He took my hand like he always did—decisive, authoritative. “We’ve already been living it in practice. This is simply making it real on paper. It will not change how we love. It will only give you the protection of definition.”
I thought of all the nights I’d allowed him to mark my skin, the quiet vows he whispered in my ear, the way he’d put my name beside his on a letterhead. The ceremony felt like escalation, yes, but it was also a firewall. It would not erase the market’s appetite, but it would make my name harder to erase. It would force journalists and donors to write a more complex headline.
We agreed—cautiously, deliberately. The process would be controlled: lawyer, two witnesses, a private room, a short statement. No press. No social share. The ceremony’s value was not in specta
