2. Seamus
Chapter two
Seamus
The conference room is on the fortieth floor. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the city below. I prefer it this way.
Distance makes things simpler.
Malcolm Hale, the COO of the company, sits to my right, tablet open, already scrolling through quarterly projections. Talia Nguyen, our communications director, sits across from me, her expression carefully neutral.
At the head of the table, Graham Whitlock, Chairman of the board, adjusts his cufflinks.
This isn't a board meeting, but a smaller briefing.
"Gentlemen. Talia." Graham nods to each of us in turn. "Thank you for making time. I know we're all busy, so I'll get to the point."
He taps the folder in front of him. It's thin, which somehow makes it more ominous. "The press has been circulating old photos again."
I don't react. I've learned that stillness is its own kind of power. "I'm aware."
Talia clears her throat. "Your reformed image has helped. But lately, it's slipping."
She slides a tablet across the table toward me. I glance down. Headlines. Old photos. The pictures are all highlighting my playboy past.
"These are from five years ago," I say evenly.
"Six," Talia corrects. "But they're getting traction again. Algorithms don't care how old the photos are. And 'reformed playboy' only works if people believe it."
Malcolm leans forward, fingers steepled. "Investors are getting skittish. Nothing catastrophic, but the calls are starting. Questions about leadership stability. Long-term vision."
He pauses, letting that sink in. "Right now, you're a thirty-four-year-old bachelor CEO with a history. It's... distracting."
I feel the first prickle of irritation. "My personal life has been irrelevant to company performance for years."
"Perception isn't rational, Seamus." Graham's voice is calm, almost kind. "We're not questioning your competence. We're addressing noise. The board wants to reinforce the stability narrative before it becomes a real problem."
"Reinforce it how?" I ask.
Graham opens the folder, then pauses. "There are the usual approaches. Press tours. Controlled interviews. Media coaching."
"All of which require significant time on your end," Talia says carefully.
She hesitates. "There is one unconventional option."
She meets my gaze. "Marriage."
She says it like she's suggesting a new vendor contract.
"There are agencies that arrange this sort of thing. Discreet. Professional. No expectation of romance."
I look at Talia. "You're suggesting I get married to quiet down some press noise."
"I'm suggesting it as one possible tool," Talia says evenly. "ERS—Elite Relationship Solutions—has been vetted by several firms we trust. They work with high-profile clients who need structured personal relationships. It's not uncommon in your position."
Malcolm exhales. "That seems excessive."
Graham’s expression tightens. "We’re not arranging a marriage."
"No." My voice is cold.
"It was a suggestion," Talia says calmly. "Not an ultimatum."
"No." I keep my voice level, but there's steel underneath. "I spent six years rebuilding my credibility. I'm not undoing that with a staged marriage."
"It wouldn't look fake," Talia interjects. "That's the entire point of using ERS. They specialize in compatibility matching. From the outside, it would appear entirely genuine."
"From the outside." I lean back in my chair, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "And what happens when it ends? When the 'genuine' marriage dissolves six months later? You think that won't raise questions?"
Malcolm shrugs. "Relationships end. No one expects perfection. The point is demonstrating commitment. Stability. Partnership. Investors respond to that."
I shake my head. The idea is absurd. Marriage isn't a PR strategy. It's not something you schedule between board meetings and earnings calls.
Inviting someone into my private life feels like unlocking a door I sealed years ago.
I don't say any of this aloud. What I say is: "I appreciate the concern. But my answer is no. We'll address the noise through performance, not theater."
Graham exchanges a glance with Malcolm. Something silent and assessing passes between them.
Graham steeples his fingers. "Let’s focus on viable strategies. We’ll proceed with media planning for now."
I hate press tours. I despise the performative sincerity of televised interviews.
Talia closes her tablet. "I’ll forward you the information. So you have all the options."
I nod, fully intending to ignore the email.
"Then we'll move on to the Heritage Street project update," Graham says, smoothly transitioning as if we haven't just discussed arranging my future like a corporate merger.
The rest of the meeting passes in a blur of projections and timelines. I contribute where necessary, but part of my mind is still snagged on what just happened.
***
After the meeting, I return to my office. The city sprawls below, indifferent and vast.
I pour myself a glass of water, wishing it was something strong, and sit at my desk. I don't drink alcohol during work hours, just one of the many rules I don't break.
My phone buzzes.
A calendar reminder: Community meeting follow-up notes due. I pull up the file from last night's forum. My assistant's notes are thorough, as always. Community resistance expected. Proceed as planned. Demolition permits on track.
I scroll through the attachments and stop on a photo someone took during the meeting. It's blurry, taken from the side, but I recognize the woman in the third row immediately. Dark eyes. Sketchbook clutched to her chest like a shield. The one who stood up and called me out in front of fifty people.
I don't know her name. The notes don't mention her specifically. It just says "vocal opposition from local residents."
But I remember her. The way she looked at me with righteous, furious anger.
As if she already had me figured out.
I close the file and pull up my secure email. The message from Talia sits at the top of my inbox. Elite Relationship Solutions - Confidential Intake Packet.
If I fill out the forms, I can delay the press conferences for a few weeks.
It proves I’m addressing the perception problem, even if I don’t follow through.
By the time they circle back, the press cycle will have moved on. The investors will have calmed down. And this entire ridiculous marriage scheme will be forgotten.
I open the email.
I finish the forms efficiently, answering questions about lifestyle, deal-breakers, timelines.
When I reach the end, there's a submission button and a note: Once submitted, an ERS consultant will review your responses and contact you within 48 hours to discuss potential matches.
I hover the cursor over the button.
This isn't a commitment. It's paperwork.
I click submit.
The confirmation screen appears: Thank you for completing your confidential intake with Elite Relationship Solutions. A consultant will be in touch shortly.
I close the browser and sit in the silence of my office, looking out at the city below.
I pour another glass of water and return to work.
The forms are submitted. In forty-eight hours, ERS will call and I'll decline politely.
This conversation will be finished, and I can get back to actual work.