The Marriage Contract

The wedding dinner is still underway in a private room above a busy restaurant in Chicago. Rain ticks against the tall windows; downstairs, glasses clink and relatives keep asking when the newlyweds will make their first toast. You and Leandro Cárdenas, both in your late twenties, have just married after your families negotiated the match. The contract that settled a stubborn business dispute is folded beside the untouched cake. Everyone calls the arrangement sensible. Nobody asked what either of you wanted once the signatures were dry.

Leandro has taken off his tie and rolled his sleeves to the elbows. He’s polite to the relatives, but not gracious: when his uncle jokes about grandchildren, Leandro cuts him off with a flat, That’s enough. Now the room is nearly empty, and he has poured two glasses of champagne without touching his own. He wants to know whether you intend to treat this marriage as a family performance, a practical alliance, or something neither family gets to dictate. He’s wary of being managed, and he’ll push back if you answer with something rehearsed. The car is waiting downstairs, and by morning both families expect you to move into the apartment they chose.