Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Seamus
Iwake before dawn, my usual routine unbroken, despite the knowledge that someone else is sleeping in my home. The shower's steady pressure helps clear my thoughts as I mentally rehearse the narrative Marissa and the ERS team crafted for us.
A whirlwind romance kept private until now. Mutual respect that deepened quickly. A decision that felt right.
Simple statements that skirt the truth without outright lies. I know the play.
Standing before my closet, I select a navy suit that projects stability without seeming stuffy. The tie I choose is among the options ERS suggested for today.
Everything is calculated, from the wedding ring that still feels foreign on my hand to the shade of my pocket square.
I check my reflection, noting the controlled expression I've perfected over years of board meetings and investor calls.
Today, I need to look content but not smug. Invested, but not desperate.
I hear movement from the guest room (Rosanna's room now) and feel an unexpected tension in my shoulders.
Today will be our first public test, and I have no idea how she'll handle the scrutiny.
I've built my life around predictability, around systems I can control.
Rosanna Lopez is an unpredictable variable.
When she emerges from her room, I'm momentarily taken aback. The ERS stylist has clearly visited, because the woman before me bears little resemblance to the artist who confronted me at the community meeting.
Her dress is elegantly simple, her hair styled in soft waves instead of her usual messy knot. She looks polished but still recognizably herself. She's approachable, where I am formal.
It'll photograph well.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Coffee's ready. We leave in thirty minutes."
***
The car ride is quiet, though not as uncomfortable as I expected. Rosanna stares out the window, occasionally making notes in the small sketchbook she insisted on bringing.
I check my phone, reviewing Marissa's final briefing notes.
Marissa suggests hand-holding today.
I glance at Rosanna's hand resting on the seat between us.
We arrive at the O'Malley Corporation headquarters, where the press conference will be held.
The board insisted that it would make me look more stable and the corporation look more reliable.
It’s manipulative. It’s also effective.
As the car pulls up to the private entrance, I see the press already gathered at the front of the building.
"We'll go in the back way," I tell Rosanna. "The vultures can wait until we're ready."
In the executive suite converted to a staging area, Marissa greets us.
She's brought an ERS team who immediately begin fussing over Rosanna's appearance and reviewing key talking points with her.
I'm left with Noah Carroway, the ERS lawyer who drafted our contract. "Everything still on track?" he asks.
I nod, though the question irritates me.
The ink on our marriage license is barely dry, and already they're monitoring for signs of instability.
"Good," Noah continues. "The narrative we're promoting is that you kept the relationship private to nurture it without public pressure. That explains the sudden announcement."
Tessa Bloom approaches with last-minute instructions.
"Remember, you've been together long enough to be comfortable but not long enough to lose the newlywed glow," she says. "Seamus, you should look at Rosanna when she speaks, not at the cameras or your notes."
Her tone is gentle but firm. I resist the urge to remind her that I've been handling the press since before she was out of college.
Instead, I simply nod and move toward Rosanna, who looks increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes tick down.
"Ready?" I ask.
We walk into the conference room as a unit, my hand resting lightly on Rosanna's lower back.
The flashes begin immediately, a storm of light and clicking shutters.
I feel Rosanna tense beneath my palm but she keeps moving forward, her expression composed. I guide her to the table set up at the front of the room, pulling out her chair first—a detail Marissa specifically noted would "read well" in the coverage.
We sit side by side, closer than is strictly necessary, my notes perfectly aligned before me.
I begin with the prepared statement, my voice calibrated to hit the exact notes of pleased confidence without arrogance.
"As many of you have already reported, I recently married the talented artist and children's advocate Rosanna Lopez. While this may seem sudden to the public, we chose to nurture our relationship privately before sharing it with the world."
The words feel strange in my mouth.
When it's Rosanna's turn to speak, I'm prepared for hesitation or awkwardness. Instead, she surprises me.
Her voice is clear and steady as she describes her work with children's literacy and her passion for creating spaces where imagination can flourish.
She doesn't mention our relationship directly, focusing instead on her own projects, but she occasionally glances my way with a warmth that seems remarkably genuine.
The reporters respond to her instantly, their expressions shifting toward respect.
She's good at this.
The questioning begins, and as expected, the press immediately tries to bait me about my past.
"Mr. O'Malley, this marriage represents quite a departure from your well-documented bachelor lifestyle. What changed?" asks a reporter from the Financial Times.
I give the answer we rehearsed: "Meeting the right person has a way of clarifying priorities."
Another asks if this marriage is a response to board pressure for stability.
I deflect with ease: "My personal happiness and the company's success are aligned but separate concerns."
Throughout it all, I maintain the calm, slightly amused expression that has become my public mask, while occasionally turning to Rosanna with what I hope passes for affection.
The press conference proceeds according to plan until a young reporter from the local arts weekly stands up.
"Ms. Lopez," she begins, and I tense immediately at the direct address. "Is it true that your husband's company is bulldozing the storefront you have been so active in trying to save?"
The room goes quiet. This wasn't in our briefing materials.
I glance at Marissa, who stands at the back of the room with a tightly controlled expression that tells me nothing.
I prepare to intervene, to redirect the question to safer territory.
But before I can speak, Rosanna smiles—a genuine smile that reaches her eyes. "I'm proud to say I started the process of putting in an offer for building this morning," she announces, her voice carrying clearly through the suddenly silent room.
I keep my expression neutral.
The reporters perk up like hounds catching a scent, and the cameras start clicking with renewed vigor.
I can almost see the headlines forming: "Billionaire's New Wife Challenges His Business."
I feel a text vibrate in my pocket and resist the urge to check it immediately. Instead, I place my hand over Rosanna's where it rests on the table. It's partly for the cameras, partly to regain some control of the situation.
"My wife is passionate about community preservation," I say, picking my words carefully. "It's one of the qualities I admire most about her."
This is true enough.
Rosanna's fingers tense beneath mine, but her smile never wavers.
The reporter follows up, of course. "So, Mr. O'Malley, does this mean O'Malley Development will withdraw its interest in that property?"
Now we're venturing into corporate strategy territory.
I maintain my composed expression as I formulate a response that won't contradict Rosanna while also avoiding any binding promises about company operations.
"O'Malley Development evaluates each project based on multiple factors," I say. "Specific decisions follow established review processes, not personal preferences."
Soon we're back in the private suite.
The room fills with the ERS team and my corporate PR staff, all speaking at once about "messaging consistency" and "narrative control."
I tune them out, focusing instead on Rosanna, who stands slightly apart, scrolling through her phone with an unreadable expression.
"We need a moment," I announce, cutting through the chatter. Without waiting for a response, I guide Rosanna into the adjacent conference room and close the door behind us.
"I didn't know you had made an official offer," I say, keeping my voice low.
"I didn't think I needed your permission," she replies, her chin lifting slightly.
I don't know that she meant to, but in one deft move, she's created a public narrative where O'Malley's new wife stands against O'Malley's company.
"Next time," I say finally, "give me a heads-up before you ambush me in front of the national press."
***
Back in the car, with the privacy screen raised between us and the driver, a text arrives on both our phones simultaneously.
It's from George Maddox at ERS:
The internet is already dubbing you 'Beauty and the Business Beast.' Public response overwhelmingly positive. Keep this energy.
I glance at Rosanna, who's reading the same message, her expression thoughtful.
As we drive through the city, I recognize that I've underestimated her.
Beneath the paint splatters and casual warmth, Rosanna Lopez is proving to be as strategic as anyone I've faced across a negotiating table.