Chapter 7 - Seamus
Chapter seven
Seamus
Istand at the window of my office, watching the city move below with its usual indifferent rhythm.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass. I look controlled and composed. My face gives nothing away.
But inside, I'm thinking about things that have nothing to do with business.
Rosanna Lopez is not what I expected. I knew she'd be passionate. I saw that at the community meeting. I knew she'd be articulate, principled, willing to fight.
What I didn't expect was the vulnerability underneath the anger. The fear that I might use her.
I also didn't expect the jolt when our hands brushed. It was brief and accidental, but sharp.
I tell myself it was meaningless.
Simply a physical reaction that happens when two people occupy the same space. It doesn't mean anything.
But I remember the way she looked at me when I asked what would make this possible. Like she wanted to say no but couldn't quite force the word out. Like maybe there was a version of this arrangement that wouldn't feel like surrender.
My phone buzzes. A text from Graham:
Meeting go well?
I look at the message for a long moment, then set the phone face-down on the table without responding.
I sit in one of the armchairs and try to see this situation from her perspective.
A woman fighting to preserve something meaningful gets matched with the CEO whose company threatens to demolish it.
A woman who's been made to feel small by men with power gets offered a contract by a man with significantly more.
A woman who doesn't trust easily meets someone with a history of carelessness in relationships.
Of course she said no. Of course she looks at me and sees a risk instead of a solution.
The worst part is, she's not entirely wrong. I do have a reputation. Reformed or not, the headlines didn't lie.
I spent my twenties being charming and reckless and leaving broken hearts and damaged reputations in my wake.
It wasn't because I was cruel, but because I didn't think. I didn't consider the consequences.
I treated relationships like they were as disposable, and it took losing nearly everything to understand what that cost was.
Six years of discipline. Six years of careful control, of keeping people at a distance, of building walls high enough that carelessness couldn't touch anyone.
And now I'm planning to let someone inside those walls. To risk proximity, to risk connection, to risk becoming the person I worked so hard to stop being.
But Rosanna's fear isn't about my past behavior. It's about power. About her not being diminished or neglected. And that I can address.
I pull out my phone and open my contacts. ERS's lawyer answers on the second ring. "This is Noah."
"Noah, this is Seamus O'malley.
"What can I do for you?"
"I need you to draft contract modifications," I say without preamble. “Clear protections around consent and autonomy.”
There's a pause. "She turned you down."
"Not yet. But she will unless I can prove this arrangement doesn't require her to compromise herself."
Noah is quiet for a moment, and I can hear him typing. "Walk me through what she's concerned about. Specifically."
I lean back in the chair, trying to recall her exact words.
"She's afraid I'll expect things from her.
Intimacy, compliance, some version of her making herself smaller to accommodate me.
She's afraid the power imbalance means the contract is meaningless—that I can agree to terms and then ignore them because I have more resources and more leverage. "
"Reasonable, given the circumstances," Noah says. "What did you tell her?"
"That I won't take advantage of her." I pause. "I don't think she believed me."
"Did you believe you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're asking me to draft protections against behavior you claim you'd never engage in anyway. Which suggests either you don't trust yourself, or you're worried she has good reason not to trust you."
Noah's voice is matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "I need to know which it is, Seamus. Because if this is about managing your own uncertainty, we need different language than if it's about reassuring her."
I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"I've built my entire life around control and distance was the main tool I used to accomplish that. This arrangement requires me to use new tools to keep myself in control of my past behaviors. And I don't know if I can do it without reverting to old patterns."
"Define what you mean by 'old patterns'?"
"Hurting people without meaning to because I didn't think through consequences."
Noah is quiet for a moment. "All right. Then we write protections that hold you accountable. Clear boundaries and consequences for violations."
The words sting, but they're not unfair. "Do it. Whatever it takes."
Noah exhales slowly. "You're really doing this."
"I don't really have a choice."
"That's not what I mean." There's something almost gentle in his voice now.
I don't answer.
After I hang up with Noah, I sit in the quiet conference room and pull up the photo from the community meeting. It's the blurry one where Rosanna is mid-argument, sketchbook clutched to her chest, eyes blazing. It's unprofessional. Irrelevant to the business decision at hand.
But, I find myself studying her expression. The passion. The conviction. The absolute certainty that she's fighting for something that matters.
When was the last time I felt that kind of certainty about anything other than quarterly projections?
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Tessa from ERS:
Should we begin preparing secondary matches?
I type back:
Send the revised contract to Ms. Lopez when Noah finishes it. And give her as much time as she needs to review.
Tessa's response is immediate:
Understood. For what it's worth, I think you two could be good for each other.
I don't respond to that. Because the goal isn't to be good for each other. The goal is to survive six months improving my brand. To provide stability for the board.
The goal is not to care what she thinks of me. Not to wonder what it would feel like if she looked at me with something other than suspicion.
Not to think about the jolt when our hands touched, or the way her voice softened, or the fact that she’s the first person in six years who’s made me want to explain myself instead of shutting down.
But I'm thinking about all of it anyway.
I pull out my laptop and open my email.
There's a draft I started last night and haven't sent yet. To Anna. My old elementary school pen pal. I've maintained contact with her over the years, though sporadically.
She who knew me long before I became "Seamus O'Malley, CEO" or "reformed playboy" or any of the other labels that define me now.
I read what I wrote: Things are changing. I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. I'm not sure if I'll recognize myself on the other side.
My cursor hovers over the send button. Then I add one more line: But maybe that's not the worst thing. Maybe some changes are necessary even when they're terrifying.
I hit send before I can second-guess it.
Then I gather my things and leave the building.
Outside, the city hums with early evening energy. People are heading home, moving through their lives with purpose and direction.
I stand on the sidewalk for a moment, briefcase in hand, and I realize I have no idea what I want Rosanna's answer to be.
No. That's not true. I know exactly what I want.
I want her to say yes.
Not because of the board. But because somewhere in that conversation, I felt something. Something that felt almost like recognition.
The contract will arrive at her door tonight. And tomorrow, I'll find out if she believes me.