Chapter 17 Seamus
Chapter seventeen
Seamus
For years, my morning routine has been a solitary ritual. First, I shower, then I make coffee, and review the overnight reports. Usually it is all in silence broken only by the occasional notification from my phone.
Now, I find myself listening for sounds from the other side of the penthouse: the soft padding of bare feet, the gentle closing of a door, the quiet hum of Rosanna singing to herself as she prepares for the day.
These small disruptions have reordered my mornings.
I used to measure time in reports and deadlines. Now I measure it in the sound of her moving through the space.
Today, I pause outside her studio door on my way to the kitchen. It's partially open, unusual for this early hour, and I can see her already at work, bent over her illustration table, completely absorbed.
The morning light catches in her hair, turning the messy knot she always wears into something almost luminous against the white walls.
She hasn't noticed me yet, and I allow myself a moment to observe her in this unguarded state.
I can see the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates, the unconscious way she bites her lower lip when considering a particular detail, the movement in her hands as they create something from nothing.
It's a kind of focused creativity I've always respected but never fully understood.
In the kitchen, I make coffee for two instead of one, a modification to my routine that now feels natural rather than obligatory.
I set her mug (the one with cartoon otters that appeared in my cabinet one day without explanation) beside the espresso machine where she'll find it when she emerges.
These small accommodations have integrated themselves into my mornings with surprising ease.
My phone buzzes with a calendar notification as I settle at the kitchen island with my own coffee.
Our shared digital calendar has become the primary architecture of our arranged marriage.
Today features a blue block for my quarterly board meeting, a green block for Rosanna's deadline on her current illustration project.
Rosanna emerges from her studio just as I'm about to leave, her hair more disheveled than usual and a smudge of blue ink on her cheek.
She blinks in the brighter light of the kitchen.
"Morning," she says, making directly for the coffee I prepared. "You're running late."
The observation is accurate. I'm typically gone by this time, but I find I'm in no hurry to leave.
She adds her usual excessive cream and sugar to her coffee.
"The board meeting isn't until nine," I explain, watching as she hoists herself onto a barstool across from me.
Rosanna tilts her head slightly, studying me over the rim of her mug. There's something disarming about her direct gaze, as if she's looking past my carefully constructed exterior to something I'm not sure I want her to see.
***
I’ve chaired this table for years. Today, I am not the one setting the agenda.
Malcolm advances the slide deck without commentary. “Heritage remains our strongest redevelopment projection,” he says, tone neutral.
The district fills the screen.
The building in question is outlined in red.
Graham steeples his fingers. “There’s been a development,” he says lightly. “A counter-offer was filed yesterday.”
Malcolm nods once. “Private investor. Modest capital backing. Emotional positioning.”
He doesn’t say her name.
He doesn’t have to.
“You’re aware of it?” Graham asks.
“I am,” I reply.
A beat.
Graham studies me with practiced calm. “Optics can complicate valuation.”
There it is.
“My personal life has no bearing on this acquisition,” I say.
“We hope not,” Graham replies smoothly. “The board simply wants reassurance that lines remain clear.”
Malcolm folds his hands. “If the opposition gains public sympathy, it could slow permitting.”
“Community noise,” Talia adds carefully. “Amplified by proximity.”
Silence settles over the table.
They are not asking whether I support the acquisition.
They are asking whether I can be trusted to.
I give them a flat stare. "Next topic."
The meeting moves on, but the image of the storefront remains projected on the screen.
***
I return to the penthouse earlier than usual.
The board meeting has left me with a lingering sense of disquiet, the project timeline for the Heritage development moving forward despite my unvoiced reservations.
I push these thoughts aside as the elevator opens into the foyer, forcing my thoughts toward the evening ahead.
I've arranged for groceries to be delivered—fresh ingredients for a simple but elegant meal, along with a bottle of wine that I was assured would pair perfectly with the menu I've planned.
In the kitchen, I remove my jacket and roll up my sleeves with precise movements, establishing the clear boundary between my professional and domestic spheres.
I unpack the groceries, arranging ingredients in the order they'll be used.
Cooking has always appealed to my need for order. It's a transformation of separate ingredients into something new.
There's a clarity to it that I find satisfying, a tangible result that can be measured and evaluated.
Rosanna emerges from her studio as I'm preparing the vegetables, her hair now pulled back in a fresh knot, the ink smudge gone from her cheek.
"Something smells amazing already," she says, leaning against the counter to observe my work.
I glance up from the cutting board to find her watching me with genuine curiosity.
"Just the basics so far," I reply, the knife continuing its steady rhythm through the herbs. "The real cooking hasn't begun yet."
She smiles at this, a warm expression that creates an unexpected flutter of something in my chest.
"Can I help?" she offers, already rolling up her sleeves. "I promise not to ruin anything too expensive."
I hesitate only briefly before assigning her the simple task of washing and tearing lettuce for the salad.
We work side by side in the kitchen that has, until recently, been exclusively my domain, establishing a rhythm that feels surprisingly natural. She asks questions about the techniques I use, listens attentively to my explanations, and offers observations.
When her phone buzzes with a text notification, she glances at it and smiles.
"Tessa says we are trending upward after the museum."
Even here in my kitchen, we are data.
***
The food turned out well. It is simple but elegant, the flavors balanced and complementary.
Rosanna exclaims over each component with an enthusiasm that seems genuine rather than polite, her appreciation unguarded and expressive.
I find myself watching her more than eating, fascinated by the animation in her face as she describes the flavor combinations.
"This is seriously impressive," she says, gesturing with her fork. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"
The question leads to a conversation about my college years, when I worked in a restaurant kitchen to understand business operations from the ground up.
She listens with evident interest, asking questions that draw out details I haven't thought about in years. I find myself talking about the chef who taught me about balance in flavors, the satisfaction of creating something tangible after long days of abstract academic work.
In return, she tells me about her early struggles as an illustrator, the years of rejection before her first book contract, the side jobs that kept her afloat while she built her portfolio.
As we clear the table together, our conversation shifts to plans for the weekend. The movement around the kitchen feels natural, as if we've been sharing this space for years rather than weeks.
"There's a street art festival in the Riverside district," Rosanna mentions as she rinses plates. "Local artists painting murals on some of the buildings scheduled for demolition. A last creative statement before they come down."
She says this without accusation, simply stating a fact, but I feel the implicit connection to my company's development plans.
Instead of changing the subject as I might have weeks ago, I find myself asking, "Would you like to go? Together?"
The question hangs between us, more significant than it appears on the surface.
This isn't an ERS-scheduled appearance, not a performance for public consumption, but a genuine invitation. Rosanna turns from the sink, her expression surprised but pleased.
"I'd like that," she says simply. As we finish cleaning up, our discussion turns to practical details but underneath runs a current of something new and undefined.
When my phone buzzes, I expect another text from Tessa about our "metrics," but instead find a message from work that shatters the quiet comfort of the evening:
Board is pushing for confirmation on the storefront.
I set the phone face-down on the counter, the warmth of the evening suddenly cooled by the reality of what lies ahead.
Rosanna is planning how to celebrate buildings marked for demolition.
The board is asking when to destroy them.
I am standing in the center of both worlds.
And I’m not sure which one I want to win.