Chapter 19 Seamus
Chapter nineteen
Seamus
The quarterly review drags into its third hour, projections flashing across the screen while department heads recite numbers I could calculate in my sleep.
I sit at the head of the table, my expression unreadable.
My thoughts are nowhere near the spreadsheet.
"The Heritage development timeline is our primary concern," Graham says, his voice cutting through my distraction.
The conference room falls silent as he pulls up a slide showing the storefront at the center of the neighborhood resistance—the one Rosanna wants.
"There is pressure to raise our offer. On top of that, we're facing increased community organizing and delay tactics from preservation groups."
"Is it practical to raise our offer? Or do we let this one go?" I ask, secretly hoping the whole Heritage building situation will iron out without my input.
"We are doing a few more assessments, but everything seems to point to that being the best option."
I let out a slow breath, as the conversation turns to the community response. "These sentimental attachments to outdated structures are impacting our schedule and, by extension, our profit margins."
His eyes fix on me. "The board would like to know what steps you're taking to address these obstacles, Seamus."
Everyone in this room knows my wife is fighting to preserve that building. What they don’t know is that I’ve begun to see it through her eyes.
My response measured and noncommittal.
They share a look, and then jump to the next topic.
I nod without agreeing, already figuring out how to navigate this without betraying either my company or my wife.
***
Back in my office, I close the door and sit at my desk, opening my private email account.
The dual identity I’ve maintained is becoming harder to justify. What began as a test has turned into something else entirely.
Through these exchanges, I've come to know parts of Rosanna she keeps guarded in our daily interactions, just as I've expressed thoughts to her that I've never voiced aloud.
I begin drafting a new message, careful to maintain the voice and perspective she associates with "Shay" while still expressing genuine thoughts.
I write about seeing value in things others dismiss as impractical, about finding unexpected connections in contrast rather than similarity, about the courage required to choose authenticity over convenience.
The parallels are obvious.
The dual communication weighs on me more heavily with each exchange.
I'm actively deceiving someone I've come to genuinely care for, maintaining a fiction that grows more difficult to justify as our real relationship evolves.
And every day I wait makes the truth worse.
I send the email despite these concerns, telling myself I need more time to find the right approach for the truth.
As I close the email window, my gaze falls on the property assessments Malcolm mentioned during the meeting.
The accelerated timeline sits in stark contrast to the email I just sent.
I built my reputation on decisive leadership.
Now I can’t decide which version of myself I’m supposed to be.
***
Rosanna returns from her publisher meeting just after seven, her cheeks flushed with cold and excitement.
"They approved the final illustrations," she announces, dropping her portfolio by the door. "The book goes to print next month."
The genuine joy on her face sparks something unexpected within me—a mirroring happiness unrelated to metrics or strategic outcomes.
I find myself smiling in response. "That calls for celebration," I say, moving toward the kitchen. "I believe there's a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator."
We settle on the living room sofa with glasses of champagne, Rosanna tucking her feet beneath her in that casual way she has, her body language more relaxed around me than in those early awkward weeks.
She shows me the final spreads from her book.
I find myself genuinely impressed by the technical accuracy of the imaginary contraptions, the expression she's captured in the protagonist's determined face, and the subtle humor in the visual storytelling.
"You've created something remarkable," I tell her, the compliment unplanned but sincere.
She looks up, seemingly surprised by my assessment, and our eyes hold for a moment longer than usual.
"I never asked," she says, setting her glass down, "why did you agree to this arrangement? Not the company line about stability and public perception. I want the real reason."
The question catches me off-guard, disrupting the careful boundaries we've maintained around certain topics. Her direct gaze makes evasion seem suddenly dishonest in a way my ongoing email deception does not.
"It was the only option I could control," I answer. "I wanted to keep my father's company. I agreed because the alternative was losing everything."
The admission hangs between us, more revealing than I intended.
Rosanna studies me with a perceptive gaze that seems to see past my carefully constructed exterior.
"And now?" she asks quietly. "Is that still why you're here?"
"No," I say simply, the single word carrying the weight of a transformation I'm still coming to understand.
Her expression softens. And I watch her expression change from careful to brave. She reaches across the space between us, her hand covering mine on the sofa cushion.
The contact is nothing like the rehearsed touches we’ve perfected for cameras.
I turn my hand and lace our fingers together, slow enough to give her time to pull away. She doesn’t.
Neither of us moves for a breath, as if we’re both waiting for the other to call it off.
Rosanna’s thumb strokes once over my knuckle, and that small kindness breaks the last of my restraint. I lean in. She meets me halfway.
Our lips meet. Soft, tentative, and almost questioning.
Then her hand tightens in mine, and the question turns into an answer.
I kiss her once more—brief, careful, as if sealing the moment before either of us can talk ourselves out of it.
When we finally pull back, we don’t go far. Our foreheads are nearly touching, our breaths uneven.
She looks at me and I can't look away.
I’m unprepared for the intensity of it. Filled with desire, tenderness, and a vulnerability that would have terrified me months ago.
***
Hours later, after Rosanna has gone to bed, I sit alone in my study attempting to process what happened between us. The kiss has changed something fundamental in our arrangement.
The look in her eyes. The way she didn’t pull away.
I’ve negotiated billion-dollar contracts with less at stake than that kiss.
My computer screen glows with the email account I use as "Shay," a stark reminder of the deception I'm still maintaining. I am her husband in person. I am her confidant in secret.
And the longer I let that stand, the worse it becomes.
What began as a test has become a lie that threatens whatever we’re building. If she discovers this deception now, after tonight, the breach of trust might be irreparable.
I need to tell her the truth.
But the potential loss feels disproportionate to the practical reality of our arrangement.
We've known each other for less than three months, our relationship began as a business transaction, and yet the thought of her looking at me with betrayal rather than the warmth I saw tonight creates a hollow sensation in my chest.
***
Morning light streams through the blinds, waking me earlier than usual. I didn't sleep well, my mind cycling through scenarios and consequences well into the night. The kiss. The board. The emails.
Any one of them would be manageable. Together, they aren't.
I hear movement in the kitchen, Rosanna must be up early, and find myself uncharacteristically hesitant to face her.
When I finally emerge from my room, she's at the kitchen island with her sketchbook open beside her coffee mug, hair pulled back in its usual messy knot.
She looks up when I enter, a smile forming that contains both warmth and a hint of uncertainty.
It's an acknowledgment of the shift that occurred between us last night.
"Morning," she says, pushing a mug of coffee toward me, prepared exactly as I prefer it. The simple gesture of consideration tightens something in my chest. We've developed these small domestic rhythms so gradually I hardly noticed them forming, yet they've become essential components of my days.
"Rosanna," I begin, not entirely certain where the sentence will end.
Rosanna's expression shifts slightly, a vulnerability appearing beneath her usual openness.
“You’re worried the kiss wasn’t part of the contract,” she says, her attempt at lightness not quite concealing the question beneath.
I move around the island to stand beside her, close enough to see the flecks of amber in her brown eyes, the single freckle near her left temple that emerges in strong light.
"It wasn't."
What happened between us wasn't part of the plan.
I should tell her everything now—about the emails, about the board's plans for the storefront.
"Rosanna…" I try again. "There is something I need to tell you." The words form in my mind but don't reach my lips, held back by fear I'm unaccustomed to experiencing.
Before I can push through this uncharacteristic hesitation, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from the office.
I glance at the screen, then back at Rosanna, caught between professional obligation and personal priority for perhaps the first time in my career.
"I have to take this," I say, reluctance evident in my tone. "But we should talk. Later. About everything."
She nods, that small smile returning, unaware of the multiple layers in my words.
As I step away to answer the call, the weight of unspoken truths settles more heavily on my shoulders.
The call is about the company. The silence between us is about something far more fragile.
I’ve always had a strategy.
Now I don’t.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t know which loss I’m willing to accept.