A Marriage for Sale

Chapter 1: Two Cells

Jack sat alone in the small, bare chamber behind the place of his fate. The room was cool, almost empty, with blank walls that carried an eerie echo. A heavy wooden door separated him from the raging crowd outside, and through the narrow gap beneath it came the dull roar of a thousand voices and the thudding bass lines of the music.

His throat felt dry, parched, and he could barely swallow. In a rough voice, almost a whisper, he forced out the words: "Could I have another glass of water?" His words sounded like a final request.

The man beside him, dressed in an immaculately fitted suit, regarded him for a moment, in no hurry, and then stood up. Without a word he stepped over to the small carafe on the rickety table, poured water into a plain glass, and set it down in front of Jack. "Drink," he said calmly, almost indifferently, "but don't keep us waiting too long."

Jack took the glass with steady hands, drank slowly and deeply. The water was cool, clear, and although it eased the dryness in his throat, it brought no peace to his mind. Yet as he set the glass back down, something settled within him. He drew himself up, his shoulders taut, his posture erect—like a soldier preparing for battle. His inner strength began to mirror itself in his bearing.

Jack's well-trained body looked as if it had been chiseled, every muscle defined, ready to face his fate. He wore a tailored dark gray suit that fit perfectly and accentuated his athletic build. The sharp lines of the jacket followed the contours of his broad back and his powerful shoulders, while the trousers yielded effortlessly to his movements. The white shirt beneath was immaculate, and the black belt with its plain, gleaming buckle sat precisely at his hip. On his feet he wore polished leather shoes that sounded softly on the floor with every step.

His face was calm, almost masklike, yet the determination in his dark brown eyes betrayed the inner strength that drove him forward. A faint shadow of stubble framed his firm jaw, and his dark brown hair was neatly combed back, as if he meant to defy any sign of chaos in his appearance. Despite the tension hanging in the air, he looked like a man who knew he could bear the weight of the moment—no matter what awaited him beyond the door.

The man beside him rose, smoothed the fabric of his suit, and said in a quiet but relentless voice: "It's time. We have to go."

Jack took a deep breath, a slow, controlled inhalation. His gaze wandered to the door, which loomed over him like a dark shadow. He knew that his next steps would lead him to the place where decisions were final and nothing could be undone. But he did not hesitate.

With a firm stride he walked forward, his posture unchanged. The door was only a heartbeat away now, but Jack was ready. Ready to face the inevitable. Ready to accept the end—or to create a new beginning.

After leaving the room, they came into a kind of anteroom, cooler and more open than the small space before, but no less oppressive. Jack blinked briefly as the harsh light of the ceiling lamps struck his eyes. In the middle of the room stood two people: his father, with his smug bearing, and beside him Candy, the young woman he now called his wife. Her blond hair gleamed almost as artificially as the too-broad smile she gave Jack.

"Here comes the condemned man," his father said in a voice that sounded half mocking, half presumptuous. "On his way to his execution."

Jack stopped, glanced at his escort, who showed no reaction. Evidently the man had no objection to granting him this moment. Jack stepped slowly forward, his footsteps echoing on the cool floor, and finally came to a halt directly in front of his father.

"One last time, Dad," Jack said, his voice quiet but firm, "let me hold you tight." His father hesitated a moment, then opened his arms. It was a warm embrace, but Jack held him fast, longer than he should have, as if trying to grasp something that had long since ceased to be there. At last he let go, turned to Candy, and looked at her with a fleeting smile. "Shame we've only known each other such a short time."

Candy tilted her head, her smile losing none of its contrived friendliness. "That's all right," she said. "I want to hold you too." She took a step forward and put her arms around Jack. Her embrace was warm, almost inappropriately affectionate, as if she had truly taken him into her heart. Jack caught the sweet scent of her perfume and wondered for a brief moment whether she might really like him—or whether she was simply playing the game like everyone else in this room.

When they let go, Jack gave both of them a brief nod, then turned to his escort. The man in his immaculate suit gestured curtly toward the next door. "It's time. We have to go."

Jack hesitated a moment, let his gaze sweep once more across the anteroom. The cool, sterile atmosphere of the room intensified the tension that weighed on his shoulders like an invisible burden. His father, Jack Senior, stood in his characteristic pose—upright, with the composure of a man who had always kept control. His silver hair was carefully combed back, and in his sharp gray eyes was a glint that radiated strength and self-assurance.

Jack couldn't help but admire him. Even in this moment, with the world on the brink of an unstoppable turning point, his father had that unmistakable presence.

"We have to be in the front rows," his father added, this time with a touch of sharpness in his voice, as if to emphasize the inevitability of the situation. "I want to see this—up close."

Jack knew it was not cruelty that spoke from those words, but an almost reverent interest. His father wanted to see how he faced this moment—not to judge him, but to be a witness to his strength.

Jack Senior turned around, his movements calm and controlled, and left the room. Candy followed him, her heels clicking softly on the floor as she threw Jack an encouraging smile.

When the door fell shut behind them, Jack stood motionless for a moment. He took a deep breath, felt his heart beating calmly and powerfully in his chest. His escort, the man in the immaculate suit, showed no reaction. He opened the next door, which led into a long, harshly lit corridor.

"It's time. We have to go," he said in the same calm, emotionless voice as before.

Jack stepped forward, his posture erect, his shoulders taut, every movement precise. His tailored suit fit perfectly over his well-trained body, as if it were armor for this moment. His jaw was clenched, yet his eyes radiated determination. The steps through the empty corridor echoed, a steady rhythm that heightened the tension in the air still further.

At the end of the corridor Jack stopped. Before him lay the last door, through which a blinding light fell, veiling the room beyond. The moment had come, yet Jack waited. He turned his head slightly toward his escort, who stood calmly at his side, as if this were just another day in his life. He was ready, or so he thought. His breath was calm, his body tense, yet inside him it was loud—a storm of thoughts, memories, and expectations. The escort, who always seemed emotionless, took a step closer, laid his hand firmly on Jack's shoulder, and held him back. "Not yet," he said in a calm voice. The white headset at his ear blinked faintly, and for a moment he held still, as if listening to a distant voice. "It'll be a few more minutes before it's time," he added, his hand resting firm but not unpleasant on Jack's shoulder.

Jack nodded almost imperceptibly, squared his shoulders, and closed his eyes. The darkness behind his lids was soothing, a place where he could shut out the sounds around him. To calm his nerves, he began to remember—the beginning of it all.

And while Jack remembered, there waited—separated from him by only a few walls and a tangle of cables—a woman he was about to see for the very first time. Clara's room, too, was bare and cool, a waiting room that felt like a cell, and in a sense that was exactly what it was. She sat in her wedding dress on a hard chair, her hands folded in her lap, listening to the dull roar of the audience that came through the walls as if from another world.

She, too, had her doubts, and now, with no turning back, they came with full force. In a few minutes she would marry a man she had never seen—live, in front of millions of strangers. What if he was cruel? What if she was, once again, throwing herself into the wrong thing? A quiet voice inside her asked whether she had lost her mind.

She hadn't slept properly in weeks. At night she lay awake doing the same sums that never added up; by day she dragged with her a weariness that ran deeper than any exhaustion—the weariness of a person slowly having the ground pulled out from under their feet. Fear had long since lodged itself in her chest like a second heart, beating too fast. It was no longer nervousness or stage fright. It was raw, existential dread, the kind that had been robbing her of sleep, and sometimes of air, for weeks.

For weeks now she had flinched every time the phone rang and a number she didn't recognize lit up. Another debt collector, she would think, and sometimes she simply let it ring until it fell silent—which never made things any better. The letters and dunning notices had long been arriving daily, some in the stern gray of government offices, some in the cold white of law firms, and every single one of them ratcheted the outstanding demands a little higher. Late fees, default interest, collection costs—numbers that grew no matter what she did.

And whether this was the right path she doubted with every fiber of her being—yet at the end of every thought stood the same wall. She thought of the calls from the bank, which over the past weeks had grown ever shorter and colder. Of the bailiff who had already walked through her aunt's house and, with an indifferent expression, tagged her parents' furniture for repossession. Of the forced sale closing in like a flood. She had turned over every number, phoned every bank, tried every door—and all of them had closed. This one hadn't. If she didn't go through with it, her parents, old and tired, would lose the roof over their heads. That was how merciless the math was. She stood with her back to the wall, and the only way out led forward—through that last door.