Chapter 1 : London Dilemma

## 1

The rain in London had a particular way of making everything feel heavier. Lucas Miller stood under the awning of what used to be his office building, watching droplets trace erratic paths down the glass facade. His last box of personal belongings sat at his feet, a pathetic collection of a mug that read "World''s Okayest Employee," a framed photo of his team from last year''s Christmas party, and three dying succulents he''d forgotten to water during the final week of his employment.

Terminated. The word echoed in his head with the same hollow finality as the security guard''s expression when he''d escorted Lucas out of the building. "Restructuring," they''d called it. "Strategic downsizing." Corporate euphemisms for "you''re no longer needed."

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Another message from Marcus. Lucas didn''t need to read it to know what it said—some variation of "we need to talk" or "this isn''t working" or the classic "it''s not you, it''s me." Except this time, Marcus had added a new twist: "I''ve packed your things. They''re in boxes by the door."

Two losses in one day. A personal record, even for him.

Lucas pulled his coat tighter against the damp chill. The fabric still smelled like Marcus''s cologne—something woody and expensive that Lucas had always found slightly overpowering. For three years, he''d woken to that scent on his pillow. For three years, he''d pretended not to notice Marcus''s growing distance, the way conversations had dwindled to logistics, the sex becoming less frequent and more mechanical.

He thought about their last night together. Marcus had been distant, scrolling through his phone while Lucas tried to talk about his concerns at work. When they''d finally gone to bed, Marcus had turned away, claiming exhaustion. Lucas had lain awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the growing chasm between their bodies like a physical presence in the room.

Now, standing in the rain with his career in a cardboard box and his relationship in tatters, the memory felt like a premonition he''d been too stubborn to acknowledge.

## 2

The tube ride to his father''s house in Wimbledon felt longer than usual. Lucas watched his reflection in the dark window—pale, thirty-two-year-old face, hair damp from the rain, eyes that already looked defeated. He''d promised himself he''d never move back home. At twenty-two, fresh out of university with a degree in game design and what felt like infinite possibilities, he''d declared his independence with the righteous certainty of youth.

Ten years later, here he was.

His father''s house stood at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, identical to the other semi-detached homes with their neatly trimmed hedges and sensible cars in the driveways. The conservatory his mother had loved was dark, the plants inside probably dead from neglect since her passing two years ago.

Lucas rang the bell, then remembered he still had a key. He fumbled with it, his hands cold and clumsy.

The door opened before he could manage it.

Arthur Miller stood in the doorway, his expression a familiar blend of disappointment and resignation. At sixty-five, he''d grown into the kind of man who seemed perpetually braced for bad news. His hair had gone fully grey since Lucas last visited at Christmas, and the lines around his mouth had deepened.

"Father," Lucas said, the word feeling formal and inadequate.

"Lucas." Arthur''s gaze dropped to the box in his arms. "I assume this isn''t a social call."

"Can I come in?"

A sigh, then a step back. Arthur had never been one for physical affection, but the distance between them felt particularly pronounced tonight. Lucas followed him into the living room, where the television was tuned to a news channel with the volume low. The room smelled of lemon polish and something faintly medicinal.

"I lost my job," Lucas said, setting the box down by the sofa. "And Marcus and I... we''re done."

Arthur didn''t respond immediately. He picked up the remote and muted the television, then turned to face his son. The silence stretched, filled only by the ticking of the mantelpiece clock—a wedding gift from Lucas''s grandparents that had survived fifty years of marriage and now marked the seconds of this uncomfortable moment.

"Your mother always said you were too sensitive for that industry," Arthur finally said. "Games. Not a proper career."

"It was a proper career until today," Lucas said, hearing the defensiveness in his own voice.

"And the other matter?" Arthur''s tone shifted, becoming even more guarded. "Marcus."

"We broke up. He''s moving out. Or I am. The flat was in his name, so..."

"So you''re here." Arthur stated it as a fact, not a question. "How long?"

"I don''t know. A few weeks? Until I find something else."

Arthur nodded slowly, his eyes avoiding Lucas''s. "The spare room needs airing. Sheets are in the linen cupboard. You remember where it is."

"Thank you."

Another nod. Arthur turned back to the television, unmuting it. The conversation was clearly over.

## 3

The spare room smelled of dust and disuse. Lucas set his box on the single bed—the same one he''d slept in as a teenager, with its faded Star Wars sheets now replaced by plain blue cotton. He opened the window to let in the damp night air, then sat on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands.

The full weight of the day settled over him. Jobless. Homeless. Single. At thirty-two, he was supposed to have his life together. Instead, he was back in his childhood bedroom, with a father who couldn''t look him in the eye.

His phone buzzed again. This time it was a message from Sarah, his former colleague and only real friend at the company.

*Heard what happened. Absolute bullshit. Call me tomorrow? Drinks on me.*

Lucas typed a quick thanks, then set the phone aside. He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling where glow-in-the-dark stars still faintly marked constellations he''d stuck up as a teenager. They''d been a source of comfort then, those plastic stars. A reminder that there was a universe beyond Wimbledon, beyond his father''s quiet disapproval, beyond the confusion of realizing he was attracted to boys when all his friends were talking about girls.

He remembered the first time he''d brought a boy home. He was seventeen, and Tom from his history class had come over to study. They''d ended up kissing in this very room, clumsy and eager and terrified of being caught. Arthur had knocked on the door to offer tea, and Lucas had scrambled away from Tom so quickly he''d fallen off the bed.

Later, when Tom had gone home, Arthur had said nothing. But the silence had been heavier than any words.

Lucas closed his eyes. The memory of Tom''s kiss mingled with more recent memories of Marcus—the way Marcus used to kiss him with a certainty that felt like ownership, the way his hands would map Lucas''s body as if claiming territory. In the beginning, it had felt like being wanted. By the end, it felt like being consumed.

His body ached with a loneliness that was both emotional and physical. Three years of sharing a bed, of waking to another person''s warmth, of sex that had started as passion and dwindled to routine. Now the prospect of sleeping alone felt like a punishment. The empty space beside him in this single bed seemed to mock him.

He thought about masturbating—a practical solution to the physical tension coiling in his gut—but even that felt depressing. The act would be just another reminder of what he''d lost, another moment of solitude in a life that suddenly felt defined by absence.

## 4

Dinner was a silent affair. Arthur had made shepherd''s pie, the same recipe Lucas''s mother had used. They ate at the small kitchen table, the only sounds the scrape of cutlery on plates and the hum of the refrigerator.

"Have you thought about what you''ll do?" Arthur asked eventually, not looking up from his food.

"Look for another job. In game design, if I can."

"And if you can''t?"

Lucas pushed peas around his plate. "I don''t know."

"Your cousin Geoffrey works in finance. He might know of something."

"I''m not interested in finance."

Arthur''s fork clinked against his plate. "At a certain point, Lucas, one must be interested in stability. In practicality."

The words hung between them. Lucas knew what his father meant: at thirty-two, it was time to grow up. To choose a sensible career. To find a nice girl, settle down, have children. To stop being the son who''d chosen a "creative" career and brought home boyfriends instead of girlfriends.

"I am practical," Lucas said, though it sounded weak even to his own ears. "Game design is a legitimate industry. It''s just..."

"Just what?"

"Just not working out for me right now."

Arthur nodded, as if this confirmed something he''d long suspected. He took a sip of water, then said, "I spoke to Richard Carter today."

Lucas waited. Richard Carter was an old friend of his father''s, an American who''d moved back to New York years ago. They exchanged Christmas cards, but Lucas hadn''t thought of him in ages.

"His nephew is looking for someone," Arthur continued. "A temporary arrangement. In New York."

"What kind of arrangement?"

Arthur hesitated, his eyes finally meeting Lucas''s. "A marriage arrangement."

Lucas stared at him. "I''m sorry?"

"Not a real marriage. A... practical one. For immigration purposes."

The words took a moment to sink in. "You''re suggesting I marry someone for a green card?"

"It''s not uncommon," Arthur said, his voice carefully neutral. "Richard''s nephew—Alexander, I believe his name is—is American. Successful, from what Richard says. Owns a technology company. He''s willing to enter into an arrangement that would provide you with legal status in the United States."

"Why would he do that?"

"Richard didn''t specify. But he mentioned Alexander is... like you."

The phrasing made Lucas flinch. "Gay, you mean."

"Yes." Arthur looked uncomfortable. "The point is, it would be a solution. You''d have a fresh start. Away from... all this."

Away from the failed career. Away from the failed relationship. Away from the father who couldn''t accept him.

"And what would I have to do in return?" Lucas asked.

"Live there for a period. Maintain the appearance of a marriage. After a certain time, you could apply for permanent residency on your own merits."

"It''s fraud."

"It''s an arrangement between consenting adults," Arthur corrected. "One that solves problems for both parties."

Lucas pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. The idea was absurd. Desperate. The kind of thing people did in movies, not in real life.

And yet...

He thought about London. The rain. The job market that had just rejected him. The ex-boyfriend who''d packed his things. The father sitting across from him, offering this bizarre solution because he couldn''t offer acceptance.

"Let me think about it," Lucas said.

Arthur nodded, looking relieved that the conversation was over. "Of course. No need to decide tonight."

But they both knew the clock was ticking. On Lucas''s unemployment benefits. On his welcome in this house. On his options.

## 5

That night, Lucas lay awake in the narrow bed, listening to the sounds of the house settling around him. The pipes groaned. The floorboards creaked. Down the hall, his father''s television played some late-night program at low volume.

He thought about New York. He''d been once, on a university trip. He remembered the energy of the city, the sense of possibility that seemed to vibrate in the air. He remembered walking through Times Square at night, dazzled by the lights, feeling both overwhelmed and exhilarated.

Could he really do it? Move to another country? Enter into a sham marriage with a stranger?

His mind drifted to Alexander Carter. What was he like? Why would he agree to such an arrangement? Was he desperate too? Or was there some other motive?

The questions circled in his head, mixing with the day''s other worries. Would he find another job in London? Could he afford his own place? Would he ever meet someone who actually wanted him, not just tolerated him?

His body remembered the weight of another person in bed. The warmth. The comfort of not being alone. Now the emptiness felt acute, a physical ache in his chest and groin. He thought about Marcus''s hands on him, the way they used to touch with genuine desire before that desire had faded to obligation.

He touched himself tentatively, half-hearted, seeking some release from the tension. But his heart wasn''t in it. The pleasure was mechanical, disconnected from any real feeling. When he finished, he felt emptier than before.

He rolled onto his side, facing the wall. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling and briefly illuminating the faded stars.

Somewhere across the Atlantic, a man named Alexander Carter was presumably asleep in his own bed. A stranger who might become his husband in name only. A solution to problems Lucas hadn''t even known he had until today.

He closed his eyes, but sleep didn''t come. The questions kept circling, each one leading back to the same central uncertainty: what was he willing to do to escape this life that had suddenly, catastrophically, fallen apart?

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