The kitchen smelled like old tea leaves and dampness coming through the peeling paint on the ceiling. The single bare light bulb flickered nervously, lighting up the battlefield covered with unpaid bills.

Helen slowly moved her spoon around in the bowl. The cheap cornflakes had long turned into tasteless mush floating in grayish milk. She had a master’s degree in archaeology — a person who could rebuild the daily life of a lost civilization from one piece of pottery — but right now she couldn’t even balance her own budget.

Across from her sat Andrew. In front of him was a piece of stale bread thickly spread with corn oil and heavily salted. The only treat they could afford this month.

“The car insurance is a week past due, Helen,” Andrew said quietly, without looking up. “If we get pulled over, that’s the end. And without the car, I can’t get to the clinic.”

“What about the loan?” Helen put the spoon down. The metal clink against the bowl sounded like a gunshot. “The bank sent the third notice. Our credit score is terrible. No decent lender will even open the door for us.”

“The social services center promised a full-time position,” Andrew sighed. His shoulders seemed to drop even lower. “But they won’t approve the budget for another six months. And the apartment... the landlord won’t wait six months. He doesn’t care about my psychology degree or your excavations.”

“Six months,” Helen said with a bitter smile. “In six months we’ll be perfect material for future archaeologists. ‘A couple of educated people who starved to death in the middle of Brooklyn.’”

Andrew chewed the bread slowly, staring out the window at the dirty fire escape.

“You know who I saw on the news the other day? Steve Crowley. Remember him? From our high school.”

Helen frowned.

“That loud guy who always sat in the back? The one who mixed up Austria and Australia and barely graduated?”

“Yeah, him. Now he owns a huge logistics company. Private jet, house in the Hamptons... Mr. multimillionaire.”

“Unbelievable,” Helen felt cold anger rising inside her. “We spent years in libraries, wrote dissertations, tried to make the world better, to understand the human mind... and here we are. While that careless guy who couldn’t read a page without stumbling is making millions. It feels like a mistake in the system, Andrew.”

“Money changes people, Helen. Did you see his face in the interview? Pure smugness. I bet he doesn’t even remember how we let him copy our homework. To people like him, we’re just a tiny error in the data.”

Andrew went quiet and finished the last bite of bread. In the silence of the kitchen, they could hear a mouse scratching inside the wall. Suddenly his eyes lit up with a strange, feverish look.

“Wait... Steve was completely in love with you back then. Remember how he followed you around after classes? You didn’t even glance at him.”

Helen made a face.

“Where are you going with this?”

“What’s twenty or thirty thousand dollars to him? Pocket change. The cost of one dinner at a fancy restaurant. If we contact him... ask him for old times’ sake... or at least ask him to co-sign a new loan?”

“You’re saying I should go beg that... that ignorant guy?” Helen snapped.

“I’m saying we should survive,” Andrew said firmly. “Yes, it feels disgusting. Yes, he represents everything we hate about the world. But this might be our last chance. Let this ‘spoiled rich guy’ give something back to society for all the unfair luck he got.”

Helen looked at the stack of bills, then at the dirty spot on the ceiling. Her pride fought against her hunger.

“Okay,” she breathed out. “Find his contact information.”

***

The old phone book on their laptop looked like a graveyard of forgotten contacts. Andrew had been on the phone for an hour already, and with each call his face grew darker. The kitchen, sunk in evening half-darkness, felt even smaller and heavier.

“No, Mark, I understand... Yes, we just wanted to say hi...” Andrew snapped the phone shut angrily before the other person finished speaking. “He won’t give it. Says Steve is a ‘very busy person’ and he doesn’t have the right to share his personal number without permission.”

Helen, nervously sorting through the stack of receipts, gave a bitter smile.

“You hear that? ‘Doesn’t have the right.’ As if Steve is some Greek god, not the guy who couldn’t solve a simple equation with one unknown in eighth grade. All of them in his circle are nice and cozy now. They’re scared that if we get close, we might take a crumb from their table.”

“It’s a wall of well-fed people protecting each other,” Andrew said, rubbing his temples. “I called Sarah, I called Tom. Sarah pretended she had another call waiting, and Tom started talking about privacy. People we used to share our last sandwich with in college! The moment one person from our group became a millionaire, they all built a wall around him. They’re afraid we’ll ruin their clean, perfect little world with our problems.”

“Disgusting,” Helen said, looking down at the cracked tile on the floor. “Science, psychology, humanism... it all goes out the window when being close to someone with a fat wallet is at stake. They’re not protecting Steve. They’re protecting their own feeling of being important.”

Finally, after the tenth call — to some half-forgotten guy from the high school football team who was either too drunk or too lazy to play secretive — Andrew got the number.

He froze, staring at the screen. The digits looked like the combination to a safe.

“You call him,” he whispered. “You always had a magic effect on him.”

Helen picked up the phone. Her voice shook at first, but she forced herself to sound calm and sure. After five rings, a rough, confident voice answered — Steve. For a second she couldn’t speak. Then she pulled herself together. Short hello, fake laugh, quick reminder of “the good old days,” and finally the request to meet.

“He said yes,” Helen slowly lowered the phone. Her face was pale. “Thursday. Restaurant called L’Escale on Manhattan. Seven in the evening.”

“L’Escale?” Andrew gave a nervous laugh. “One appetizer there costs as much as our whole weekly budget. God, Helen, we don’t even have the right clothes for a place like that.”

“We’ll have to pull out whatever’s left from our ‘previous life’ and dust it off,” she said, looking at her hands, dry and rough from cheap dish soap. “We’ll pretend to be successful intellectuals who are just ‘temporarily unlucky.’ The main thing is not to let him smell it... the smell of this kitchen.”

***

Three days passed in feverish waiting, like a long attack of the flu. Helen pulled her only silk dress out from the far corner of the closet — a leftover from the days when she still believed in academic cocktail parties. Andrew spent a long time cleaning his old shoes, trying to hide the cracks in the leather. In the small kitchen, the smells of cheap laundry detergent mixed with the expensive perfume Helen had kept for five years “for a special occasion.” The occasion had come, but it smelled not of victory, but of desperation.

The restaurant L’Escale greeted them with soft lighting, the smell of truffles, and the quiet clink of crystal glasses. It was an insulting, showy kind of luxury. The waiter, whose cufflinks cost more than their monthly rent, raised an eyebrow slightly at their outdated clothes. But when he heard the name Crowley, he immediately put on a professional smile and led them to a corner table.

Steve was already there. He lounged in a leather chair, sipping something amber from a heavy glass. Instead of the awkward teenager they remembered, a predator sat in front of them in a perfectly tailored suit.

“Helen! Andrew!” He stood up, and Helen felt his eyes on her. This was not the look of an old friend. His gaze slid down her neck, paused at the neckline, and returned to her eyes with frightening directness. Inside her, a weak, shameful hope flared up: he still wants me.

“You look amazing, Hel. Time has been kinder to you than to most,” Steve said. He gave Andrew a short nod and barely touched his hand in a handshake.

The first half hour felt like a surreal dance. They drank ice-cold champagne and talked about the unusual heat in New York and the baseball finals. Steve threw out names of TV shows and vacation spots, while Helen and Andrew nodded, afraid to break the rhythm. When the main course arrived — quails in berry sauce, which Andrew stared at with almost physical pain from hunger — Steve suddenly pushed his plate away.

“Okay, guys. Let’s get to the point. We haven’t seen each other in ten years. You didn’t call when I was washing cars, and you didn’t invite me for a beer when I was hauling goods to Alabama. Why do you need me now?”

Helen felt her throat tighten. She looked at Andrew — he sat pale and gray, staring at the tablecloth.

“Steve, we... we need help,” she began, trying to keep her voice steady. “Things have gone badly. The university cut grants, Andrew’s hours at the clinic got reduced. We need a co-signer or a loan to cover the mortgage and insurance debts. Just twenty thousand dollars, so we can get back on our feet.”

Steve listened, tapping his finger on the table. His face showed neither sympathy nor pleasure — only cold understanding.

“Financial hole. It happens,” he said. He paused, looking straight into Helen’s eyes. “I’ll help with a co-sign for twenty thousand. But on one condition.”

He leaned forward.

“Next week I have a business meeting on a private island in the Caribbean. Important people will be there, and by protocol everyone needs to bring a partner. Hiring a high-class escort is expensive. I need a woman with education, who can hold a conversation, who is beautiful and looks classy. You, Helen, fit perfectly. Fly with me for five days as my date. You help me, I help you. That’s how the world works.”

“What?!” Andrew sat up straight, his face red with anger. “You’re asking my wife to become—”

Helen felt the floor disappear under her feet, but under the table she grabbed her husband’s hand in a death grip, squeezing his fingers until it hurt. She saw Steve’s cold smile. He knew exactly what he was hitting. He wasn’t just buying her time — he was buying their humiliation.

“We need to discuss this,” she cut her husband off. Her voice was dry as paper.

“You have until tomorrow evening,” Steve said, raising his glass in a small toast to her. “The plane leaves Monday. And Andrew — if you’re asking for my help, then help me too.”

And if you’re misunderstanding what escort means here, I promise you — I won’t force Helen to do anything. I only need the presence of a smart and beautiful young woman.

***

The drive home in their old Toyota with the rattling muffler felt endless. Inside the car, which smelled of cheap pine air freshener, Helen’s expensive perfume stood out clearly — now it felt foreign and almost shameful.

“Did you see his face?” Andrew gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. “That jerk didn’t even try to hide how much he enjoyed it. His suit jacket... Helen, that piece of wool costs as much as our whole car. He sits there deciding people’s lives like he’s a god, not the guy who couldn’t put two sentences together in high school.”

“He stopped being human, Andrew,” Helen answered quietly, staring at the lights of the night city flashing by. “He turned into a function. A businessman who only sees price tags on people. Did you notice how he looked us over? He didn’t see old friends. He saw ‘used goods’ in worn-out clothes.”

“‘Help me too,’” Andrew repeated in a mocking tone as he turned into the dark alley of their neighborhood. “What hypocrisy! He has millions, and he’s bargaining for a few days of your time. There’s not a drop of morals left in him. Just cold calculation and the desire to feed his ego at our expense. He wants to own what used to be out of his reach — your attention, your mind. This isn’t help. It’s buying a trophy.”

Helen stayed silent. She was thinking that this “trophy” could barely make ends meet right now.

Andrew squeezed the car into the narrow space between a trash bin and a broken pickup truck. When the engine died, the silence that followed felt heavy and sticky.

They got out and walked toward their building. The entrance greeted them with the usual smell of fried onions, cat urine, and dampness. The dirty stairs creaked under their feet, and the dim, flickering lights in the hallway highlighted every crack in the walls. The contrast with the shining L’Escale hit harder than any direct insult from Steve.

They climbed in silence, feeling their pride dissolve a little more with each step into this reality of decay.

***

The apartment greeted them with heavy, stale air. Andrew didn’t take off his jacket. He walked straight to the fridge and pulled out the last two bottles of cheap lager. The pop of the bottle opener sounded in the quiet kitchen like the final note of their social downfall.

“Five days, Helen. Five days you’ll be listed as his... accessory,” Andrew said, slamming the bottle down on the sticky table. His male pride, already beaten down by unemployment, was bleeding now. “He’s mocking us. He bought us the same way he bought those quails at the restaurant.”

Helen took a sip. The cold bitterness of the beer burned her throat. She was shaking with anger too, but her archaeologist’s brain — trained to work with facts, not feelings — was already building a logical chain for survival.

“What other choices do we have, Andrew?” She looked straight at him. “Will a court officer show up tomorrow? Or should we just put our diplomas out on the sidewalk and beg for money? Yes, he’s a rich, rude guy. Yes, he enjoys his power. But he gave his word. He swore he won’t force me into anything physical. For him, this is just a deal — business escort.”

“Steve and his word? Helen, he’s a businessman with no principles!” Andrew jumped up and started pacing the tiny kitchen.

“Listen to me,” Helen’s voice turned hard. “I’m not a helpless victim. If this ‘king of logistics’ decides he bought more than my time — if he thinks he bought my body — he’ll quickly remember why people in college were afraid to argue with me. I didn’t take two years of self-defense classes for nothing. If he crosses the line, I’ll knock him out with the first thing I grab — whether it’s a whiskey decanter or his own laptop.”

She clenched her fists. A dangerous determination flashed in her eyes.

“I won’t become a prostitute, Andrew. I’ll be his most valuable business partner. I can hold a conversation on anything — from the history of the Caribbean to the psychoanalysis of his investors. I’ll make sure he ends up owing me for my brain.”

Andrew stopped pacing. He was breathing hard. His wife’s arguments were hitting the mark.

“But you don’t even have anything to wear on the trip,” he muttered, trying to find any reason to stop this crazy plan. “They won’t let you into the hotel lobby in that dress.”

Helen gave a crooked smile and finished her beer.

“That’s his problem now. If he needs me so badly for his status, let him provide the ‘look.’ I’m not spending a single cent of the money he’s giving us on this. Let him open his bottomless checkbook and dress me the way a billionaire’s date should look.”

A long silence filled the kitchen. They looked at each other — two intellectuals broken by circumstances, now ready to make a deal with the devil from their past.

“Okay,” Andrew finally breathed out, his shoulders dropping. “We’ll do him this favor. But only so we never have to hear from him again.”

Helen nodded and reached for the phone. The decision was made.

The yellow taxi bounced over potholes on the way to Teterboro Airport. Helen pressed her forehead against the cold window. Outside, the gray New York rain turned the world into a blurry smear. Andrew couldn’t see her off — they finally gave him an extra shift at the clinic, and they couldn’t afford to lose even those few dollars. Their goodbye was short, dry, and awkward, as if both of them were embarrassed by what was happening.

Looking at the streams of water running down the glass, Helen slipped back into the past without meaning to. Steve. In high school he wasn’t the quiet loser Andrew tried to make him sound like. No, Steve Crowley was a force of nature. Aggressive, always with scraped knuckles, he had animal instincts and scary persistence.

She remembered senior year. His jealousy was almost something you could touch — he looked at any guy who came near her like a personal enemy. Helen remembered that evening after the school party, the smell of his cheap cologne and the feverish shine in his eyes. He cornered her in the gym, and in his hands there was no gentleness — only demanding, hungry ownership. He almost got her that night. It took all her strength, slaps, and screams to break free.

“I always get what I want, Hel,” he whispered into her back.

Ten years later, he hadn’t changed. He just traded the leather jacket for an Italian suit and replaced his fists with a checkbook. But the core was the same: he wasn’t inviting her. He was taking her.

Helen gripped the handle of her bag tighter. Inside, among the small amount of makeup, lay a heavy metal perfume bottle with sharp edges and a folding stiletto she had bought at the corner shop in her neighborhood.

“Five days,” she repeated to herself like a mantra.

She knew Steve would test her limits. He would play cat-and-mouse, enjoying her dependence on his money. But she was no longer the scared schoolgirl. She was a woman with nothing left to lose except her apartment and her struggling husband.

The taxi stopped at the private aviation terminal. Shiny limousines and white airplanes looked like they belonged to another planet. Helen took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and put on a mask of icy calm.

She had to be ready for anything. Always alert. Always armed. If Steve thought he had bought a quiet, obedient escort, he was in for a very unpleasant surprise.

***

A man in a coat met her at the airport entrance. Then a black SUV with tinted windows quietly drove her straight to the plane steps. As soon as the door opened, Helen was hit by warm, wet wind carrying the smell of jet fuel and damp concrete. Steve stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands casually in his pants pockets. No tie, top button of his shirt undone — it made him look deceptively relaxed.

Helen instinctively tightened her grip on the handles of her old bag, expecting a sharp comment about her worn coat or cheap shoes. She already had a quick comeback ready, but Steve only tilted his head slightly, studying her with a strange look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said simply, gesturing toward the stairs. “Go on in, Hel. They’re waiting for us in the sky.”

She climbed the steps, feeling like she was willingly putting her head into a golden trap. Each step was hard; her back muscles were tense to the limit.

The moment she stepped inside the plane, her breath caught.

This wasn’t an airplane in the usual sense. No narrow aisles, no knees pressed against the seat in front, no smell of heated plastic meals. She entered a spacious cabin finished in light leather, polished wood, and soft thick carpet that swallowed her heels. The lighting was soft and intimate, and the air carried a faint scent of expensive tobacco and sandalwood. This wasn’t just transportation — it was a flying symbol of power.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Steve said, pointing to one of the wide seats that looked more like a throne. “No fighting for the armrest here.”

She sank into the incredibly soft leather. The seat seemed to wrap around her body. Steve sat across from her. Between them was a wide table made of burl wood, already set with glasses and a chilled bottle of water.

The engines grew louder. The plane shook and started rolling. When the wheels left the ground and her body pressed back into the seat, everything inside Helen dropped. The dirty streets of New York, the unpaid bills, Andrew with his constant guilt — all of it shrank fast, turning into tiny dots far below under a layer of heavy gray clouds.

Ahead were five days on the island, five days alone with a man who never knew how to lose and who, she now understood, had prepared much more for her than just the role of a “smart companion.”

“We’re off,” Steve said quietly. “No way back now, Hel. Relax and try to enjoy not being in Brooklyn anymore.”

***

Helen sat with her back straight. The deceptive softness of the leather seat only sharpened her cold, prickly anger. With the trained eye of an archaeologist, she assessed the cost of everything around her: rare woods, inlaid details, hand-stitched leather.

In her head, a mental calculator clicked. The amount spent on this empty shine, this “flying palace,” could wipe out all their debts with Andrew in one stroke. Student loans, the mortgaged apartment, medical bills — everything would fit inside the price of just the coffee table they were sitting at.

“What madness,” she thought, gripping the armrests. “Excessive, pathological luxury.”

For someone used to spending months in dusty tents for the sake of one shard of an ancient amphora, this glamour wasn’t just foreign — it was offensive. She knew that a true intellectual needed nothing more than a clean table, a good book, and a strong cup of tea.

All this show around Steve was just an attempt to fill an inner emptiness that even millions couldn’t hide. She felt like a missionary in the den of a barbarian who believed gold made him better than everyone else.

Steve seemed completely unaware of the storm inside her. He calmly opened his laptop and dove into work. His fingers moved quickly across the keys; his face became focused and hard.

“If you get bored — there’s a panel on the wall,” he said without looking up. “Any streaming service, all the latest shows. Pick whatever you want. Sound through the headphones. We’ve still got several hours in the air.”

Helen gave a small nod. The screen that took up half the partition offered hundreds of ways to waste time and entertain yourself, but she didn’t move. She preferred to sit still and study Steve.