SHE MADE A POINT TO sign her proper legal name, Psyche Armstead, on the document in front of her.

Psyche was so unusual. She only used it for the stage and official papers. Her sisters had called her “Kiki” when she was a baby, and the nickname stuck.

But what document was more official than a contract binding her in marriage to a complete stranger?

Now that she was twenty-one, she was officially old enough for her parents to sell her away to pay off her father’s gambling debts, and possibly save his life. She didn’t particularly want to do it, but if she didn’t she feared what her father might do. Or what someone might do to him.

And without him, what would become of her mother and sisters?

By the middle of the twenty-second century, most kids lived at home with their parents until they were about thirty years-old on average. Offspring were once again viewed as chattel.

When you were a mere mortal living among the gods, life was tough enough, and having parents who were screw-ups didn’t improve matters.

Kiki looked down at the document and bit her lip as she considered everything she would be giving up for her family.

She had a life most people would kill for. But she’d never intended to become a star.

Her dream had been to become an artist. She loved nothing more than watching people go by and capturing their likenesses on her sketch pad. It’s what she’d done ever since she learned how to hold a pencil.

But street art didn’t pay well enough, and soon after she left home she realized she’d have to get a “real job” to support herself if she wanted to keep creating. So, she got a job as a waitress working at a little café in North Hollywood, which was where a big producer of beaming video content discovered her. Before she knew it, she was under contract with his studio, and her channel became an instant success.

Even though she’d never wanted to act, she had a talent for it, and it brought so much money to her family that she couldn’t turn it down.

It had been three years now, and she was exhausted from the filming schedule.

This marriage contract couldn’t have come at a better time.

In two hours, her entire life would change, and she wasn’t sure if it would be for better or worse.

Yes, she wanted to be done with the video business, but she worried she would just be trading one master for another.

At least she’d be out of the spotlight.

That had been part of the contract from the beginning. Her husband wanted her to stay off video feeds. No publicity whatsoever.

Fine with her. The only condition she’d been able to work into the agreement was that she be allowed the space and materials to draw and paint.

Her art was all that mattered to her, and if her parents could be compensated, and she’d be allowed to create, she believed it could be a good arrangement.

Now, she dared to hope that her husband wouldn’t be too difficult to deal with.

Most marriages these days were arranged in some form or other. Whether chosen by an artificially intelligent matchmaking program or the old-fashioned way by one’s parental unit, couples in the late twenty-second century trusted they would grow to love one another. Or not. Some considered love an ancient and outdated construct.

Those who did find love were certainly lucky, but people viewed it as a bonus to marriage rather than a right.

As long as her husband left her alone so she could create, Psyche told herself her own marriage would be quite adequate.

***

“IS EVERYTHING SATISFACTORY, Miss Psyche?”

The voice startled her, and she flinched. It was Pierce, the butler of her new home. More like castle.

The forty thousand square foot dwelling perched high atop the Hollywood Hills, soaring upwards into the clouds. The sheer elevation of the place made her curious if her new husband had connections with the gods. Unfortunately, she knew next to nothing about him, and Pierce had been no help when she’d questioned him.

“Call me Kiki, Pierce.”

“Yes, Madame. Can I get you anything?”

As modern as everything else was in the hillside estate, Pierce was a complete throwback. He wore a tuxedo and skulked around like a transplant from an Agatha Christie novel.

“I’m all right. Maybe an espresso . . . No, that will make my nerves even more jangly.”

“Some tea, perhaps, then?”

She considered this. “Yes, tea would be nice, calming.”

“Very good, Madame.” He gave a slight bow and stepped backwards out of the room.

He wasn’t going to call her Kiki. She was starting to get that.

Before he was out the door, she called, “Pierce, are you sure you can’t tell me anything more about my husband—not even his name or how old he is?”

“I am forbidden, Madame. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“The inconvenience.” She laughed wryly. This couldn’t be a good sign. If Pierce’s employer was anything other than some diabolical creature, one would expect him to share that fact.

Perhaps he was merely unattractive.

That’s okay. I can shut my eyes. It’s not how he looks that matters. I just hope he’s tolerable.

Obviously he was wealthy, so she wouldn’t starve. That was a positive.

“Have you completed signing the contract, Madame?”

“Yes, I have.” She pushed her chair back and when she stood up and walked away from the desk she considered telling Pierce that, for the moment, she was actually a mademoiselle, not yet a madame.

She decided against it. “I would like to get dressed.”

“Will you be requiring any assistance with that?”

She was accustomed to a team of makeup artists, hairdressers, and stylists, but since today was to be an intimate affair between only her future husband and herself, she had chosen to do her hair in a simple braid and apply her makeup herself.”

“I may want some help zipping up my dress, but I believe I can handle everything else on my own. Thank you.”

“All you need to do is call. If you need anything, I will be here right away.”

“Thank you, Pierce. I do appreciate that.”

As she dressed, a feeling of uneasiness began to surface. She wanted to downplay the gravity of the moment, but how could you minimize the significance of your entire life changing? As much as she’d like to deny it, her future rested in the hands of the man she just signed a marriage contract to.

A man she’d never met.

A man whose nature remained unknown.

A man she’d never laid eyes on.

Psyche took a deep breath before sinking into a luxurious bath. After she was finished, she dried herself off then applied a dab of the perfume that sat on the counter of her new bathroom. Just a touch behind her ears, and at the hollow of her neck. It must have been supplied by her mysterious husband-to-be.

Finally a clue about him, she thought as she inhaled the scent—a wild combination of honeysuckle and jasmine, with a hint of something exotic she couldn’t quite discern. The dizzying aroma made her smile, and for a moment she allowed herself to fantasize that the man himself would make her feel that way.

She threaded a strand of pearls through her braided hair and slipped on her dress. The creamy silk draped over her curves in a simplistic design. The sumptuous fabric felt slick under her fingertips as she smoothed it over her hips.

Glancing over her shoulder in the mirror, she admired the view of the back with its small train that fell in a puddle to the floor and floated behind her for several feet. She had chosen a pair of gem-encrusted sandals, and her nails were painted blush pink. With her makeup, she’d gone for natural rather than the heavily made up version of herself that everyone saw in the CosmicTron advertisements for her channel. You couldn’t go outside without seeing them. They were everywhere.

But that would soon stop. As soon as tomorrow that would all be shut down. Apparently, her new husband wasn’t in favor of her public persona. Not that she minded. In fact, she looked forward to her new freedom from celebrity.

Gazing at her green eyes in the mirror she liked the way her simple blond hair was set off by the pale pink lipstick and the pearls. It gave her an air of serenity she did not feel.

“It’s now or never,” she muttered to herself. Then called out, “Pierce!”

Suddenly, the man servant was beamed into her dressing room at light speed.

“At your service, Madame.”

She flinched, wondering if she would ever get used to that man popping up out of nowhere. “Sorry. You scared me.”

“My apologies. Would you like me to zip up your gown?”

“Please.” She took a deep breath and pressed the back of her dress together with her hands to make it easier to fasten.

Zip. She adjusted the dress around her bodice and gave herself one last glance in the mirror.

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but you look stunning,” he said.

She couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you, Pierce. I’m crossing my fingers my husband will feel the same way.”

“I’m sure he will, Madame. Let us go find him. He is waiting for you downstairs in the salon.”