another complication

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat, the scrape of authority returning. “I must remind you both that, while this… emotional reconciliation was commendable, time was not a luxury you had. The legal deadline for the marriage stood. Miss Glinka’s fiancé was fully aware of the situation, and he was already making arrangements to come here.”

You stiffened against Andrea, pulling back enough to glare at the doctor. “Making arrangements? What the hell did that mean? He was coming here—to 'claim me'?”

The doctor adjusted his glasses, refusing to flinch. “In a manner of speaking, yes. He signed the necessary documents under the condition that the marriage proceed as scheduled. Without it, the Home Office would revoke your visa status, and deportation would follow. Russia would then decide what to do with… the body.”

Your hands gripped Andrea's tighter, almost painfully. “Wasn’t there any alternative?” you demanded. You voice cracked, pleading. “Some appeal, some loophole—something other than… this?”

The doctor’s gaze softened only slightly, as though pity leaked through the cracks of his professionalism. “We were in uncharted waters, Mr. Meadows. The law recognized bodies, not transplanted consciousness. To the state, you were Yulia Glinka, not Steven Meadows. The fiancé’s consent was instrumental in securing the procedure. Without his cooperation, there would have been no chance at all.”

Your blood turned to ice. “So what—you expected me to stand at an altar in a wedding dress, vow myself to some man I’d never met, just to stay in this country?”

The doctor’s silence was answer enough.

You whirled on Andrea, betrayal slicing through the fragile bond she’d tried to rebuild. “And you agreed to this? You signed me away? My body, my freedom—my name?”

Andrea shook her head violently, tears spilling fresh. “Steve, listen—I didn’t see another way. They told me it was this or lose you completely. I thought we’d have more time—I thought we could fight it, challenge it, something. But I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you die!”

The room tilted, your pulse roaring in your ears. Married. Next week. To a stranger who thought you were his bride. Your reflection in the mirror mocked you again, lips swollen into a permanent pout, eyes rimmed with panic.

The doctor checked his watch, already preparing to leave. “You should prepare yourselves. He will be here tomorrow to see… his fiancée. I suggest you use the time to come to terms with the situation.”

The click of the door as he left was too final, like a cell locking shut.

Andrea reached for you again, her face streaked and ****. “Please, Steve… don’t hate me. I swear, I’ll find a way out of this. But until then—you need to hold on. Just hold on.”

You stared at her, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might burst out of this foreign chest. Tomorrow. Tomorrow the man who thought he owned this body would walk through that door.

And you didn’t know if you’d collapse… or kill him.