Chapter 21 Seamus
Chapter twenty-one
Seamus
I'm halfway through my second coffee and half-listening to the rundown Malcolm is giving me when the text arrives:
It's from ERS's PR manager.
I don't check my mentions.
What I do check is the clip itself, watching on mute as the moment replays: the paparazzo's aggressive approach, my instinctive step forward, the way Rosanna's expression shifted from startled to something softer when I intervened.
The comments scroll beneath—thousands of strangers giving their opinions.
He loves her.
This is what protection looks like.
Forget the playboy—this man is gone for his wife.
They're not wrong. That's the problem.
I close the video and return my attention to the meeting.
The conference room feels smaller than usual, or perhaps it's just the weight of what's being discussed.
Malcolm clicks through his presentation. "The evaluations are complete," he says, not quite looking at me. "Independent assessors confirm concerns that would make historical preservation... cost-prohibitive for any buyer."
I recognize the language. It's carefully neutral, technically accurate, and strategically devastating.
"What evaluators?" I ask, keeping my tone even.
"Third-party firms," Graham interjects smoothly. "To ensure objectivity."
What he doesn't say: these are firms we've worked with before. Firms that understand what conclusions serve our interests.
I've used this approach myself.
Except this time, the strategy targets my wife's dream.
“And there’s no scenario in which preservation is financially viable?” I ask.
Malcolm doesn’t hesitate. “Not at scale.”
“At scale,” I repeat.
Graham folds his hands. “We’re not in the business of symbolic gestures, Seamus.”
Malcolm continues outlining the accelerated timeline, and I nod without commitment.
After the others leave, Malcolm lingers.
"Seamus." He closes the door. "I want to be direct with you. This marriage—whatever it's become personally—can't derail the Heritage project. Scale matters more than nostalgia."
I meet his gaze without flinching. "I'm aware of the project's importance."
"Are you?" Malcolm leans against the table, dropping the corporate formality for something more personal. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're letting feelings cloud your judgment."
He's not threatening me. Malcolm doesn't operate that way. He's concerned that I'm compromising business objectives for personal reasons.
"The timeline remains on track," I say, the words tasting like ash. "My personal life won't interfere with corporate objectives."
Malcolm studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Good. Because this marriage was supposed to stabilize your image, not complicate your decision-making."
After he leaves, I sit alone in the empty conference room, staring at the projection screen.