Chapter 4: A Marriage of Convenience

I wasn’t lying to Caleb—I really was planning to get married.

Sort of. At least, it was the plan on paper. It sounded good enough to keep people from asking too many questions.

Ever since I started working at the governor’s mansion, matchmakers kept coming to propose matches for me. After refusing so many times, people in Maple Heights started looking at me strangely. After all, people my age already had kids running around.

In small towns, the older women at church take your relationship status as a personal project. They start bringing casseroles and dropping hints about their nieces and granddaughters. The church ladies would probably bake us a casserole for every day of the week if we tied the knot.

The year I arrived here, I had no ID, and there happened to be a flood in the Midwest. I took someone else’s place and came to the Foster family in Silver Hollow, finally settling down in this strange world.

It was the kind of story you only find in America—reinvention by necessity, the old life washed away by rising water and desperation. I’d slipped through the cracks, found a name that fit, and did my best to hold it together.

On the paperwork, I was a man, so I could only be a man. Otherwise, in a country with strict laws, as a black-market refugee impersonating someone else, I’d be thrown in jail for years.

The system isn’t kind to those who don’t fit neatly into boxes. Survival meant playing the part, even when it felt like a bad Halloween costume.

I was even glad I disguised myself as a man—at least I could live freely and learn a trade.

At least as a guy, people left me alone. I could get a job, pay rent, and keep my head down. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

The person I was to be engaged to was my neighbor, Natalie Brooks. She was two years older than me, a widow with a three-year-old daughter. I often helped her watch the house and chased away creeps and drunks. She was grateful and often helped mend my clothes and cook meals.

Natalie and I had fallen into an easy rhythm—neighbors helping neighbors. She made a mean pot roast and didn’t ask too many questions about my past.

Some time ago, Natalie asked me to see the circus in town. On the way home, she suddenly asked, “Alex, what do you think of me?”

The circus was a sad little affair—one elephant, two clowns, and a popcorn stand. But walking back at dusk, the lights of Maple Heights twinkling in the distance, Natalie looked hopeful in a way I hadn’t seen before.

At dusk, seeing her blushing face, I understood what she meant.

She twisted her hands together, glancing down at her shoes. Her daughter, Mia, clung to her skirt, half-asleep on her feet.

I thought for a while and told her, “Natalie, I’ve stayed single for so long because I like men. That’s something people just don’t accept.”

My voice was low, almost apologetic. I waited for the rejection, the disgust, maybe even anger. Instead, she just listened.

Natalie was silent for a long time. When we reached her door, she softly said, “What if I’m willing to be a fake couple with you?”

She looked up, her eyes shining in the porch light. There was something brave and a little desperate in her words.

That night, Natalie and I sat on the porch and talked for a long time. She propped her chin on her hand, gazing at a cluster of petunias in the yard, and said quietly, “Marriage isn’t much anyway. My parents took a check as a bride price from Dan Wheeler and sent me off like a package. The year Dan Wheeler got drunk and drowned, I actually felt relieved. If things didn’t go his way, he’d hit me. When I gave birth to Mia, if you hadn’t saved me, I would’ve drowned myself and my child. If Mia grows up only to be sent off like I was, she’d be better off not growing up at all.”

Her voice was soft, the kind that breaks your heart. I watched the fireflies dance over the grass and wished I could give her an answer that would make everything better.

I didn’t know how to comfort her.

There are wounds you can’t fix with words. I reached over and squeezed her hand, hoping it was enough.

This world is like this—no one can change it.

It was a truth as old as the hills. Some folks survive by pretending the world is kinder than it is.

When I first arrived here, without an ID, I wandered everywhere and nearly got trafficked a few times.

Bus stations at midnight, greasy diners where men watched too close, every shadow a threat. I learned to keep moving, never trusting anyone too quickly.

Here, women are treated like property, livestock, servants—anything but people.

It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I saw it everywhere. A neighbor’s daughter married off at sixteen. Another woman vanished after her husband lost his job. People whispered, but no one did a thing.

Natalie saw I was silent. Her voice grew very soft: “Actually, the night Dan Wheeler died, I was hiding nearby. I saw you pour a pot of water on the porch steps, and it froze quickly. Dan Wheeler passed by, got hit in the leg by a rock, slipped on the ice, couldn’t get up, and fell into the creek. You stood quietly under the bridge, didn’t call out or try to save him—just watched him drown and left.”

She shivered as she spoke, arms wrapped tight around her knees. I remembered that night: the bitter wind, the crunch of ice, the way I’d stood silent, heart pounding. It wasn’t something I was proud of.

I glanced at her and said gently, “Natalie, you must have seen wrong. That night I was drinking with Derek at the bar and never left.”

The lie tasted bitter, but some things were safer left buried—especially on nights like this.

I didn’t promise Natalie I would marry her.

But sometimes, just listening is a promise all its own. She wiped her eyes and gave me a look that said she understood—maybe more than I wanted her to.

Natalie cried and said, “Alex, I can’t do this alone. Mia needs someone. I need someone.”

Her plea was desperate, a mother’s fear laid bare. The system didn’t care about love—just paperwork and bloodlines.

According to the laws of this state, if a widow doesn’t remarry, her children might be sent to foster care. Sometimes those in power, to pad the numbers, know exactly how to force a woman to jump into the fire.

The county courthouse had a reputation for turning a blind eye. Kids shuffled from home to home, lost in a system that chewed them up and spat them out.

Dan Wheeler’s family is out in the country and his parents are influential. If Mia is sent back to the Wheeler family, who knows what kind of life awaits her.

I’d heard stories—Mia’s future would be bleak, at best. I couldn’t let that happen.

Thinking of Mia’s sweet little face, I sighed and said, “I’ll come propose tomorrow.”

Her smile was shaky, but real. For a moment, I almost felt like a hero.