Chapter 1 The Man Behind the Mask
# Chapter 1 — The Man Behind the Mask
I've always believed there were three types of broke college students: those who worked retail, those who donated plasma, and those who mooched off their parents. I, Callie Bennett, had tried all three and still couldn't make rent. That's why I was sitting in this overpriced hotel bar, nursing a drink I couldn't afford, waiting for a man whose face I'd never seen.
The dating profile had been sparse—no photos, just the username "Mephistopheles" and the line: "Intellectual companionship sought. Generosity guaranteed." His messages were eloquent, almost academic. When he transferred $500 just for agreeing to meet him, I stopped questioning my life choices.
My roommate Jada thought I was insane. "You're literally meeting Hannibal Lecter," she'd said, applying another coat of mascara before her shift at the campus coffee shop. "At least text me every thirty minutes so I know you're not being dismembered."
I promised I would, though I doubted a serial killer would choose the Four Seasons lobby bar for his hunting ground. The place screamed old money—all mahogany and leather, low lighting that flattered even the most haggard faces. I felt distinctly out of place in my thrift store dress, though I'd splurged on new shoes with part of that $500.
My phone buzzed.
*Look for the man reading Kierkegaard.*
I scanned the room and froze. In the corner, partially obscured by a large potted plant, sat a figure in an impeccable charcoal suit. His face was hidden behind a hardcover copy of "Fear and Trembling," but something about his posture—straight-backed yet relaxed—seemed familiar.
As I approached, he lowered the book slightly. Dark sunglasses covered his eyes despite the dim lighting. A classic sugar daddy move, I thought. Protecting his identity.
"Mephistopheles?" I asked, trying to sound confident.
The book closed. "Ms. Bennett," he replied. That voice—cool, measured, with just a hint of condescension.
My stomach dropped. I knew that voice. It had called my name during roll call every Tuesday and Thursday for the past semester. It had told me, three separate times now, that my understanding of ethical frameworks was "disappointingly rudimentary."
He removed his sunglasses, and my worst fear materialized.
Dr. Quentin Hale. My ethics professor. The man who'd failed me three times.
I stood there, mortified, as the blood drained from my face. He didn't look surprised at all. In fact, there was the faintest trace of amusement in his eyes—the same look he got when a student made a particularly naïve argument in class.
Time stretched between us like taffy. Around us, people chatted, glasses clinked, soft jazz played. But in our bubble of mutual recognition, there was only silence and the hammering of my heart.
Run, my brain screamed. But my legs wouldn't move.
Finally, I managed, "I should go."
"Sit down, Callie," he said quietly. It wasn't a request.
Somehow, I found myself sinking into the chair across from him. My mind raced: Was this entrapment? Some twisted test? Would I be expelled? My scholarship revoked?
"I'm not—" I started, then stopped, unsure what I wasn't. Not a sugar baby? Not desperate enough to trade companionship for money? Both were lies.
Dr. Hale—Quentin—regarded me with that infuriating calm. The same expression he wore when dismantling a student's argument in class. He was younger than most professors, probably mid-thirties, with dark hair that always looked deliberately tousled and piercing green eyes that missed nothing.
"Would you like another drink?" he asked, nodding toward my nearly empty glass.
"I want an explanation," I said, finding my voice. "Did you know it was me? Is this some kind of sick joke?"
"Would you believe me if I said this was coincidence?"
"No."
A smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Good. Critical thinking. Perhaps you've learned something in my class after all."
My cheeks burned. "So you did know. What is this—blackmail? Are you going to threaten to report me unless I—"
"Unless you what, Callie?" His voice remained even, almost soft. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves with unfounded accusations. That's hardly the mark of rigorous ethical reasoning."
I wanted to slap him. Or cry. Maybe both.
Instead, I said, "I need to leave. This was a mistake."
As I stood, grabbing my purse, he didn't move to stop me. He simply said, "Do you know why I failed you three times?"
Despite myself, I paused.
"Not because you lack intelligence. You're one of the brightest students I've had. I failed you because you refuse to engage with the material honestly. You give me what you think I want to hear—textbook answers without personal investment."
I turned back to face him. "So what, this is some twisted teaching moment? Seeing if your student is desperate enough to—"
"To what? To pursue her own interests? To exercise agency in an economic system stacked against her? To make choices about her own body and time?" His eyebrow arched. "How fascinating that you immediately frame this in terms of desperation rather than choice."
The worst part was how calm he remained, as if we were discussing the weather rather than the fact that I'd just discovered my ethics professor moonlighted as a sugar daddy.
"You're my teacher," I hissed. "This is wrong on every level."
He leaned forward slightly. "Is it? By whose ethical framework? Certainly not utilitarianism—no one's being harmed. Not virtue ethics—we're both being honest now. Perhaps you're appealing to deontological principles? But even Kant allows for nuance."
"Stop. Just stop turning this into another lecture."
Dr. Hale sat back, studying me. Then he said the words that would echo in my head for weeks to come:
"Look at me, Callie. Really look. I haven't raised my voice. I haven't threatened you. I haven't even suggested continuing whatever arrangement you thought you were entering into." His voice dropped lower. "What I see is that you're still approaching ethics—and life—from the outside looking in. You're still performing what you think is expected rather than engaging with what is."
He reached for his wallet, placed several hundred-dollar bills on the table—far more than our drinks cost.
"Look me in the eyes and tell me this isn't exactly what you expected when you signed up on that website. A powerful man, throwing money around, making you feel small."
I couldn't speak.
"That's what I thought," he said, rising. "Look at you, frozen in moral panic, yet you haven't walked away." He gathered his book and sunglasses. "You know what your problem is? You're still operating on a superficial understanding of freedom. You claim to want it, but you're terrified of actually exercising it."
As he moved past me, he stopped, his voice now barely audible.
"Look at you, Callie. Look at how your curiosity is fighting with your shame right now. That's the real ethical dilemma—not what society thinks, but what you actually want versus what you think you should want."
He placed his business card on the table next to the cash.
"If you're interested in continuing your education—your real education—text me. If not, I'll see you in class on Tuesday, and we'll never speak of this again."
Then he was gone, leaving me standing there, card in hand, feeling like I'd just been hit by lightning.
The truth was, I wasn't sure what terrified me more: the fact that my ethics professor had just caught me trying to become a sugar baby, or the fact that part of me wanted to text him already.
