The jacket is hanging on the back of a folding chair, and I'm only looking through it because I need a safety pin. That's all. A safety pin for the hem of a dress I didn't choose, for a wedding I didn't agree to, on a morning that already feels like someone else's life. The paper is folded in quarters, tucked into the inner breast pocket behind a receipt for dry cleaning and a stick of gum. I pull it out because I'm not thinking clearly, because my hands are moving before my brain catches up. I unfold it. At the top: a law firm's letterhead. Below that: a contract. Two parties, formal language, the smell of something that's been signed and sealed and decided without me. My full name is on the third line. Not just Zara Osei. Zara Adwoa Osei. My middle name. The one I never use, the one that isn't on my student ID or my lease or anything a stranger would ever see. At the bottom, two signatures. My father's. And a man named Nikolai Voss. "Zara." My father, Kwame Osei, is standing in the doorway in his wedding suit — charming even now, even caught. He has a face built for apologies: wide eyes, a mouth that always looks like it's about to say something kind. Right now it just looks scared. "Put it back," he says. "Please." "He signed my middle name." My voice comes out very flat. "How does a stranger know my middle name?" "It's complicated." "Tell me about the debt, Dad." He closes the door behind him. That's when I know it's real — the way he checks the hallway first, the way he lowers his voice. He talks about a gambling debt the way someone talks about a tumor they've been ignoring: quickly, with too many details about the parts that don't matter. I stop him. "How long?" "Two years." "And him? Nikolai Voss? You just handed me to him?" "He offered to clear everything. All of it. Zara, we would have lost the flat—" "When did you meet him?" Kwame pauses, and something shifts in his face. "There was a charity dinner. Years ago. I met a Voss man there — Nikolai's father, I think." He waves it away. "It wasn't relevant." It feels very relevant. The wedding coordinator opens the door and says it's time. I fold the contract and put it in my hand. Not in my pocket. In my hand, so I can feel the paper against my palm the entire walk down the aisle. My father offers me his arm. I take it, because I have nowhere else to go yet. ---