Michael Graze didn't believe in love—not the messy, irrational, feelings-driven kind that made otherwise intelligent people act like fools. Love was inefficient. It clouded judgment, distorted time management, and, worst of all, made people unpredictable. And if there was one thing Michael despised more than lukewarm coffee or misaligned spreadsheets, it was unpredictability.
So, sitting across from his father's long-time lawyer in the mahogany-paneled office that smelled faintly of cigars and expensive cologne, flipping through a gold-embossed leather folder containing his marriage contract, he wasn't even remotely amused. The fluorescent light overhead buzzed with an irregular rhythm that was slowly driving him insane.
"Clause 17?" he muttered, eyebrows knitting as he scanned the paragraph. A paper cut stung his index finger. Perfect.
"Yes," Mr. Evans replied, tapping the document with a slender pen that had probably cost more than most people's weekly grocery budget. The old man's wedding ring caught the light—forty-seven years with the same woman, he'd once bragged to Michael's father. "It states that both parties must remain in cohabitation for a full calendar year—publicly and legally recognized as a married couple—before either can file for annulment or separation. Early termination results in the loss of all familial business assets, including the controlling shares of Graze Tech."
Michael's jaw flexed. He tongued the inside of his cheek where he'd bitten it earlier that morning. "This is a hostage situation."
The older man gave a tired shrug, the shoulders of his tailored suit rising and falling with practiced indifference. "Your father preferred the term 'strategic safeguard.'"
Strategic safeguard. Of course. His late father had been a visionary—and a master manipulator. Robert Graze had built an empire from nothing but grit and calculated risks, and apparently, he wasn't about to let his only son's perpetual singlehood jeopardize the company image. The marriage wasn't about love; it was about legacy. And he'd tied Michael to it with a ribbon of legal impossibility.
He looked up just as the door swung open, banging against the wall hard enough to make Evans wince.
Hazel Sharma walked in like a spring storm—small, clumsy, and entirely unaware of the chaos she trailed behind her. A blue and gold scarf dangled half-off her shoulder, her bun was unraveling with at least three pens stuck in it, and her overflowing tote bag dropped three files and what appeared to be a half-eaten granola bar onto the floor before she even reached the table.
"Sorry! Sorry, I—I tripped over a flat surface again. Classic me," she chirped, cheeks glowing pink as she scrambled to gather her papers. "Also, your receptionist is terrifying. She looked at my coffee like it personally offended her ancestors."
Michael watched in mute horror, his left eye doing that twitching thing again. This was his wife? This human tornado with mismatched socks? One was striped; the other had tiny elephants. Who even manufactured socks like that?
She finally sat down beside him, shooting him a cautious glance. Her eyes were an odd green-brown color, like moss after rain. "You're... Michael, right? Or do you go by Mike? Mikey?" She smelled like coffee and something floral—jasmine, maybe? No, honeysuckle.
"Michael," he said flatly. "Just Michael. Never Mike. Definitely not..." he couldn't even bring himself to say 'Mikey.'
"Got it. No Mikey. That's okay. I had a goldfish named Mikey once, and he—well, he died. Turns out goldfish don't actually like Sprite. Who knew, right? I was eight."
He blinked. "Tragic."
Hazel smiled nervously, fidgeting with her rings—three of them, all seemingly random. One looked like it came from a gumball machine. "So... this is real, huh? We're actually doing this arranged marriage thing. God, my sisters are going to have a field day with this. Chhaya bet me fifty bucks I'd end up alone with seventeen cats."
"Apparently with rules," he muttered, shoving the contract toward her. A drop of water from her umbrella (had it even been raining?) splashed onto the paper. "Clause 17."
She skimmed it, mouthing the words as she read. Her lipstick was slightly smudged at the corner. Her eyes widened.
"We have to live together for a year?" she gasped. "A full year? Like, no breaks? No separate apartments? Not even a vacation loophole? I snore! Not like, chainsaw-level, but definitely audible. My last roommate wrote poetry about it."
"Nope. One address. One bed, if our parents get nosy. And no early exits unless we want to tank both our families." Michael found himself absently scratching at the faded scar on his wrist—souvenir from his lone attempt at cooking, circa 2016.
Hazel leaned back, groaning. "I thought this was just a pretend thing. Like, we fake-smile for press photos, maybe argue over breakfast, then quietly part ways in three months. I had plans, Michael. Freedom plans. I was going to do a pottery workshop in New Mexico! I already bought ugly pants for it and everything."
He looked at her properly for the first time. Her hair was frizzy at the temples, her blouse had a coffee stain shaped remarkably like Australia, and she had a Band-Aid on her thumb with tiny dinosaurs on it.
He'd never met someone so... uncurated. So opposite to the meticulously organized life he'd built. She was all primary colors and impromptu decisions; he was grayscale and five-year plans.
"I'm not thrilled either," he said, fighting the urge to straighten her scarf. The asymmetry was making his eye twitch again. "But we'll survive. Just follow the rules, don't touch my stuff, and try not to trip over the furniture. I have a Noguchi coffee table that costs more than most cars."
"Oh, fancy," she said, nodding seriously before adding, "I have no idea what a Noguchi is. I assembled my bed from YouTube tutorials, and two of the legs are actually stacks of books."
Hazel tilted her head, grinning despite the chaos. A dimple appeared in her left cheek. "You know, for a guy who's about to be stuck with me for 365 days, you might want to work on your charm. I'm told I grow on people. Like a fungus, but a cute one. A chanterelle, maybe."
He didn't answer. Instead, he stood, extending a pen toward her. The same pen he'd received from his father on his twenty-first birthday—heavy, ornate, completely impractical for everyday use.
"Let's just get this over with."
She hesitated, then took the pen. Their fingers brushed for the first time.
Neither of them said a word, but something shifted in the air—a spark, faint but undeniable, like static electricity before a storm.
And just like that, Hazel Sharma became Hazel Graze, signing her name with a little star over the 'i' that wasn't there.
And Michael Graze?
He had no idea his world was about to catch fire.
"I hope you don't alphabetize your spices," she whispered, handing back his pen.
He did, in fact, alphabetize his spices.
God help him.