“Before departure, I am required to review the marriage terms again and confirm that you accept them with full understanding.”
I give a small nod.
“This is your final opportunity to refuse before transport.”
My fingers tighten. The words hang in the warm little space between us. I could still say no. The thought comes and goes in one beat. Not because I want to refuse. Because I need to feel, just once more, that the choice is mine before I hand it over.
“I understand,” I say.
Marat inclines his head.
“Then listen carefully.”
The shuttle shifts under us as the systems begin to power. Somewhere forward, machinery hums deeper. I brace my boots against the floor without meaning to.
Marat opens the contract and begins in that same calm, exact voice that makes every word feel weighted.
“The marriage you are entering is permanent. It is not seasonal, temporary, or trial-based. Under Tigris law and the interplanetary treaty governing these unions, you will be the legal wife of King Kaiven of Vek Talan for the duration of your lives, unless death or extraordinary legal dissolution occurs.”
Duration of your lives. The phrase takes a second to settle. Lifetime. Not a contract with an end point. Not something I survive long enough to walk away from after saving enough money. Life.
I swallow.
“So if I go, that is it.”
“If you go, you go as wife.”
The shuttle lifts. The motion presses through the seat back. My stomach drops, then steadies. Through the narrow window beside me, the dock falls away. Then the building. Then the platform. Mars already sliding down beneath me. I make myself look forward again before the sight hits too hard.
Marat continues. “As part of the marriage, you will be housed, clothed, fed, and protected according to the status of your husband’s household. Because you are entering a king’shousehold, these obligations are significant and enforceable. You will not be left without shelter. You will not be denied food. You will not be denied basic medical treatment. You will not be traded, leased, or subjected to non-consensual public use.”
I stare at him. The words are clinical. Meant to reassure. But I am too used to the ugliness under the world not to hear what must have happened to other women, somewhere, for those protections to need saying out loud.
“You keep saying obligations,” I say carefully. “That means they’re required.”
“Yes.”
“And if he doesn’t care?”
Marat’s expression does not change.
“He will care.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
A pause.
“He is bound,” Marat says. “And so is his territory.”
I look down at my hands. My nails are short and clean now. Cleaner than yesterday. Soap and warm water and one decent meal, and already my hands look a little less like survival. A little more like someone who belongs in clean rooms and contracts. It feels like a lie.
“What are the hard customs?” I ask.
This time he pauses longer.
“Many.”
“That helps.”
