Chapter 6 - Rosanna
Chapter six
Rosanna
The ERS building feels different today. Probably because I'm too angry to be nervous.
I didn't come here to say yes.
I came here to look Seamus O'Malley in the eye and tell him exactly what I think of him without a moderator cutting me off or a crowd diluting the message.
Tessa said this meeting was about "getting to know your potential match." What she doesn't understand is that I already know him.
I know what he represents.
And that's exactly why this will never work.
Luna tried to talk me out of coming. "If you've already decided no, why put yourself through it?" she asked over coffee this morning.
But that's exactly why I need to go.
Because saying no to the man who thinks he can buy, demolish and then rebuild without consequences.
Saying no to his face? It matters to me, it will mean something in the end.
Tessa meets me at reception, her smile warm and professional.
"Rosanna, thank you for coming. Mr. O'Malley is already here. He arrived a few minutes early. I'll take you back to the private meeting suite."
She starts walking, and I follow.
My canvas bag is heavy on my shoulder. I brought my sketchbook. Having it with me feels like armor, like proof that I have a life and an identity that exists completely separate from this absurd situation.
We stop outside a heavy wooden door. Tessa turns to me, her expression gentle.
"I know this feels overwhelming, but try to approach it with an open mind."
I don't respond. I don't trust my voice not to come out sharp. She opens the door.
He's standing by the window when I enter, hands in his pockets. The light from the window cuts across his profile. He has a sharp jawline, perfect posture, and an expensive suit.
He doesn't turn immediately, and for a second I wonder if he's nervous.
Then I remember who he is.
Men like Seamus O'Malley don't get nervous. They strategize.
"Mr. O'Malley," I say, my voice coming out steadier than I expected.
He turns. Those steel-blue eyes find mine, and something flickers across his face. Like he's surprised that I actually showed up.
"Ms. Lopez." His voice is exactly as I remember from the community meeting. Low. Controlled. Maddeningly calm.
"I didn't come here to accept this match," I say before he can continue. Before he can settle into whatever corporate script he's prepared. "I came here to tell you in person that this is never going to happen."
He doesn't react. Doesn't look offended or surprised.
He just gestures to the seating area that is set up with two armchairs facing each other across a low table. "Would you like to sit?"
"I'd prefer to stand."
"All right." He stays where he is, near the window, maintaining a safe distance. Like he's giving me space. Or maybe like he doesn't want to get too close to someone who clearly despises him.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. "Do you even remember me? From the community meeting?"
"I remember." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "You spoke about the Heritage Street corridor. About preserving community spaces and historical buildings. You were passionate and articulate."
"And you dismissed everything I said."
He's quiet for a moment, and I see something shift in his expression. "I responded from a business perspective. That doesn't mean I dismissed you."
"It means exactly that," I snap. "You sat there with your calm voice and your reasonable tone and made it sound like caring about history and community is naive. Like profit and efficiency are the only things that matter."
Seamus moves to one of the chairs. He sits, and the gesture somehow makes him look less intimidating. More human.
"You're right," he says quietly.
I blink. "What?"
"You're right that I prioritized economic arguments over community concerns. You're right that my response was dismissive."
He looks up at me, and for the first time, his expression isn't under his mask of control. There's something almost tired in it.
“I learned the hard way what impulse costs. Sometimes I overcorrect.”
I don't know what to do with that. I came here ready for a fight, ready for him to be exactly what I expected. A cold, corporate, unmovable drone.
An apology, even a partial one, wasn't part of the script.
"That doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice has lost some of its edge. "Your company is still planning to demolish buildings that matter. You're still choosing profit over people."
“Buildings that matter to who? I’m choosing what keeps the lights on,” he corrects, but his tone isn't sharp. It's thoughtful.
"By erasing what makes it a neighborhood in the first place."
"By updating the area with buildings that are empty and falling apart." He leans forward slightly. "Ms. Lopez, I'm not the villain you think I am. I'm trying to do the right thing. We just disagree on what that looks like."
I want to argue.
I want to tell him he's wrong, that there's no moral equivalence between preservation and profit. But the way he's looking at me is steady and serious like he actually cares what I think. It throws me off balance.
"This is exactly why I can't marry you," I say, forcing steel back into my voice. "Even for six months. Even for the money. We're fundamentally opposed. You represent everything I'm fighting against."
I finally move to the chair across from him and sit, mostly because my legs are shaking and I don't want him to see it.
"Do you understand how insane this is? ERS wants me to marry the man whose company is trying to destroy the building I've been saving for.
The building I want to turn into something meaningful.
How could I possibly do that and live with myself? "
“Because it would let you save it,” he says. “You know the funding would cover the building.”
"So I should sell out? Marry my enemy for money?"
"I'm not your enemy." His voice is quiet, but there's an edge to it now. "I'm a person making business decisions you disagree with. That's not the same thing."
"It feels the same from where I'm sitting."
Seamus is quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is different. It's less controlled, more raw.
"I know what people think of me. I know that I have a reputation. The reformed playboy. The serious CEO trying to live down his past."
He looks up. "What you saw at that meeting—that's who I am now. I'm controlled and careful. Maybe too careful. But I'm not careless anymore. I'm not reckless. And I've never been someone who takes advantage of people."
The shift catches me off guard. There's something vulnerable in his admission, something that doesn't match the corporate armor he wears.
"This whole arrangement," I say quietly, "it requires trust. And I don't trust you. I don't trust your company. I don't trust that you won't—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Won't what?" His eyes are intent on mine.
"Won't use me. Won't expect things that I can't give."
Understanding crosses Seamus's face. "You think I'd do that?"
"I think men with power usually do."
Seamus stands and walks back to the window. For a long moment, he just looks out at the city, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.
When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful. "What if I could guarantee that wouldn't happen? In writing.”
I stand too, crossing my arms. "You can't contract away the power imbalance. You're a billionaire CEO. I'm a children's book illustrator."
"Rosanna, I won't take advantage of you."
I search his face for signs of manipulation, for the smooth corporate charm I expected. I don't find it. What I find instead is something more complicated.
"I need to think," I hear myself say.
"Of course."
He holds out his hand and shakes mine. My fingers brushing his for just a second. There's an unexpected, electric jolt, and I pull back quickly. If he felt it too, he doesn't show it.
"I won't change my mind," I say, but it comes out less certain than I intended.
"Then I wish you luck with the building." He means it. I can hear it in his voice. "For what it's worth, I hope you get it. I hope you prove that small things can survive in a city that keeps choosing scale over soul."
Those are my words. From the community meeting. He remembered. He actually listened.
I nod and turn to the door, not trusting myself to speak.
My hand is on the handle when he speaks again.
"Ms. Lopez." I stop but don't turn around. "What can I do to make this work?"
I should walk out and never look back. Instead, I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him in my peripheral vision.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I don't know if there's any version of this that isn't me compromising everything I believe in."
"Or," he says quietly, "maybe it's you finding a way to fight for what you believe in from a position of actual power instead of just passion."
I’ve spent years fighting from the outside. Petitioning. Fundraising. Arguing in public forums where the decisions are already made before the microphones are turned on.
From the outside, passion is noise.
From the inside, it might be leverage.
I don’t know if there’s any version of this that doesn’t cost me something.
I leave without answering. But his question follows me all the way home.
He asked what would make it possible. And the terrifying thing is that this situation is not as compromising and inexcusable as I thought.
It's starting to sound logical.