Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Rosanna
Istand outside the ERS building for a full minute before I can make myself go inside.
Luna dropped me off ten minutes ago with a fierce hug and a whispered "You've got this."
But now that I'm here, staring at the sleek glass doors, I'm not sure I've got anything except a rapidly escalating heart rate and the urge to run.
My phone buzzes.
Luna:
Still standing outside?
I look up. She's parked across the street, watching me through her windshield. I manage a weak wave.
She texts again:
Go inside, Ro. Or get back in the car. But standing on the sidewalk looking panicked is not an option.
She's right. I take a breath, smooth down my burgundy dress, and push through the doors.
The lobby is quiet. A receptionist I don't recognize smiles at me.
"Ms. Lopez? Third floor, Conference Room B.
You can take the elevator on your right.
" I nod, not trusting my voice, and head for the elevator.
My reflection in the polished doors shows a woman who looks far more composed than I feel.
The red dress was a good choice. It's simple, elegant, and not trying too hard.
The elevator doors open on the third floor. I can hear voices down the hall. They are low and careful. Like the sound of people waiting for something irreversible.
I follow the sound to Conference Room B.
I slip inside quietly, staying near the back. Inside, the room is set but quiet. Three couples. Three rows of chairs. A judge arranging papers at the front.
Tessa sees me then. She smiles and makes her way over.
"Here you are. Mr. O'Malley is over by the windows." She gestures, and I follow her gaze. Seamus is standing with his back to the window. Looking right at me.
He looks exactly like I expected—perfectly tailored suit, dark hair controlled, posture rigid. But there's something about the way he's standing that reads differently than it did at our meetings.
"We'll be starting any minute," Tessa moves away.
I clutch my canvas bag tighter. My sketchbook is inside it. Having it with me feels like proof that I'm still me.
I pull it out and flip to a blank page, more for something to do with my hands than because I plan to sketch.
But then I see the last drawing I did—a rough outline of the storefront, the way I imagine it could look with proper restoration. Windows full of light. Kids sitting on the steps with books. A small awning with hand-painted letters: Community Corner. My dream, captured in graphite and hope.
Seamus walks over to me. "Rosanna."
"Seamus." My voice comes out steadier than I expected. I close my sketchbook quickly before he can see what I was looking at.
"You brought your sketchbook." It's not a question. He noticed.
"I always have one with me."
He nods like he understands, though I'm not sure he does.
How could someone whose life is all boardrooms and balance sheets understand the need for something tactile and creative to anchor yourself when everything feels like it's spinning out of control?
We stand in awkward silence for a moment. The judge is shuffling papers at the front of the room, organizing for the next ceremony.
Tessa hovers nearby, giving us space but ready to step in if needed.
The first couple is called. I recognize the woman as a famous singer. Up close, the couple looks less polished and more human.
“Please join hands.”
They hesitate.
Just a second.
Then their fingers touch.
Not intertwined. Just barely connected.
Seamus leans over to me. "Are you nervous?"
I look at him sharply. "Are you?"
"Yes." The admission surprises me. "This is... not what I expected my wedding day to look like."
"Conference Room B. Very romantic."
That almost gets me to smile. "I don't think romance is part of our contract."
"No. Just mutual benefit and clear boundaries." I cross my arms, suddenly feeling defensive. "Which is fine. Better, actually. Romance complicates things."
"It can."
At the front of the room, the judge pauses.
“I do,” the man says, steady and immediate.
The judge shifts to the woman, repeating her question.
The singer swallows. Then: “I do.”
Her voice shakes.
But Seamus isn't watching the couple.
Seamus is watching me with that intense, unreadable expression I remember from our first meeting. "For what it's worth, I meant what I said. About the protections. About respecting your autonomy. I won't—"
"Take advantage of me. I know." I cut him off, not unkindly. "You put it in writing. Multiple times. I believe you."
He looks almost relieved. "Good."
The next couple is called forward. The woman with the rhinestone purse and the fiancé who keeps checking his watch like this is running long.
The judge starts her process again.
Seamus leans over again. "I'm glad you came."
I don’t mean to, but I look at Seamus when the man says, “I do.”
Seamus straightens in his chair. I don't know what to make of him.
Tessa approaches then, her smile warm and professional. "Whenever you're both ready, the judge is prepared to begin."
I take a breath. This is it. The moment where I either walk forward and commit to six months of living with a stranger, or I turn around and walk out and lose everything I've been working toward.
Seamus extends his hand slightly. He's not touching me, just gesturing toward the front of the room. An invitation, not a demand. "Shall we?"
We walk to the front of the room together, maintaining careful distance. The judge is an older woman with kind eyes and an efficient manner. She smiles at us both.
"Good morning. I'm Judge Whitmore." She glances at her paperwork. "Seamus O'Malley and Rosanna Lopez, correct?"
"Correct," Seamus says.
"Yes," I add.
Judge Whitmore nods. "Wonderful. Do either of you have any questions before we begin?"
I glance at Seamus. He's looking straight ahead, jaw tight, hands clasped in front of him.
He looks like he's about to negotiate a hostile takeover, not get married.
At least we're both equally uncomfortable.
"No questions," Seamus says.
I shake my head. "No."
"Then let's proceed." Judge Whitmore opens a small leather-bound book, and I realize this is really happening.
My hands start to shake.
Seamus glances down at them and extends his hand. I place my hand in his.
"Please join hands." The judge looks up from her paperwork. "Oh! You already did. Excellent."
This is it.
Six months.
His palm is warm. Steady.
Mine isn’t.
Judge Whitmore begins her speech on partnership.
That's what this is. Not love. Not romance. Just a partnership with clear terms and a predetermined end date.
I can do this.
I hope.