He should be at the office.

His phone buzzed. He didn't check it. He knew what it said. The same thing every message had said for weeks: Have you thought about it? The shortlist closes Friday. You know how this looks.

He knew how it looked. Thirty-four. Single. No serious relationship in years. His name on the shortlist for Deputy Minister of Foreign Affairs the youngest candidate, the smartest, the most qualified and none of it mattered because he was alone.

In politics, alone meant unstable. Alone meant questions. Alone meant why hasn't anyone locked him down yet?

His mother had been clearer: Find someone. Anyone. Just do it.

So here he was. City Hall. Watching grey coats and thinking about marriage like it was a line item on a budget.

The line moved.

He turned, just to look at something else, and saw her.

Plain clothes. Plain face. Arms crossed. She stood in the next line over, staring at nothing. Not at her phone. Not at the people around her. Just... nothing.

She didn't look at him.

That was the thing. She didn't look at him.

He was used to being looked at. Used to eyes following him into rooms, used to smiles that meant something, used to conversations where every word was calculated. He'd spent five years as an ambassador. He knew when people wanted something.

She wanted nothing. She hadn't even registered him.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," he said.

She turned. Slow. Unimpressed.

"You too."

Her voice was flat. Not cold. Just... flat. Like she'd used up her interest in the world years ago and never found more.

"I'm Dominic."

She looked at him for a beat too long. Not recognition just assessment. Then: "Caitlyn."

The line moved again. He should face forward. Do what he came here to do. But his mouth kept going.

"I need to get married."

He hadn't meant to say it. It just came out. Like confession. Like a dare.

She didn't laugh. Didn't look shocked. Didn't even blink.

"Today," he added. "Now."

She looked at him again. That same flat assessment. He felt like a document she was deciding whether to sign.

"Why?"

The question was simple. No judgment. Just curiosity.

He told her the truth. "Because I can't get promoted without a wife. And I don't have time to find one the normal way."

She nodded. Like that made sense. Like people came to City Hall and proposed to strangers every day.

"You?" he asked.

"What about me?"

"Why are you here?"

She hesitated. Just for a second. Then: "Paperwork."

He waited for more. She didn't give it.

The line moved. They were almost at the counter.

"So?" he said. "What do you think?"

She could walk away. Should walk away. He was a stranger. This was insane.

But she didn't move.

"Marriage," she said. Like she was tasting the word. "Paper only?"

"Paper only."

"No questions?"

"No questions."

She looked at him one last time. That flat, unreadable gaze.

Then: "I'll do it."

He blinked. "Just like that?"

"Just like that."

They filled out forms together. Name. Date of birth. Address. He wrote his real one. She wrote something. He didn't check.

No questions. That was the deal.

Outside, the air was cold. She stood on the steps, arms crossed again, looking at nothing.

He gave her a card. His address. His number.

"Move your things when you can," he said.

She took the card. Looked at it. Nodded.

Then she walked away.

Didn't look back.

He stood there for a long moment, watching her disappear into the crowd. He didn't know her last name. Didn't know where she worked. Didn't know anything.

He was married.

And for the first time in years, no one was watching him.