Enemy of the Alien Bride Lottery by Margo Collins (sight word readers TXT) 📕

we had stayed married, my name was to be added to the Bride Lottery ten times every year until I aged out of the Bride Lottery program.

Ten years of faux marriage. That meant until I turned 35, I would be entered in the Bride Lottery a hundred times every year.

But given the number of women on Earth, I figured it didn’t increase my chances all that much.

Yeah, it could’ve been much worse.

I was, however, worried about what I would do when I got out. I lost my job when I was arrested. My tiny house had been mortgaged to pay my legal fees. And of course, I hadn’t been able to pay my mortgage while I was in prison, so it was about to be foreclosed on.

I had never been terribly sociable, more prone to spending my time reading and watching vids than going out making friends—the result of a childhood spent being homeschooled by a radical anti-government prepper. It had been perfect for the night-clerk at a small highway hotel.

Not so great now.

I knew my father would take me back in if I asked. But it would scare the hell out of him. There were bound to be reporters, and I was sure I would end up being watched by government agencies.

No, I wouldn’t bring this back to him.

But here I was, about to be an ex-con with no job, no home, and no one to count on.

And I would be getting out right before Christmas.

Which beat the hell out of spending the holidays stuck inside a cell.

I was almost relieved when the woman who would be my parole officer came to talk to me about finding a place for me in a halfway house.

“Marjorie Kent,” she introduced herself, her no-nonsense tone and hard eyes belying her small size. “I think I found a placement for you that will work,” she said, passing epaper across the table to me.

“Sure,” I said, barely glancing at it. “Whatever. If there’s space for me, I’m good with it.”

She gave me an awfully intense glance, and I blinked, not understanding what she might be trying to convey. “Should I be planning to try to find my own job, or what?”

“There’s actually an opening in the halfway house staff. Usually, we reserve it for people who have been there a while, but I believe this particular position will work for you.” Her gaze flickered up to the camera in the corner of the room—an old-fashioned one mounted to the wall rather than one of the new flying vid drones many other places used. “Especially given your work history at a hotel.”

“So, like, cleaning, clerical work, what?”

Marjorie waved a dismissive and. “Yeah, that sort of stuff.”

“Sounds great.” I was more excited than I probably should have been, but knowing I had a place to go after release eased a giant knot of worry I’d been carrying in my chest.

Marjorie leaned over the table and stared into my eyes. “I’ll have someone pick you up when you’re released. Her name is Roya.” She put an unusual emphasis on the name.

“Roya. Got it.” My parole officer was beginning to freak me out a little bit. “This all sounds great. Do I need to sign anything?”

She pulled out another epaper. “Thumbprint here.” Her voice indicated more irritation than her words conveyed.

I pressed my thumb against the official document, and Marjorie dropped it into the briefcase she carried.

“Oh, you can have this back,” I said, trying to hand her the epaper she had given me.

She shook her head. “That’s yours to keep.”

At the time, I didn’t think it was all that odd. My attorney had periodically given me information to read over while I was in my solo cell.

“Roya will be here next week, then.” Marjorie stood and smoothed her hands down the front of her pants, almost as if she were nervous.

I stayed seated, knowing the guards would take my standing as a threat. “You and I will need to meet regularly, right?”

“Once a month,” Marjorie said as she buzzed for the guard to come let her out.

As a guard led me back to my cell through the institutionally gray corridors of the women’s prison, I realized that although I no longer had to be concerned about where I would go, I was still worried about what would happen to me once I was free again, once I was outside and people could track me down.

My name had barely had time to die down in the news cycle when it popped back up again in connection to my upcoming release.

I was really glad that Marjorie had arranged for me to work inside the same halfway house where I was going to live. It would be easier to hide from reporters until my story was eclipsed by bigger news.

Eventually, I might even be able to slip back into the same kind of anonymity I had not known enough to enjoy back when I’d had it.

And one thing was for sure.

I was never again going to have anything to do with the Khanavai.

Never.

Chapter Six

Wex

“Could I see you in my office, Wex?” I jumped at the sound of Vos Klavoii’s voice over the com system.

Why could he possibly need to see me in his office?

“Yes, sir.” I keyed off my own com and began the walk from the control room to the administrator’s office.

Had Vos figured out I’d been snooping in the system, researching Deandra’s background, following—and interfering in—her case?

“Wex, good to see you,” Vos said as his assistant, Anthony, a human male, led me into the Games Director’s office.

Vos surely couldn’t be too upset with me if he is greeting me that cheerfully. Right?

“Sir.” I nodded in greeting. “You said you needed to see me?”

“Yes, please, have a seat.” He gestured magnanimously toward the chairs in front of the wide expanse of his desk. His office had been remodeled since the Alveron Horde attack on Station 21. Before, the walls had been bare and colorless, the décor more in