Your engagement had been arranged before you had ever met the person whose name would eventually share legal space with yours.

As you anticipated the meet, having been told one day it’d happen anonymously—a month later, when it was raining, a limo had pulled up beside you as you were walking down the street. You got in, and they were telling you it was time. “He’s on the 82nd floor, 1st office.” “Make sure you give him these for his lunch.” “This is great for press. Oh, and DON’T spill anything.”

After passing many boardrooms and struggling to keep the proper pace as you held your mystery guy’s lunch, you got to the 82nd floor and knocked on the office door. There wasn’t an answer, so you waited inside, on the black marble desk was, “Dominic B.” In gold. Then muffled stomps hurried to the room before the door opened and the man you’d marry came.

“What in the— I’m supposed to be taking important business calls, not to mention I am to be married so, what is this?”