I read the clause about personal consent twice. I read the clause about spouse protections three times. I read the line that says I may not be physically abused by the matched husband under the law, and such a hard wave of relief moves through me it almost makes me sick.
What kind of life teaches a woman to treat that like luxury?
A knock sounds at the door. Marai again. She steps inside without waiting long and takes one look at my face.
“You did it.”
I give a short nod.
“Well?”
I hand her the tablet.
She scans the first page, then lets out a low whistle. “Royal territorial pairing.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “You weren’t joking.”
“I didn’t think I’d match at all.”
“No one thinks they’ll match a king.”
I let out a tight little laugh. “I don’t even know what that means.”
Marai keeps reading, then lowers the tablet slowly. “It means you’re being offered a way out.”
I look down at my hands. “It means I’d belong to a male I’ve never met. Forever.”
She goes quiet. “And what do you belong to here?”
The question hits hard because it is unfair and true at the same time.
I say nothing.
Marai sits beside me on the bed. “Do you think Mars is going to get kinder next month?” she asks softly. “Do you think the jobs are coming back? Do you think the men in alleys are going to wake up decent? Do you think the rent notices are going to stop?”
I shake my head once.
“No,” she says. “So choose the thing that gives you a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
“Living long enough to find out.”
Silence stretches between us again. I stare at the contract. At the king’s name. At the settlement amount. At the lines promising provision and protection. I try to imagine what Gold Plains means. What a horde camp looks like. What kind of male submits to blood and scent matching, then waits for a human wife to be assigned to him.
I try to imagine his face and can’t. I try to imagine his hands and stop myself immediately.
Fear presses low and deep in my belly. But under it, something else is trying to form. Not excitement. Not yet. Relief. Or the beginning of it.
Marai stands to leave. Pauses at the door. “Whatever you choose, do it before Mars chooses for you.”
When she’s gone, I sit very still in the dim room until the lights shift into night mode and the red wall notice becomes the brightest thing in the space. Then I reach for the tablet.
My thumb hovers over the acceptance field while my heart pounds hard enough for me to hear it. This is not love. This is not fantasy. This is not a girl reaching for stars. This is a woman with too little food, too many closed doors, and one last offer in her hand.
I think about my mother’s hollow face. My father’s cough. My brother’s fever. The alley. The supervisor. The girls in the doorway. The bread warm in my hands last night. The red warning on the wall. The words you will never go hungry again sit inside the contract like a prayer.
Then I press my thumb to the screen. The tablet flashes once.
