Chapter 14 Rosanna
Chapter fourteen
Rosanna
The first week of married life flies by. I wake each morning to the sound of Seamus already moving through the penthouse, his routine as precise as clockwork.
By six, he's showered and dressed.
By six-fifteen, he's made coffee—always enough for two, though I rarely emerge before seven.
By six-thirty, he's reviewing documents at the kitchen island, his posture perfectly straight even when no one's watching.
I watch from the doorway before announcing myself.
Today is day eight, and I'm learning the unspoken rules.
The kitchen is neutral territory where we exchange brief, polite conversation over coffee.
He takes his black; I add enough cream and sugar to make him wince slightly.
The living room remains largely untouched. Our bedrooms are private sanctuaries with our doors always closed when occupied, and we knock like cautious neighbors rather than spouses.
Our calendars do most of the talking.
Seamus insisted on meticulously color-coding every entry: blue for his work commitments, green for my projects and appointments, and red for our "marriage obligations"—the public appearances ERS schedules to showcase our marriage.
He looks up when I enter.
"There's fresh coffee," he says.
I pour myself a cup and add my usual excessive amounts of cream and sugar, catching the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"The gallery called," I say, settling across from him at the island. "They want to include three of my illustrations in their children's book showcase next month."
It's the kind of news I'd normally share with Luna over excited texts, but she's been surprisingly distant since the wedding.
Seamus looks up from his tablet, his attention shifting fully to me—a rare occurrence during our morning exchanges.
"That's impressive," he says, and though his tone remains even, there's genuine acknowledgment in it. "Will you have time to prepare for it?"
The question catches me off-guard.
"I should," I reply, warming my hands around my mug. "Most of the pieces are already complete. I just need to finalize the framing decisions."
He nods, making a note on his tablet, and I realize with surprise that he's adding it to our shared calendar.
The green block appears labeled "Rosanna's Gallery Exhibit."
Our conversation shifts to practical matters: he has late meetings all week; I have a deadline for preliminary sketches on my new project.
When he rises to leave, gathering his things, I find myself watching the way he straightens his already-straight tie, the careful check of his watch, the way he holds his briefcase.
These small rituals seem to anchor him, and I wonder what happens when his careful order is disrupted.
"I'll be back around eight," he says, heading toward the elevator.
He pauses, then adds, "If you need anything..." The sentence hangs unfinished between us, his apparent uncertainty at odds with his usual decisiveness.
I fill in the silence, "I'll text you."
He nods, seemingly relieved to have the protocol established.
The elevator doors close between us, leaving a strange echo.
The penthouse feels vast and hollow once Seamus leaves. I move through the space, still feeling like an intruder.
Seamus set me up a studio next to his home office. When he first showed it to me, it was empty.
Now my illustration table stands beneath the window where natural light streams in, surrounded by organized chaos: reference books stacked in colorful towers, sketches taped to the walls, and cups of brushes and pens arranged by type and size.
When I showed Seamus, expecting disapproval of the disruption to his minimalist aesthetic, he merely nodded and asked if the lighting was adequate for detailed work.
The next day, a professional-grade lamp appeared outside my door with a note: "For you." No signature, but the thoughtfulness surprised me.
In my studio room, I lose myself in work for hours, sketching character designs for a new picture book about a child who builds impossible machines.
The familiar flow of creativity is a relief. There are no contracts here, no pretenses, just the pure communication between my imagination and the page.
When I finally emerge for lunch, the silence of the penthouse is oppressive.
I put on music, letting it fill the empty spaces as I make a sandwich.
The songs echo slightly in the open-concept living area, making the space feel both more alive and somehow emptier at the same time.
***
Back at my desk, I open my laptop to research mechanical references for my illustrations.
A notification appears in the corner of my screen—a new email from Shay.
There's something freeing about writing to someone who knows me only through words, who has no expectations beyond honest communication.
I click open the email, curious what prompted Shay to write. The message is thoughtful, reflecting on change, adaptation, and how we become different people in different environments while still carrying our core selves.
"Sometimes I wonder if the roles we play eventually become who we are," Shay writes, "or if there's always a separation between them."
The words resonate uncomfortably with my current situation, where the line between performance and reality blurs a little more each day.
I find myself smiling at the familiar tone, the careful consideration Shay always gives to life's complexities.
In a world of surface-level connections, these messages feel like a tether to something real. I don't respond immediately, saving the reply for later when I can give it proper thought, but the email stays with me as I return to my sketches.
Seamus returns shortly after eight, as expected. I'm curled on the living room couch with my sketchbook balanced on my knees.
He pauses momentarily when he sees me.
"Evening," he says, setting his briefcase down. I notice the slight loosening of his tie, the single concession to the end of the workday.
"How was your meeting?" I ask.
"Productive," he answers, his standard response to most questions about his work. Then, surprisingly, he elaborates: "We're evaluating expansion into sustainable construction materials."
He moves to the kitchen, his routine unfolding: jacket hung over the chair, sleeves rolled up exactly three turns, hands washed for exactly twenty seconds.
I watch over the back of the couch. When he opens the refrigerator, he pauses. "Have you eaten?" The question feels like an overture, the first invitation to share something beyond obligation.
I haven't, actually. I lost track of time with my sketches, and now it's well past dinner.
"Not yet," I admit.
He nods, considering this information as seriously as if it were a business proposal. "I usually order in on Wednesdays," he says. "You're welcome to share if you'd like."
The invitation is formal and awkward. But sweet.
"That would be nice," I reply, closing my sketchbook. He orders without consulting me. He orders Japanese food from what must be a high-end restaurant, judging by the way the person on the phone greets him by name.
When the food arrives, the meal is exquisite, presented in delicate ceramic dishes that make my usual takeout containers seem crude by comparison.
Seamus asks about my project, listening attentively as I explain the concept of the mechanical-minded child who builds increasingly elaborate devices to solve simple problems.
"An engineer in training," he observes with what might be the ghost of a smile.
When he rises to clear the dishes, I notice something unusual on the console table near his office door—a leather-bound photo album I haven’t seen before.
“Is that new?” I ask.
Seamus follows my gaze. Then he nods once. “My mother sent it over. I haven’t decided what to do with it.”
“May I?”
“If you’d like.”
He hands it to me instead of setting it back down.
The leather is worn soft at the corners.
Inside, the photographs are slightly faded, edges curled with time.
There is Seamus at five, gap-toothed and scowling at the camera.
At ten, all knees and elbows and a wild riot of red hair that refuses to be tamed.
At thirteen, already too serious for his age, standing stiffly beside a man I assume is his father.
I glance up at the Seamus in front of me taking in the precise tie knots, the measured tone, the posture engineered for boardrooms, and then back down at the boy in the photographs.
“You had curls,” I murmur.
He exhales, almost a laugh. “Unmanageable.”
“They’re wonderful.”
His mouth twitches at that. He doesn’t correct me.
I turn another page. There’s one of him in a school uniform, scuffed shoes, a grass stain on one knee. His hair is an untamed halo around his head, eyes narrowed against the sun.
He looks defiant. Uncontained.
Alive.
Something in my chest tightens.
He notices the way I linger and clears his throat. “I should… review some documents.”
He retreats toward his office, the boy already disappearing.
I stay on the couch with the album in my lap long after I hear his door close.
***
When I finally retreat to my room, I pull out a fresh sketchbook.
I start with his hair.
Loose lines. Spirals that refuse to lie flat. I exaggerate the curls, let them take up more space than they should. I soften the jaw. Make the eyes curious instead of guarded.
I don’t draw the tie. Or the watch. Or the controlled posture.
I draw the boy before the armor.
By the time I close the sketchbook, my hands are smudged with graphite.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling of my room (no longer thinking of it as the guest room) and reflect on the strange trajectory my life has taken.
Two weeks ago, I was in my small apartment fighting corporate development. Now I'm married to the corporation personified, living in a penthouse that costs more than I'll earn in a lifetime, and strategically planning public appearances to convince the world we're in love.
It should feel wrong.
It often does.
But there are moments that feel real.
I pick up my phone, opening Shay's email to read it once more before composing my reply.
I write about adaptation and authenticity, about finding myself in an environment so different from anything I've known.
I'm careful not to mention specifics since Shay and I have always maintained a certain privacy in our correspondence, but I try to capture the strange feeling of playing a role while still being myself.
"Maybe the self we protect and the self we present aren't as separate as we think," I write. "Maybe they're just different facets of the same whole, emphasized or diminished depending on what each situation requires."
As I send the email, I realize I'm looking forward to Shay's response. I set my phone aside and turn out the light, listening to the faint sounds of Seamus moving around in his own room down the hall.
My husband. A stranger I have a contract with for six months. A man who orders dinner without asking my preferences but makes sure there's coffee waiting for me every morning.
I fall asleep wondering which version of myself will greet him tomorrow—the defiant artist, the strategic partner, or someone new.