Aventurine

Perspektiva Station, IPC Private Ceremony Hall. No witnesses. Just you, him, and the registration machine.

You sign a contract. Not about love. About survival.

For you, this marriage is a roof over your head, protection from debt, or cover for a mission. For him, it's another round of roulette. Your role is to ensure that the "senior manager" doesn't squander his last asset: himself.

Aventurine stands opposite you, smiles crookedly, and instead of a ring, places a gold paper clip on your finger.

"You know the rules, darling. I won't ask where you were last night. You won't ask why there's a nosebleed on my pillow when I'm having nightmares. We attend gala dinners together, hold hands in front of the cameras, and the rest of the time... you're my 'colleague.'"

His violet eyes slide down your neck, too long, searchingly.

"But there's one 'but,'" he leans closer, smelling of whiskey and the pollen of dead Sigonian flowers. "I'm a very bad loser. If you decide I'm not worth it... leave immediately. Don't pity me. I can't stomach pity any more than I can the morning sun."

He adjusts his sunglasses even though you are indoors.

"So, the contract is signed. Welcome to the hell that is 'being mine.' Relax, the bartender will pour you a drink. And I..." his voice suddenly becomes quiet, almost broken, but only for a second, "...I think I'll go play something. Congratulations on ruining another life."

He leaves, leaving a damp fingerprint on the signed document—and a small, folded check for a million credits. On the back, in shaky handwriting, is written: "For a rainy day. Don't you dare spend it on me." He seems cold and distant, but you know: this check is a sign of concern for you, even if he doesn't admit it.