Chapter 16 Rosanna
Chapter sixteen
Rosanna
Istand in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom and smooth down the front of my dress.
The ERS stylist chose a deep burgundy sheath dress that is elegant without being flashy. It's paired with simple gold jewelry and heels that make me wince in anticipation.
This afternoon's museum exhibition opening is our most high-profile appearance yet, one that will put us in the same room as two other ERS couples.
I hear Seamus moving around in his room, the familiar sounds of his routine providing a strange sort of comfort in their predictability.
This morning, he left a book on traditional Japanese printmaking techniques beside my coffee cup—no note, no explanation, just a thoughtful gesture that showed he's been paying attention to my interests.
I've found myself doing similar things: ordering his preferred tea when I noticed he was running low, leaving a newspaper article about sustainable architecture where he would see it.
Seamus knocks on my door, right on schedule. When I open it, he stands there in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that makes him look like he belongs in a luxury watch advertisement.
For a brief moment, I forget our arrangement and simply appreciate my husband.
"You look..." he begins, then pauses, his usual verbal precision failing him.
I wait for one of his carefully neutral compliments, but instead, he finishes with, "beautiful."
"Thank you," I respond, suddenly aware of the heat rising in my cheeks. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
The understated joke falls flat, but I give him a small smile and step into the hallway.
Seamus clears his throat, checking his watch.
"The car will be waiting," he says, his tone returning to its usual controlled register.
I nod and grab my wrap, clutch and sketchbook, following him to the elevator.
Seamus glances once at my sketchbook, a hint of a smile catching the edge of his mouth.
As we descend, I catch our reflection in the polished metal doors. We make a striking couple, perfectly matched in our formal attire, looking for all the world like we belong together.
For a moment, I forget the contract.
The museum buzzes with mid-afternoon energy—donors in designer wear mingle with art students and families taking advantage of free admission.
A string quartet plays in one corner, providing a refined soundtrack to the constant hum of conversation.
Seamus places his hand on the small of my back as we enter the main hall, the touch light but deliberate.
The museum’s grand atrium is filled. Waiters circulate with trays of champagne and sparkling water, offering refreshments to guests as they move between exhibits.
Seamus navigates this terrain with practiced ease, his hand remaining at my back as he guides me through the throng, stopping occasionally to make introductions.
"My wife, Rosanna," he says each time, the phrase still sounding strange in my ears.
I spot another ERS couple across the gallery. The woman is impossible to miss—her sparkly sequined bag catching the light just like it did at our wedding. She stands among the tailored guests in jeans and a bedazzled hoodie, utterly unconcerned with blending in.
Beside her, her husband stands immaculate in a dark suit, posture straight and watchful.
They make an unusual pair, her brightness against his restraint, but something in their dynamic seems genuine despite the circumstantial nature of their match.
A waiter offers champagne from a passing tray, and I accept gratefully, taking a small sip to steady my nerves.
Seamus declines with a slight shake of his head. "The museum director will want to speak with you," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "She's been supportive of community art initiatives."
I nod, appreciating the preparation while feeling a flutter of anxiety.
These social waters run deeper than I’m used to.
Seamus must sense my tension because his hand moves slightly on my back, a small circular motion that feels oddly comforting.
"Just be yourself," he adds, surprising me. "That's what they'll respond to."
The afternoon progresses as we make our way through the exhibits, pausing to admire installations and exchange pleasantries with other guests.
I find myself genuinely engaged in conversation with the museum's education director about expanding access to art programs in underserved schools when a commotion erupts across the gallery.
There's a sharp cry, then raised voices, the discordant sounds cutting through the genteel atmosphere like a jagged line through a clean canvas.
My attention snaps toward the source of the disturbance. Lindsay Smith stands near a modern sculpture, one hand clutching the strap of her rhinestone-encrusted crossbody bag while a man in a rumpled suit yanks at it from the other side.
In an instant, her husband is there, moving with surprising speed for someone so controlled.
He places himself between Lindsay and the would-be thief, his stance protective but precise.
I blink, and the thief is on the floor.
Seamus's hand tightens slightly on my waist as the scene unfolds.
I feel him tense, preparing to move toward the confrontation, but we're separated from it by a sea of startled onlookers.
We watch as the man firmly grips the thief's wrist, twisting it. The theif releases Lindsay's bag with a yelp of pain.
The crowd surges around the commotion, some people backing away while others press closer for a better view.
In the shuffle, someone bumps into me hard from behind, sending me off-balance.
I stumble forward, my ankle twisting painfully in my unfamiliar heels. Seamus reacts instantly, his arm encircling my waist to steady me before I can fall.
"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice lower and less controlled than I've ever heard it.
I nod, suddenly aware of the solid warmth of him against my side.
He's close enough that I can see the faint scar near his jaw I’ve never asked about. Close enough that the noise of the museum fades.
His hand is still at my waist.
His gaze drops—briefly—to my mouth.
And then he steps back.
The museum staff quickly handle the incident, escorting the attempted thief out.
The crowd gradually disperses, returning to the artwork with the added excitement of having witnessed some unexpected drama.
Seamus leads me to a quieter alcove off the main gallery, his hand on my elbow.
"You should sit for a moment," he suggests, guiding me to a bench positioned before a large abstract painting.
The canvas explodes with color. It has joyful yellows and oranges against a deep blue background.
"I'm fine, really," I insist, though I sink onto the bench gratefully.
Seamus sits beside me, closer than our usual careful distance.
"That could have escalated quickly," he says, his gaze drifting back toward where the incident occurred.
"He handled it well," Seamus adds, a note of professional respect in his voice.
"You moved pretty quickly yourself," I say, glancing at him with new curiosity. "I didn't know billionaires had such good reflexes."
Seamus turns to me, and I catch something that might be amusement in his eyes.
"Former collegiate fencer," he replies, the personal detail offered voluntarily—another rarity. "Reflexes stay with you."
I try to picture him younger, less controlled, engaged in fencing, and find the image strangely fitting.
I'll have to add that one to my sketchbook later. A college-aged Seamus in fencing whites, mask tucked beneath one arm, expression sharper but not yet sealed shut.
I have a growing collection of him now.
I’ve started thinking of it as The Seamus Project.
That first sketch of him as a boy with his curls escaping in every direction, eyes narrowed against the sun, defiant and uncontained. Since then, I’ve added more. A lanky teenager in an oversized blazer, jaw set too seriously for fifteen.
I haven’t shown him any of them.
We sit in unexpectedly comfortable silence, looking at the painting before us.
"What do you see in it?" I ask, curious about how his logical mind processes abstract art.
He considers the question seriously, his head tilting slightly as he examines the canvas.
"Structure within chaos," he answers finally. "The artist created what appears random but is actually precisely balanced."
I smile.
"I see joy," I offer. "Sunrise colors breaking through storm clouds."
He turns to me, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Sunny side up?" he asks, and I turn to look at him.
I smile.
"Exactly."
***
Seamus guides me toward the exit, his hand resting lightly on my lower back in what has become a familiar gesture.
The main entrance is crowded with departing guests and a few photographers capturing the event for social media and local publications.
As we walk through the lobby, a reporter steps forward, digital recorder in hand.
"Mr. O'Malley, care to comment on the rumors about your playboy past resurfacing?" he asks, his tone deliberately provocative. "Sources say the marriage is just damage control after those photos with the senator's daughter leaked."
I feel Seamus tense beside me, his posture shifting imperceptibly into what I've come to recognize as his defensive stance. He has his shoulders squared and his expression controlled to the point of blankness.
Before he can speak, I find myself stepping forward, my hand firmly clasped in his.
"My husband's past is exactly that—the past," I say, my voice steady despite the anger flaring in my chest. "The man I know is thoughtful, dedicated, and has shown me nothing but respect."
The words flow with surprising ease, not because they're part of our script but because, I realize with a jolt, they're true.
He’s not the callous playboy the tabloids portrayed.
The reporter looks taken aback by my intervention but recovers quickly.
"And the timing of your relationship is rather convenient, Ms. Lopez?" His emphasis on my maiden name is deliberate, a subtle undermining of our marriage.
I squeeze Seamus's hand before he can speak.
"Life rarely arranges itself according to optimal timing," I reply with a smile that feels both genuine and slightly challenging. "Sometimes you meet the right person at exactly the moment you weren't looking for them. I'd call that fortunate rather than convenient, wouldn't you?"
As we step outside into the late afternoon air, Seamus's hand remains firmly in mine.
***
That night, back in my room, I open the sketchbook again.
The earlier pages are all monochrome. Graphite studies of Seamus at different ages. Lines layered and controlled, shadows carefully crosshatched into place.
Precise.
Tonight, I turn to a fresh page.
I sketch him as he stood in the museum atrium—charcoal suit, posture straight, expression composed.
And then, almost without thinking, I reach for the colored pencils.
I add another figure.
She’s painting the background behind him with yellows and oranges breaking into blue.
I stare at the page for a long time.
I didn’t mean to draw myself into the story.
But I did.
And for the first time, I’m not just sketching Seamus.
I’m imagining us together.