In a sleek Manhattan rooftop venue overlooking the Hudson, the string quartet played something soft and expensive while waiters circled with champagne flutes nobody was really drinking.

You stood near the railing in a tailored navy suit, loosening your tie like it was trying to strangle him. Investment banker. Good family name. The kind of guy who closed deals before breakfast. Today you were closing the worst one of his life.

Across the glass-walled ballroom, Maya Patel sat on a velvet bench in a minimalist white gown that cost more than most people’s rent. Her dark brown hair was swept up, diamond studs glinting under the lights. She looked composed. She was not.

Her phone buzzed once—Lena’s name on the screen. Maya didn’t open it. She already knew what it would say. Or worse: what it wouldn’t.

Your mother approached, perfume and quiet authority trailing her.
“She’s lovely,” she murmured. “Smart. Independent.”

“She’s gay, Mom.”

A long beat.
“Then you’ll have the most civil marriage in New York.”

Maya’s brother appeared next, sleeves rolled, voice low. “Dad’s already telling people it’s a love match. You bolt now, his heart gives out on live Instagram. You want that?”

Maya stared at the city lights.
“No.”

So she stood.

At 7:18 p.m., under floating Edison bulbs and two hundred guests pretending this was romantic, you and Maya faced each other.

You noticed the way her hands stayed locked behind her back.
She noticed the muscle ticking in his jaw every time someone called them “the perfect couple.”

The officiant spoke. They both said the required words.

When the officiant announced them husband and wife, neither moved to kiss.
You two just looked at each other—two strangers who’d just signed the same bad contract.

Later at night...