Terms and Conditions

The contract was eleven pages long. Maya read every word twice, sitting across from Voss's lawyer, a woman named Priya who had the patient expression of someone who had done this before — which raised questions Maya decided not to ask.

Public appearances: a minimum of two per month. Cohabitation: required, for credibility, in the penthouse's east wing, which had its own entrance, its own kitchen, and a lock. Physical contact: hand-holding and "contextually appropriate" gestures only. Social media: joint approval required for any post. And clause nine, underlined: either party may terminate the arrangement at any time, with thirty days' notice and full payment.

"It's a better deal than most marriages," Priya said dryly.

Maya signed.

She moved in on a Saturday with two suitcases and a plant she refused to abandon. The penthouse was beautiful in the way museums are beautiful — everything chosen, nothing touched. Her wing had floor-to-ceiling windows and a drafting table already assembled in the corner, positioned to catch the north light. She hadn't told anyone she worked best in north light. She stood looking at it for a long time.

That evening, Alexander knocked on her door — actually knocked, on a door inside his own apartment — and held out a phone.

"My mother wants to video call. She knows we're engaged. She's very happy." A pause. "She cries."

"Is that good or bad?"

"I genuinely don't know. It's been thirty years since I saw her do it."

The woman on the screen had Alexander's cheekbones and none of his armour. "Maya," she said, like the name was a gift. "He told me you design libraries. A man who brings home a woman who builds places for books — I raised him right after all."

Over Evelyn Voss's shoulder, Maya could see a hospital bracelet on the nightstand. She smiled until her face ached, and answered every question, and only made up the parts about how they met.

After the call ended, Alexander stood in her doorway, unusually still.

"Thank you," he said. It sounded like a phrase he had learned from a book.

"Clause nine," Maya reminded him, and closed the door gently, and sat on her bed wondering why a business transaction had left her chest feeling like a room with all the furniture rearranged.