CHAPTER TWO
The ghastly Marriage Match sign shined down on me, daring me to walk through the doors that night. I would be twenty-five soon. By law, women had to be married by that age if they didn’t join the Corporate Army before then. While I was healthy enough for the CA, I had absolutely no fighting skills—other than street smarts. I would last a day in the Corporate Army’s trials.
So marriage it was.
I swallowed down my nerves and walked into the building. The business was closed this late at night, except for one cubicle where the light shone inside.
I walked straight toward the light and stuck out my hand. “Mr. Ethan Striker? Thank you so much for staying late for me.”
The man with the kind, brown eyes stood from his desk. He was a decent foot taller than I was, so I had to peer up at his face. The worker took my hand, and bent, kissing the top of it delicately. As he straightened, he shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not a problem, Ms. Peyton. But you are lucky you called when you did. I was getting ready to leave.”
He gestured for me to sit down in the spare chair across from his desk. Luckily, it was a well-cushioned seat, my body aching after the long, rough day at sea.
While he took his own seat with fluid grace, I explained—as an apology, “I’m a fisherman down at the docks. A storm came in, and it took longer than expected to get back to New City safely.”
Mr. Striker was kind enough not to comment on my smell. I was unable to take a shower before arriving. He simply swiveled his seat and began tapping on his computer board, a hologram appearing between us as he typed. The Marriage Match logo twirled in slow circles, the red heart with a cupid’s arrow through it annoying in its cuteness.
His brown eyes lifted from his computer board, staring directly into my gaze through the hologram. “First, I need you to read through the contract. If you agree, place your hand on the hologram for scanning.”
A contract flashed before my eyes.
But I had already read it before.
I flipped through it briefly, making sure there weren’t any changes, and then I placed my hand on the hologram. Red lines grew around my palm, pulsing on the screen. Then the Marriage Match logo was there again, all alone and twirling.
I sat back and waited patiently.
Mr. Striker detailed clearly, “A few of these questions will be of a personal nature. If you’re ever uncomfortable, just say so, and we’ll skip to another question.”
I nodded and clasped my hands in lap.
The Marriage Match logo disappeared, and a data form appeared, like any other basic form about a person—like at a doctor’s office.
“Full name?” Mr. Striker asked.
“Faith Ann Peyton.”
He typed as he questioned, “Birthdate?”
My lips pinched. “I don’t know the exact date.”
His blink was slow and his hands stalled over the computer board. “Excuse me?”
“I wasn’t born in New City. I was bornoutsideof the city. Far, far outside. My parents died when I was seven. Or, at least, that’s what age I was told when the Corporate Army found me and brought me to New City. New City Orphanage had a doctor evaluate me. She claimed that was my age.”
He cleared his throat, squirming in his seat, not completely believing me. “Do you have paperwork backing this up?”
I quickly pulled a piece of paper—an actual piece of paper—out of my pants pocket. It was a little fishy smelling from today’s endeavors, but it wasn’t ruined. “New City Hall gave this to me as certified proof of my age.”
He took the paper from my hand. His brown eyes skimmed the contents. Mr. Striker’s head nodded slowly. “This will do. This is what all New City citizens have as a birth certificate. Yours is just an approximation, but it will work.”
Mr. Striker quickly scanned the paper and then handed it back to me. His fingers tapped over the keyboard adding my approximate birthdate. Busy with his work, he added absently, “I am sorry for your loss, Ms. Peyton.”
I waved it off, as I always did. “I can’t remember them. And I’m sure they knew the dangers of living outside of a major city.”
What I didn’t include was the fact…that I could remember what it was like after they died. Scavenging the streets for any scraps of food—mainly dead animals. And sleeping under the stars during a snowstorm with only dead tree branches as blankets, their bark scraping my frozen skin with each breath I took. Or the relief I had felt when the CA had finally noticed a bloody little girl wandering a deserted and broken town…
I swallowed hard and focused on the man across from me. His eyes were scanning my features in an all-consuming way. It wasn’t creepy or unsettling. Mr. Striker was looking for something.
