The first time I met Beatrice was nothing like the second.

The first time, she seemed like an answer to every woman’s prayer about mother-in-laws.

She had insisted on cooking herself, and not in the performative kind of way, where they hover, waiting for you to wrestle the spoon from them.

She had genuinely shooed me away with playful annoyance, while I tried to figure out what to do with myself.

Beatrice was a sight to behold.

Her dark ivory skin carried an almost impossible evenness,and I stole glances as she drifted through the kitchen twice the size of my apartment.

“So,” she asked over lunch, as casually as someone asking which drink I preferred Mimosas or Rosé. “where are your parents from?”

The dining room felt smaller than it looked.

Quieter too.

With only the three of us sat at the enormous table, a fourth chair dividing us.

Behind it hung a potrait of a broad-shouldered man with kind eyes, and grey threaded through his hair.

K.Bell himself.

“I... I’m not sure, Ma.” I coughed.

I had never got around to asking my mother where she came from during those rare occasions her legs were closed long enough for a conversation.

I don’t think I cared to.

My Father, on the otherhand, loved stories.

He had spent parts of his childhood working as a farm hand for different men. Greens, Amber and, once, a Red-Lister who apparently always wore as mask. “My Belle, the rich are very strange,” he used to say, shaking his head while his shoulders bounced with laughter.

I looked down at the plate in front of me. Trying to understand the drop of orange paint, speck of green weed and something foamed at it’s corner.

I lifted a teaspoon to my lips and fought my face from forming a grimace.

Why do rich people hate nutrition?

Is being full considered working class?

“Oh?” Beatrice gasped.

Then she exchanged a glance with Frank. It was quick, but something passed between them.

“My father died of heartbreak after my mother ran away with her High-Risk lover.” I rushed, eager to fill whatever gaps were forming in her mind. “She left my twin brother and I behind.”

“Oh, dear.”

Beatrice shifted forward in her seat, sympathy replacing her curiosity.

“So your father raised you…alone?”

Before I could answer, Frank squeezed my hand beneath the table.

“Mother, lets not season this wonderful meal with questions. I’m sure you and Annie will become well acquainted later.”

Beatrice apologised at immediately.

My eyebrows knit in confusion.

Frank, what’s it like having a functional family.

No protest.

No, I’m only trying to get to know her.

No insistence that my ancestry was relevant to lunch.

Just a graceful retreat.

“We’ll have plenty of time for stories, dear.” Beatrice smiled. “Eat your Amuse-Bouche.”

As though stopping the interrogation had been her idea.

By the time we pulled into the estate for my second visit, I was actually looking forward to seeing Beatrice again.

Frank had just submitted his third marriage licence.

Ours.

A proposal.

We were moving the correct pace. Five months of intensity is worth more than years of whatever Vivian and Edmond were doing.

If you asked my friends however, we were going too fast.

But no one believed in dating anymore.

Not really, especially since it guaranteed nothing.

This was either a green or not.

Personally, I preferred it this way. There was so much waste in the old ways. So much that left room for rot and eventual decay. There was no need for flash mobs, or violinists, or strangers handing you a rose.

No need for the vanity token of a ring.

Frank, unsurprisingly, was in his element as we picked up the licence.

“Three times the charm, isn’t it, Charles?” he grinned across the counter, making the auditor throw his head back in explosive laughter. It warmed my heart to see how effortlessly he brought joy into every room he entered.

“Frank... you’re keeping us employed.”

“It is my civic duty.”

I started a cough that transitioned into laughter.

That was Frank’s real talent.

Joy.

He was a real gentleman too, waiting till we were married to bed me. He told me he’d made the mistake twice and was sure not to make it again.

“This time we would do it properly. Mother would see to it.” He’d said.

A man who cherished his mother was sure to cherish his wife even moreso.

Surely.

I could not wait to fill our home with love and most importantly babies.

As we slid into the sleek interior of his electric sedan, Frank informed me we would be having lunch at the Bell estate to celebrate our pre-proposal clearance. I quickly typed out a message to the girls, eager to lock in evening plans.

About to be off the market! Drinks at 8? My treat.

Two laughing emojis.

One crying emoji from Vivian.

Confetti, confetti, confetti.

Beatrice received in wearing a gold.

Her bubu that appeared to have doubled as an agbada. Her silhouette was so commanding my knees had already begun negotiating a curtsy. They simply assumed this was the kind of woman one bowed to.

How does one even acquire a Bubu Agbada Hybrid?

“Annie!” Beatrice exclaimed. “Oh, congratulations, my dear.” She pulled me into a lavish embrace.

Her signature perfume was daring and dense, a sharp citrus note singing the edges of my nose. Yet, despite its intensity, I found myself leaning in, inhaling deeper.

Then people started appearing. Dressed in white highneck suites. They looked like chefs.

Frank, why are there seven chefs hovering around us? I looked at Frank.

My eyes begged for an explaination. He did not meet my gaze.

Another retinue of domestic service staff, unseen during my first visit, suddenly surfaced from the corridors, moving with quiet efficiency. They relieved me of my coat, handed me the softest fleece-lined house slippers I had ever worn, and pressed a chilled flute of sparkling prosecco into my hand.

I looked from the uniformed staff to Frank.

His eyes remained fixed on the sweeping back of his mother’s golden outfit.

I nudged him.

“This is... new.”

“What is?” he whispered indulging my amusement with a smirk.

I gestured broadly.

“All this.”

I lowered my voice.

“Who are these people? Where were they when-”

“Oh Annie!” Beatrice called before Frank could betray the sentiments that hung on his lips. “Come, come. Sit with me. Lunch will be ready shortly.”

The dining room looked nothing like I remembered.

The same impossibly long mahogany table was now drowning beneath flowers, polished silver and enough place settings to host a constitutional conference.

My eyeballs felt like they would burst from how far my eyebrows tugged in surprise.

I glanced at Frank.

Are we expecting people? I said with my eyes.

He lifted one shoulder.

“Am I included in this... catch-up?” he asked hopefully, attempting to trail along behind us.

Beatrice smiled over the rim of her prosecco.

“Oh, don’t be silly dear.” She waved. “My friends and I will be spending the afternoon with our beautiful Annie.”

Then she added, almost affectionately, “you know how this works.”

I looked at Frank.

You know how this works?

I fought down a sudden prickle of unease, as my eyes darted between Frank and his mother.

“Yes, Mother.”

Frank crossed the room, bent down and kissed the top of my head.

It was astonishingly chaste.

Not fiancé chaste but like Golden retriever chaste. The sort of kiss one gives a beloved pet before leaving it with the groomer.

So what is this? Bye bye now Annie be a good girl?

“I’ll make myself useful in Father’s study.” He straightened up, offering an apologetic shrug.

Don’t leave me here, alone.

Beatrice watched him disappear down the corridor.

Only after the heavy double doors clicked shut behind him did she turn back to me.

Her smile creased the corners of her lip, but never reached her eyes. The once promised warmth died underneath her gaze.

I felt a shiver run down my spine.

The shutters hummed softly as they glided across the windows, sealing the afternoon sun out.

Without a word, Beatrice swept the flowers from the table. Petals scattered on the floor.

“Now”, her voice gentle yet firm, “lie down, dear.”

The first Green Vivian set me up with was her Father.

After TJ, I hadn’t bothered to hide my despair.

Mostly because I couldn’t even if I’d wanted to.

I ignored Vivian’s text, Celeste’s increasingly aggresive banana-cake deliveries and Elaine’s calls for weeks before all three of them finally appeared at my door.

“You didn’t even know his name.” Celeste said, catching a stray tear with an extended tissue. “He can’t have been that good a Green if he wouldn’t even tell you.”

I had told them a half truth.

It was the only respectable way to mourn a man I wasn’t supposed to even glance at let alone miss.

“He was probably High-Risk and scared you’d find out.” Vivian said, nodding sagely at herself. “I hear they are cowards.”

Very close Viv. Give the girl a gold star.

“Anyway.” She straightened, handing Celeste her barely touched mimosa. “ I think it’s better if we set you up with someone we know. Someone you can definitely trust.”

I nodded mechanically, and continued to fiddle with the hem of my dress.

“You have someone already?!” Elaine shrieked, delighted by the opportunity to cleanse the room of grief with gossip.

“Ofcourse.”

Vivian was already typing.

“I’ll set it up. Le Piur. Friday. Seven-thirty.”

Had my head not been to heavy to lift, my eyes bloodshot, raw and swollen to focus and my body too tired to produce the necessary reaction, I might have thrown her phone against the wall.

I might have asked whether they were insane.

Whether any of them had ever actually been in love.

Then I would have sworn off the entire system.

Greens. Ambers. High-Risks. Red-Lists. Pulse scores. Licences.

Men.

Instead, I croaked, “Okay.”

Satisfied they pivoted seamlessly to a new topic, buzzing excitedly about the trending drama at Heritage Farms in the news cycle. The announcement of the death of Kincaid Bell, and speculation en masse about his death and the real heir to the most profitable business in The Republic.

I moved through the rest of the week on autopilot.

By Friday, the only thing I was looking forward to was a free meal.

The Greens the girls has arranged for me before TJ had all been mind-numbingly boring, but they had consistently saved me the trouble of planning dinner.

I am perpetually grateful whenever I don’t have to operate a stove.

My date arrived twelve minutes late while I was halfway through aggressivley gnawing on breadsticks.

He wore a fitted powder blue button-down work shirt with sleeves rolled neatly at the forearms.

Straight from work.

I prepared myself for forty minutes about a bitch who had stolen his promotion, a supervisor who didn’t appreciate him, or a particular injustice of being overworked and underpaid.

The usual Green mating script.

Mmm a whinning adult. Very sexy.

A gust of cologne reached the table before he did, and immediately watered my eyes as he slid into the booth across from me.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” He smiled adjusting himself in his seat. “Let me order us drinks.”

His nose hairs made the faintest rustle, a static sound as he sucked in a sharp breath. I met his eyes while discreetlly counting the silver dots peppered through his neatly boxed beard.

And what is your name ,Foxy grey?

“No worries, I’ll have a glass of prosecco”.

“Nice.”

His gaze travelled, calculating a once-over that hovered around my chest before he waved the waiter over.

“I’m sure you have many questions,” he said. “Would you mind if I got to know you more first?”

What about my questions?

What is your name

How old are you?

How are you still Green?

I am for sure looking you up on the database

And where the hell does Vivian keep finding you people?

“Ofcourse.” I gave him a brittle laugh that came out three pitches too high. “It gives me time to think of some questions myself.”

“You’re so modest.” His weyes twinkled. Then his expression changed.

“Oh I’m such an idiot. I’m Rich. Richard, actually, but friends call me Rich.”

You better be.

He extended his hand.

“I’m Annabel, everyone calls me Annie.”

“Great. How old are you, Annie?”

“Oh.”

Wow. Straight to it Rich.

“I’m in my late twenties. Yourself?” I strained my lips into a thin smile.

“I turn fifty in a few months.” He chuckled “I thought we should address the elephant in the room incase its an issue for you so we don’t waste each others time.”

Nope.

A Green is a Green.

“I’m open to getting to know you better Richard.”

“Good, good.” He grinned.

“My daughter was keen on me meeting you. I was surprised, but you come highly recommended, I can see why.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes Vivian.”

I stared at him

“You’re her Father?”

“Indeed I am.”

That should have ended the evening.

It did not.

There was still dinner.

And as it turned out, dessert at his house.

They say you have to kiss a lot of frogs before you find your prince.

Apparently, hump the occasional donkey too.

Richard was perfectly respectable Prince material, but he was nothing compare to Frank.

If anything, I came to consider him a goodluck charm because a little over a week after Richard and I had very casually concluded our acquaintance, I met Frank at the centre.

Frank then took a whole month to call me.

Enough time to research his whole lineage.

Naturally, there were the ex-wives.

Priscilla his first. Then Stella, the nervous woman from the Pulse Centre.

Priscilla looked nothing like Stella.

She was tall and fair skinned, with plush pink lips. She had the sort of face that seemed structurally opposed to smiling. Every photograph carried the same stoic expression.

Stella, on the otherhand, had a downturn to her mouth that made her look permanently disappointed. Their divorce had yet to be formally announced online, but Frank had been photographed alone since his review. Rumours had begun swarming beneath every article about him.

One woman in the comment section seemed to have appointed herself Minister of Frank Bell affairs.

She insisted an obvious reason for the divorce, a lack of children.

Whenever anyone pointed out that three failed marriages might place Frank dangerously close to the Red List, she appaeared.

Frank Bell would never be Red, she had insisted. He is the heir to Heritage Farms.

Delusional girl.

Frank had two brothers and a sister.

He was the second son.

Why would the second son be the heir?

I was about to type exactly that when I found someone else had already asked.

The woman replied within minutes in capitals:

BECAUSE HE IS THE ONLY LEGITIMATE BELL SON.

I stared at the screen.

What an odd thing to say.

Her sentiments sent me deeper into my search.

I looked at pictures of Kincaid and Beatrice Bell. They looked so regal I nearly curtsied at my phone. If The Republic had a royal family, it would be the Bells.

K. Bell had apparently died of a sudden stroke during his eldest son’s wedding.

Heritage Farms stock dipped immediately afterwards, though the loss was largely symbolic. A company responsible for more fresh produce than some countries could grow themselves did not simply stop being rich because its founder died.

I remembered visiting to Heritage Farms during their Open Walk season, with my Father when I was a teenager.

They don’t do those anymore.

The place had seemed endless. I couldn’t imagine a single human being walking its length no matter how leisured the walk.

Uniformed workers moved between immaculate structures. Hygiene officers inspected us before making us climb into disposable boiler suits at the start of our walk-in.

I had been thrilled.

My father had been offended.

“Are our clothes not good enough to walk the high and mighty Heritage Farms?” he grumbled, wrestling with the zip.

I couldn’t stop smiling.

I was even happier when I realised we could take the suits home.

“Godforbid they’re sustainable and reuse them,” my father muttered after the guard refused to take his back at the gate.

The Bells.

Heritage Farms.

Frank.

It was a lot to take in.

Still, I left no stone unturned.

By the third week, however, I concluded Frank Bell had forgotted I existed.

My first real relationship was off the record, with a man whose name I never knew.

He was a High-Risk man.

Yes, very on brand with my whoring mother, some might say.

The difference however, was that unlike her, I never wasted emotions on men who lived on the edge.

If a High-Risk man wanted you, he only wanted one thing, and there was comfort in that. In being able to filter through the noise. No pretending, no rehearsed speeches about forever. Certainly no discussions about filing for licences or daydreaming about compatibility indices.

Just honesty.

I considered him my practice round.

Every woman ought to have one.

Better to make mistakes with someone the government had already written off than a Green or even an Amber, whose paperwork mattered and could influence your future.

His name was TJ.

Or at least that’s what he called himself.

For all I knew he could be a Thomas Junior or Tyler James. Or two borrowed initials stitched together for convenience.

I never found out.

At first, I assumed it was deliberate. Men like TJ were careful with names. They had to be.

For the entire nine months we were together, he kept his cards closely pressed to his chest and sometimes it made me wonder if he even knew what they were.

When your face sits inside a government database under a blood-red marker,privacy becomes luxury.

Every pulse centre within your radius knows you. So does every landlord, employer, auditor and everyone with access to your status. So you learn to keep some things for yourself.

Legally barred from reproduction and locked out of marriage, High-Riskers were officially damned to no continuity. A dead end.

Unofficially though, everyone knew at least one. The trick was to not get caught knowing them a little too well. Prolonged romantic association attracted questions, welfare interviews and record altering conversations no one wanted.

TJ, unlike most High-Riskers whose files had crossed my desk years later, inherited his status.

He had a rough start before he’d even learned long division. His Father served as a prime exhibit for the reason Manie’s Law was drafted in the first place. After he nearly beat his wife to death when TJ was just seven years old. That single night followed TJ like a foul stench, earning him a place on the government watchlist. Which many argue is worse than being directly High-Risk.

Being on the watchlist meant the government was waiting to pounce on the scent of actioned or even intended violence.

According to the Ministry, these tendencies echoed through DNAs and rarely skip a generation. Sons inherited fists and daughters inherited poor judgement. Neither inspired much confidence in reproduction.

By Sixteen TJ had already attended mandatory behavioural reviews. The stain became a permanent fixture when he verbally assaulted a colleague for calling him a ‘Dead-End dirtbag’. Honestly, I was surprised he stopped at words.

I learned all this the responsible way. I searched him up in the Pulse database. I didn’t want to be with too high a High-Risker. I remember being mildly disappointed that the Ministry had not bothered to record his original documents. No birth certificate or full name, just two lonely initials.

TJ.

“How can you not know your own name?” I asked one night.

We lay on his narrow mattress in his musty one-bedroom apartment, where the living room and kitchen had surrendered to sharing the same room. My head rested on his chest as I absent-mindedly plucked at the thick coils of hair scattered across it.

“I don’t know.” He laughed, wincing as another hair disappeared between my fingers.

“My mum only called me TJ. There was… a lot going on back then.”

“For seven years?” I propped myself onto one elbow.

“You never wrote your surname in a schoolbook or anything?”

“I was homeschooled.” He chuckled. “So all my teachers already knew my name.”

I blinked rapidly trying to stabilise my mind from imploding with questions.

“Homeschool? In The Republic? Is that even legal?”

“Are you here to debate legalities…”He turned to me. “...or get a good lay, eat my food and go home?”

“Both are important, my no-name friend.”I laughed.

“Oh.” He teased.

“We’re friends now? What we just did wasn’t very friendly. I’m sure I can find a friendlier version.”

Before I could think of something witty, he pressed his lips on mine, and sucked in my air as he kissed me deeply.

The hardest part about dating TJ wasn’t hiding him. It was fighting my emotions from crystallising.

Sometimes, while my friends traded stories about the men in their lives, my thoughts wandered toward him before I could stop them.

He is a good lay.

He is a great cook.

That is all this is.

I’d repeat to myself trying to break the possibility of becoming a statistic. One of those lost women who waste their youth on dead-ends.

One evening my lips nearly betrayed me. We were having dinner at Vivian’s apartment, the three of us semi-circled around her, me on the sofa with her and the other two on the floor. Vivian liked to play hostess, her apartment was large, tasteful and needlessly decorated.

The living room fenced decorative pillars that served no architectural purpose and the chandelier hung low enough to get high-fived.

“So…”Vivian began.

“I don’t understand how you do it.”

“Hm?”

“This celibacy thing.” I coughed almost choking on my wine.

“Oh Viv…” I pleaded, waving her off. “Not this again.”

“I’m serious.” She leaned forward.

“I understand wanting to keep your record clean, but you do know you don’t need a licence for sex right?” She continued louder than before, rousing the attention of the others, her lips teasing a smirk.

“Viv please..”I threw my hands up exasperatedly.

“But it’s the truth. We have spent years listening to stories about everyone else’s men.” She gestured around the room over the heads of the girls.

I watched the others, Celeste and Elaine, and already knew how this conversation would unfold if I didn’t respond the right way.

Celeste would make a joke only she found hysterical enough to laugh at. Elaine would see both sides so deeply her eyes could cross. Then Vivian would interrogate me until I either lied or let them set me up with another desperate Green. Like the many others that had irked me for years.

“And who says I have no one?” I found myself saying before I could stop the words from tumbling out.

Loose lips sink ships, I chanted in my head.

“Oh?” Vivian’s eyes lit up, she filled her half full glass with more white wine.

“Say more.”

Don’t

I smile.

“I wish I could.” I shrug and force a helpless expression. “He’s not one for kissing and telling.”

Good. Safe.

“Well until we file atleast.”

No. Why?

Vivian eyed me suspiciously, a frown slowly knit her thick eyebrows.

“But surely, you haven’t been with this mystery man longer than I’ve been with Edmond.” She whispered, her lips formed a pout.

“No, certainly not.” I smiled.

“Good.” She relaxed, resuming her high pitch.

“Remember we can’t have more than one wedding in a year.”

The others nodded with genuine social concern.

Multiple weddings had become an issue such that dates had to be booked with venues, and planners had to be sourced the minute you were seeing a green. Unless you chose a government approved venue for half the price, half the quality and usually half your dignity.

I smiled along as another topic of conversation broke. All the while imagining another version of the world.

One where TJ wasn’t High-Risk.

One where we met somewhere other than beneath a freight depot under the protective shadows of cargo containers.

One where I had not fallen for him.

One where I hadn’t walked into his apartment later that evening, ending us, before the wine had left my bloodstream.

“And where has all this come from?” TJ stood by the door, watching me sway, as I searched my phone for a local taxi company.

“Come from?” I laughed.

“It was never going anywhere.” I hiccuped. “We both knew that. We both agreed… that.” I burped.

“But that was nine months ago.” His voice was quiet, I found myself straining to hear. “And, and things…changed.”

“For who?”

He held my gaze. “Both of us.”

We both went quiet.

“I know you felt it.” He continued, stepping forward into the dull shine of the moon. “And now you’re trying to outrun it.” He reached for my shoulder before I shrugged him off.

“Well, the least you could do is have this conversation sober.”

I laughed so deeply I felt my throat itch.

“That’s funny. Would my courtesy un-stain you kind sir?” I risked a curtsy before steadying my balance again.

His expression hardened.

“Don’t do this, Annie. Please go home.” He said retreating to the door with his back turned to me.

I felt heat rise first into my neck and tasted the cheese fondue and white wine mix at the back of my throat.

I need a bucket.

“You are nothing but a dirty— “

“Annie.”

“— low-down…”

The taxi connected.

“Dead-End.”

My word vomit pooled between us before the driver answered.

I can’t believe I didn’t need a bucket.

TJ stared at me for what felt like an eternity.

A part of me wanted him to do it. Prove his status was earned as well as inherited. I wanted his fists to sink into my face so I could run far, far away from him. So I could bury the wild urge to sink to my knees in defeat.

Then he nodded.

“Goodnight Annie…”

Tears stung the corners of my eyes.

“And goodbye.” He added closing the door softly.

It wasn’t until the cool night’s breeze had settled against my skin, that I heard my phone ringing.

The first time I parted my legs after marriage was in front of my mother-in-law.

It had been about a year since I met Frank.

Frank was already a two-time divorcee, which, depending on who you asked, meant he was either a walking red flag or proof that persistence was a spiritual gift. Personally, I preferred the second interpretation. The man smiled like someone who apologised to chairs after bumping into them, and there was a quiet sparkle in his eyes that made women start forgiving him for crimes he hadn’t even committed yet.

I was no exception.

We met while I was working the reception desk at the New Victoria Pulse Centre.

He wasn’t alone.

His wife was welded to his arm with the determination of a new wife eager to claim her place. Worry etched so deeply across her forehead she looked permanently startled. She was tightly bound in a red sheath dress that hugged her frame so rigidly I feared the seams would give if she dared a full breath. Her lips were tucked inward in a rigid, anxious squeeze.

At the centre, we are taught something. Forget the algorithms, biometric scans or even the government’s 47 indicators of domestic stability.

If you really want to know whether a marriage is dying, look at the wife.

“We have an appointment for eleven o’clock,” she announced, standing stiffly in front of my terminal.

No ‘goodmorning’, or ‘hello’, not even a fake smile?

Eager to check what year-bracket they were testing for, I tapped my screen for their file, asking their names, though she answered before Frank’s lips could even part. He stood beside her looking less like a human being and more like an expensive accessory. A well-groomed, broad-shouldered prop.

Poor Frank.

The file flashed amber.

This was their five-year mark; the definitive make-or-break review under Manie’s Law.

After the Fracture, when domestic violence nearly chewed through half the population and collapsed birth rates, economists started throwing bible quotes and philosophical prophecies until the Federal government decided love is an unreliable infrastructure for the future of the country.

Children, however, are a national resource.

“Please take a seat. You’ll be called in shortly,” I said, offering a professional smile while staring directly into Frank’s eyes, willing his head to turn toward me.

“Thanks,” she snapped.

He looked back for exactly a second before she dragged him away by their linked arms like she was escorting a reluctant suspect.

Frank’s expression was an ocean of calm.

The thick, rounded bulges of his biceps strained slightly against the cuffs of his short-sleeved labourer’s shirt. I had wondered back then whether he was a high-end mechanic or belonged to one of the guilds that still required working with bare hands.

His fingers, broad and stubby, looked like they were built for firm, heavy labour. I remember drinking the air in as they walked away, the wind in their wake sweeping across my face with a heavy, conflicting blend of cedarwood and sharp musk.

I couldn’t take my eyes off them until they vanished behind the matte-glass doors of the Auditor’s suite.

I missed my lunch break that afternoon.

Officially, because the paper work piled up.

Unofficially because Frank might need a shoulder to cry on.

I sat at my desk imagining alternate endings.

If they received an extension and an Amber-Low classification, I would offer a sympathetic smile and perhaps a brief, consoling touch of his arm. If they dropped to Amber-Mid, I would wish him well with a knowing tilt of my head, letting him know silently that his wife was the anchor dragging him down. Those were the only realistic pathways.

According to their profile, despite both being on state-mandated vitality supplements, they had produced zero children. And their two-and-a-half-year pulse check had already hovered at Amber-High; a clear indicator that this union had never truly turned green.

Everyone who worked at the centre knew what it meant.

Some marriages are born green, and others spend their existence pretending to be green worthy until the governement asks them to stop.

A few hours later, I watched as his wife burst through the heavy doors, her sobs muffled behind trembling hands, her shoulders shook. Frank did not emerge until ten minutes later, appearing only after she had been handed a cup of water and a stabilizing dose of pain killers to settle her nerves.

“Where do I even start? How is this possible?” Her voice had echoed hollowly through the reception hall.

I had felt a sharp flash of irritation.

Please carry your badluck somewhere else.

I wanted to tell her to keep quiet, not to foul the recycled air with despair. I wanted to remind her that she should consider herself fortunate to live in an era where second and third chances at matrimony were legally permitted, rather than punished. Most of all, I wanted to tell her that her emotional safety score on the terminal read was red, making her entirely unfit to be a wife, let alone a mother.

Instead, I caved into professionalism. I suggested she get some fresh air outside the building. She had nodded blindly, still weeping.

Frank drifted out shortly after, accompanied by the senior auditor, a cheeky smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. While his soon to be ex-wife trudged out to the car park, he lingered at my desk.

It was there, beneath the hum of the aircoditioners, that he engaged me in casual conversation and requested my phone number. Six months later, he would officially file for his third and final marriage licence.

Love is not enough.

Not anymore.

In the Republic, marriage is not a vow its a licence renewed every five years.

Every husband and wife must report to a Pulse Centre where algorithms measure emotional stability, financial productivity and fertility. Pass, and your marriage survives another 5 years. Fail, and the state dissolves it.

Three failed marriages earns you a permanent place on the red list, fit to date but genetically barred from marriage and reproduction.

No one wants to go Red.

Especially not Frank Bell.

As the heir to Heritage farms, the Republic’s most powerful agricultural empire, Frank has more than marriage at stake. Already on his third and final licence he has one chance to prove his union with Annie is worth preserving.

As pressure mounts, from the government obsessed with reproduction, in- laws eager to preserve legacy, and a society that sees infertility as a public threat and citizen failing; the clock ticks towards lost legacy and social shunning as Annie is forced to answer:

How much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice for the person you love?

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