Chapter 2: A Hard Choice

Adrian

I closed my eyes.

Somewhere in my apartment, my phone was ringing. Probably my boss. Maybe wanting to "touch base" about my "transition timeline"...corporate speak for when the hell are you leaving so we can replace you?

The deportation notice was still on my kitchen counter where I'd left it, those three words burning into my brain even from the other room. In my inbox sat an email from my landlord asking about renewing my lease, a lease I wouldn't need in thirty days. In my messages, my mother kept asking about engagement parties and nice girls and when was I finally coming home.

Home.

The word tasted like poison.

Everything felt like it was closing in. Walls sliding closer. Ceiling pressing down. Air getting thinner with every breath.

"Okay," I whispered to the empty apartment. My voice sounded small, defeated. 

"I'll meet him."

<<<<<<<<<<<

The coffee shop Maya chose was aggressively anonymous, one of those tourist traps on Mission Street where everything cost twice what it should and indie music blasted so loud you couldn't hear yourself think. 

Perfect. No one here paid attention to anyone else's conversations.

I sat at a table near the back, my coffee still untouched was getting cold in front of me. I couldn't take a sip from it. My stomach was still churning from this morning, still twisted in knots. 

I kept my eyes on the door, watching every person who walked in, feeling like I was about to commit a crime.

Because I was.

Maya had texted me a description of him: Mid-thirties. Tall. Probably wearing a suit even though he doesn't have to. Looks like he sleeps four hours a night and runs in spite.

I wasn't sure what I'd expected. Someone shady-looking, maybe. Criminal. Someone who looked like they lived outside the law, who fit the part of illegal operation.

The man who walked through the door at exactly 2:00 PM looked like he belonged in a courtroom prosecuting cases, not arranging fraud.

Tall, easily over six feet. Dark hair going gray at the temples, making him look distinguished rather than old. Sharp features that suggested Mediterranean or Middle Eastern heritage. 

His charcoal suit was expensive, perfectly tailored, the kind that screamed money and success. But his tie was loosened like he'd been wearing it for too long, and his eyes…

God, his eyes looked exhausted. Not the kind of tired that came from one bad night. The kind that seeped into your bones over years.

He scanned the café with practiced efficiency, like he'd done this a hundred times before. And finally his gaze landed on me and held.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. Everything about his movements was controlled, measured. He stopped at my table.

"Adrian Santos? He asked."

"That's me." My voice came out steadier than I felt. Small miracle. "You must be…"

"Mason Cole."

He didn't offer his hand. Didn't smile. Just slid into the chair across from me and placed a slim leather portfolio on the table between us like we were about to discuss a business merger, not my life.

"Maya said you're facing deportation," he said. No pleasantries. No how are you? He just went straight to business. 

"Thirty-day timeline? He continued."

I appreciated that, actually. I didn't think I could survive small talk right now. Couldn't pretend this was normal.

"Yes. My student visa is expired. And my employer won't sponsor me. There isn't other options."

Mason's expression didn't change. His face could have been carved from stone.

"Country of origin? He asked"

"Philippines. I answered."

Something flickered in his eyes. Suddenly they were gone so fast I almost missed it.

"LGBTQ?"

"Gay." The word came out naked, exposed. I'd never said it so baldly to a stranger before. But there was no point hiding it. Not here. Not now. Not when my sexuality was the entire reason I needed help.

He nodded once and pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, flipping open the portfolio to reveal a legal pad covered in neat, precise handwriting. 

Everything about him screamed control, organization, a man who'd thought through every detail.

"I'm going to be direct with you, Adrian." His voice was calm. Clinical. Like he was reciting terms and conditions. 

"What I offer is illegal. You and I know that. If we're caught, you'll be deported and permanently banned from the United States. And I'll face federal prosecution for immigration fraud conspiracy. I'll likely spend a decade in prison."

My mouth went dry. I tried to swallow. But I couldn't.

"There's no guarantee of success," he continued, still in that same flat tone. "The process will require you to lie convincingly and repeatedly to federal investigators who are trained to detect exactly this kind of fraud. 

If you can't handle that…if you think you'll crack under pressure, we should end this conversation now."

I stared at him, trying to process his words. Trying to breathe.

"Why do you do this?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

His eyes narrowed slightly. 

"Does it matter?"

"Yes." I didn't know why it mattered so much, but it did. I needed to know this wasn't just about money. That he wasn't some predator feeding on desperate people's fear. 

That there was something human underneath all that control.

He studied me for a long moment. Those tired eyes stripped me bare, seeing things I didn't want to seen. Then he spoke, and his voice was flat. Factual. Like he was reciting someone else's tragedy instead of his own.

"Ten years ago, my boyfriend was deported to Russia. His student visa expired. I didn't know enough about immigration law to help him then." He paused.

 "I thought we had time."

The café noise faded into white static.

"Then he continued. But we didn't."

My chest tightened.

"Six months after he was sent back, he was arrested for homosexuality. He died in a detention camp outside Moscow." 

Mason's expression didn't change. Didn't crack. "He was twenty-three years old."

The world tilted sideways. My lungs stopped working. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but sit there and absorb the weight of what he'd just told me.

Twenty-three. Mateo's age when the police beat him.

"I started this business because I couldn't save him," Mason continued, voice still eerily calm. "Because the system is designed to destroy people whose only crime is loving the wrong person. Being born in the wrong country. I've arranged seventeen marriages in eight years. All successful. All still undiscovered."

He met my eyes then, and I saw something in them that made my throat close up.

"I don't do this for absolution. There isn't any. I do it because people like you deserve the chance Dmitri never got.”

My vision blurred. I blinked hard, refusing to cry in front of this stranger who'd just handed me his still-bleeding heart on a plate.

"How much?" My voice came out rough.

"Fifty thousand dollars. Paid over two years. Twenty-five thousand up front. The rest in quarterly payments."

My stomach dropped through the floor. Fifty thousand. I barely had five thousand in savings after six years of working.

"I don't have that kind of money."

"Most people don't. That's why it's installments." His tone didn't soften. Didn't change. "You'll need to keep your job. Make every payment on time. Miss one, and we dissolve the arrangement."

He pulled out his phone, pulled up what looked like a contract template.

"The marriage lasts exactly twenty-four months. We file the I-130 petition immediately. You'll undergo an initial USCIS interview within three months. After two years, you file for permanent residency without conditions. Then we divorce. We never contact each other again. Clean and clear."

"What about…" I swallowed hard, my throat clicking. "What about the marriage itself? 

Do we have to…"

"You'll move into my apartment." Still clinical. Still detached, like he was reading from a script he'd memorized. "We'll maintain cohabitation evidence. Shared bills. Shared lease. 

Photographic evidence of domestic life. We'll attend social events together as a couple. We'll be affectionate in public. We'll be prepared for surprise home visits from immigration investigators who will check if we're sleeping in the same bed or probably having sex.."

He paused, making sure I understood what he was saying.

"What we don't do, he continued. Is develop romantic feelings. What we don't do is complicate a legal arrangement with messy emotions. This is a contract, Adrian. A business transaction designed to save your life." His eyes bored into mine. "Nothing more."

I nodded slowly, though something in my chest tightened painfully at the coldness of it all. What had I expected? Romance? This was fraud. A lifeline built on someone else's tragedy and my desperation.

"I need to think about it," I heard myself say.

"You have thirty days before deportation. I need at least two weeks to prepare the paperwork, stage relationship evidence, and file the petition." 

He stood, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced efficiency. Every movement controlled. 

"So you have forty-eight hours to decide. After that, you're on your own."

He pulled a business card from his wallet and placed it on the table. Plain white. No law firm logo. Just a name and a phone number.

"If you decide yes, call me. If you decide no, lose this card and forget we met."

He looked at me one last time. In those exhausted eyes, I saw something that wasn't pity. 

The look of someone who'd stood exactly where I was standing. Who knew how this story ended.

"Good luck, Adrian. Whatever you choose. He said."

Then he was gone. Disappeared into the Mission Street crowds like he'd never been there at all.

I sat there staring at the business card like it might bite me. Like it was either salvation or damnation, and I wasn't sure which scared me more.

My hands were shaking as I picked it up. Slipped it into my wallet beside the deportation notice I'd been carrying like a death warrant.

Forty-eight hours to decide if I was brave enough…or desperate enough to break the law.

I closed my eyes and saw Mateo's beaten face in my mind. Heard my mother's voice asking about nice girls.

Felt those thirty days ticking down like a bomb timer I couldn't stop.

And I already knew my answer.