husband and I had grown apart over the years. We separated amicably, and he's happy for me and my new relationship. We both wish each other well."

Archer took a deep breath. Separated amicably. He's happy for me.

"The couple is rumored to be expecting their first child," the anchor continued, "though neither has confirmed the pregnancy. Rixton, heir to the Rixton Hotel Group fortune, is known for his philanthropic work and business acumen, while Payne is a rising star at Lueger & Brasch Law, specializing in corporate acquisitions. It has been confirmed that Ms. Payne will be accompanying Dylan Rixton on his trip to Paris on Monday ..."

The segment ended, shifting to sports news, but Archer couldn't tear his eyes from the screen. The narrative they'd constructed ... the sanitized, palatable version of their relationship ... erased not just the truth, but erased him. He was reduced to "the ex-husband," a footnote in their love story, someone who apparently gave his blessing to the woman who had betrayed him and the man who had threatened him.

"Are you okay?" Bellie's voice broke through his thoughts.

He blinked, suddenly aware that everyone was staring at him ... Bellie with concern, Darla with curiosity, and Willow with oblivious interest.

"Whoa, your aura just went totally dark," Willow observed. "You need some clear quartz, stat."

"I'm fine," Archer managed, though his voice sounded distant even to his own ears. "Just... remembered something."

"So anyway," Willow continued, apparently satisfied with his response, "about the room. I'd need to install some hooks in the ceiling for my dreamcatcher mobile, and I usually drum around 2 AM when the veil between worlds is thinnest ... "

"I'm so sorry," Darla interrupted. "But I got here first! I'm taking the room!"

Bellie's look of relief from behind Willow was almost comical. If not for what he had just seen on the screen still making his heart race, he might have laughed.

"Oh," Willow looked momentarily crestfallen. "Well, if it doesn't work out, call me. I left my crystal grid business cards on your kitchen counter. Blessed be!"

The door closed behind her, and Bellie leaned against it with a sigh of relief.

"That was a close call," Darla said, breaking the silence. "Can you imagine living with that?"

"At this point, I might not have a choice," Bellie murmured, but her eyes were on Archer, who was still staring at the now-changed television screen.

"What do you mean?" Darla asked, frowning.

"The rent's going up next month," Bellie explained. "Another hundred dollars. I'm already stretched thin with the current rate, and if I don't find a roommate soon..." She trailed off, looking uncomfortable.

Darla's expression softened. "Why didn't you tell me? I could help ... "

"You're saving for your wedding," Bellie said firmly. "I'll figure it out. Maybe I can pick up more substitute teaching assignments."

Archer listened to their exchange with half an ear, his mind still reeling from seeing Clara and Dylan on screen, from hearing their carefully constructed narrative. 'Separated amicably. He's happy for me.' The audacity of it burned in his chest.

But beneath the anger, something else was taking root ... a realization that he wasn't the only one facing a precarious situation. Bellie's kindness had come at a time when she herself was struggling, when she needed stability, not an unexpected houseguest.

He looked at her, this woman who had extended help when she had so little to give. Then at the TV, where the image of Clara and Dylan had been replaced by a car commercial, but the damage was already done.

"... ten thousand dollars has been transferred to your account ..."

In that moment, something inside Archer shifted. Dylan Rixton's money was tainted and useless to him. But for this woman who had simply chosen to be kind to a stranger?

The rage receded.

________________________________

Archer slipped out of the apartment just before seven in the morning, careful not to wake Bellie. The city was relatively quiet as early commuters made their way to work. The crisp air helped clear his head as he walked briskly toward the downtown branch of First National.

The bank wouldn't open until eight, so he entered the cybercafe across the street, ordered a black coffee, and then spent the next forty five minutes staring at a desktop screen, looking up affordable extended-stay hotels in cities far from here. Places where nobody would know his name or his story.

At exactly eight, he crossed the street and entered the bank, his steps purposeful. At the teller window, he asked to check his account balance.

"Of course, Mr. McKnight," the teller said after verifying his ID. "I see your account status has changed recently. Would you like to speak with a personal banker?"

"Changed how?" Archer asked, though he already knew.

"It appears Mrs. McKnight removed herself as a joint holder a week ago," the teller explained, glancing at her screen. "Your account is now solely in your name."

A week ago. Well before she'd ambushed him at the bistro. They had been planning this for a while. While he had laboring under the illusion that he was married, Clara had been methodically erasing their connection piece by piece before delivering the final blow.

"I'd like to see my current balance," he said, his voice carefully neutral.

The teller turned her screen toward him. His regular account showed the expected amount ... what was left of his savings after nearly a year of unemployment, minus what Clara had apparently calculated as her share. A separate line item caught his eye: a recent deposit of $10,000.

Dylan's money. The hush payment. Made on Friday. At lunch time. While he was throwing up in the alley.

Another entry showed $32,450 being transferred out ... Clara taking her contribution to the account. But not all. She'd been generous, he noted bitterly. She'd left him five thousand dollars. One thousand for every year he had been married to her, he thought.

"I'd like to withdraw all but..." he paused, considering. "All but one dollar."

The teller looked confused. "Your entire balance, sir?"

"Yes," Archer confirmed. "I'll take three thousand two hundred in a cashier's check. The rest, I'll take in cash."

"That's a significant amount of cash, sir. Are you sure ... "

"I'm sure."

Twenty minutes later, Archer walked out of First National with a cashier's check for $3,242.17 ... what was left of his own contributions to the account ... and an envelope of crisp $100 bills. He felt no attachment to any of it. The check represented the dwindling remainder of his former life, and the cash was tainted money meant to buy his silence.

His next stop was Metro Credit Union, six blocks away. There, he opened a new checking account with his cashier's check.

As he left the credit union, Archer stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, feeling the weight of the envelope in his inside jacket pocket. Fifteen thousand dollars. The price Clara had placed on their marriage, that Dylan Rixton had placed on his dignity.

He exchanged his watch - Clara's gift - for a phone and pay-go SIM card at the just opening pawn shop on the way back. He could have got several hundred dollars in addition, but he only took the phone and SIM pack.

He remembered how anxious his - former - wife had looked when she had presented it to him, her first expensive gift for him after getting hired at Lueger and Brasch. He remembered her joyful smile when he'd told her, honestly, that he loved it.

Now? It was utterly worthless.

By the time he returned to Bellie's apartment, it was nearly ten. He found her in the kitchen, gathering books into her bag, a half-eaten piece of toast in her hand.

"Oh, you're back," she said, looking relieved. "I wasn't sure where you'd gone."

"Had some errands," Archer replied, watching her move around the kitchen. "You're late for class?"

"No. I'm just behind schedule. I don't like to rush." She grabbed her coffee tumbler, her movements quick and efficient. "My alarm didn't go off, or maybe I just slept through it."

Archer took a deep breath and pulled the envelope from his jacket. "I want you to have this."

Bellie paused, looking at the envelope with confusion. "What is it?"

"Fifteen thousand dollars."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"It's Clara and Dylan Rixton's money," Archer explained, placing the envelope on the counter between them. "Their hush payment. I want you to have it."

Bellie stared at the envelope as if it might bite her. "Archer, that's... I can't take that."

"It'll cover your rent for a while. You won't need a roommate. You can cut back on your hours at the Rixton. Focus on your studies."

"That's your money," she insisted, pushing the envelope back toward him. "I appreciate the thought, but that's insane."

"If you don't take it," Archer said with quiet determination, "I'm going to burn it."

"What?"

"That was my plan the night you found me in that alley. I was going to the bank on Monday, I was going to withdraw it all in cash, then burn it. I don't want his money. Or hers. I don't want anything connected to him, or her."

Bellie looked at him closely, searching his face for any sign that he was exaggerating. Finding none, she shook her head in disbelief. "That's crazy. You could use that money to start over."

"It's tainted," Archer said flatly. "It's useless and worthless to me. I'd rather starve than spend a cent of it."

He explained where the extra five thousand came from; Clara's pity, an attempt to salve her conscience.

Bellie shook her head. "So you're just going to... what? Set it on fire?"

"Either you take it, or that's exactly what I'm going to do."

Bellie ran a hand through her hair, clearly flustered. "Archer, I can't just take fifteen thousand dollars from someone I barely know."

"Consider it rent, then. For letting me stay here."

"For three nights in my spare room? That's ... "

"For being the only person who stopped to check if I was okay," Archer interrupted, his voice suddenly rough with emotion. "For offering a complete stranger a place to stay when you could barely afford your own rent. For..." he hesitated, then finished quietly, "for being kind when it wasn't convenient."

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint ticking of the kitchen clock.

"I'm leaving today," he added. "As planned. I need a fresh start somewhere else."

Something shifted in Bellie's expression ... disappointment, perhaps. "Today? Where will you go?"

Archer shrugged. "West, maybe. I haven't decided yet."

"At least wait until I'm done with classes," Bellie said. "Please? We can talk about this... about all of this... when I get back." She gestured at the envelope. "I'm not agreeing to take it. But maybe we can figure out a compromise that doesn't involve arson."

A faint smile touched Archer's lips. "Fine. I'll be here when you get back."

Relief washed over her face. "Thank you." She glanced at her watch and cursed under her breath. "I have to run. Don't do anything drastic while I'm gone, okay?"

"No promises," Archer said, but his tone was lighter than it had been in days.

After Bellie left, Archer stood alone in the quiet apartment, the envelope of cash still sitting on the counter where he'd placed it. For the first time since Clara had pushed those divorce papers across the bistro table, he felt something other than rage or despair.