Chapter 24 Rosanna
Chapter twenty-four
Rosanna
Today I'm finishing the illustrations for Chapter Three of The Garden Girl—the part where Mira discovers that her tiny planted seeds have started to sprout.
I'm working on getting the expression right.
I sketch and erase, sketch and erase, trying to capture the exact angle of wonder.
Seamus is in his office next door. I can hear the occasional rustle of papers, the quiet tap of his keyboard.
We've developed this rhythm over the past few weeks—working in parallel, close enough to feel each other's presence but separate enough to focus.
Sometimes he brings me coffee without asking.
Sometimes I stretch and wander into his space just to see him look up from his work with that small smile that seems reserved only for me.
It should feel perfect.
It does feel perfect, mostly.
Except for the small voice in the back of my head that keeps asking: Is this real?
He told me this wasn’t just another contract. He kissed me like he meant it.
And then… nothing.
No repeat of that moment. No lingering touches that weren’t part of our public performance.
I push the thought away and focus on Mira's hands, the way they cup around the tender green shoot.
The details are what matter in illustration—getting the small things right so the big emotions land. I lose myself in the work, in the meditative motion of graphite on paper, and for a while the doubts quiet down.
I'm deep into shading when I hear the door chime softly. A few minutes later, Seamus's office door opens, and I hear Seamus talking to someone.
I've met him twice—once at a board dinner and once when he stopped by the penthouse for a "quick document review".
Both times, he looked at me like I was an interesting piece of art: pleasant to look at, but ultimately decorative.
"These are the final evaluation packets," a woman’s voice says. "Mr. Whitlock asked that you review and return them before Friday’s board meeting."
I should go back to my sketching.
This is Seamus's business, not mine.
But there’s something in the assistant’s tone that makes me pause, pencil hovering over paper.
"I'll review them tonight," Seamus says.
"Of course, of course. No rush." The assistant's footwear clicks against the hardwood. "Though you know how these preservation groups can be. If you give them an inch, they'll tie you up in red tape for months."
My pencil stops moving entirely. Preservation groups. My stomach tighten. He's talking about the Heritage building.
"I'm aware of the timeline," Seamus says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite read. "I'll handle it."
The assistant laughs. "I'm sure you will. You've always been good at handling delicate situations. Impressive, really, how you've managed to keep your personal and professional interests so neatly separated. Not everyone could pull that off."
The comment hangs in the air like smoke.
I hear papers rustling, and then the soft click of the front door closing. "I'll leave these with you. Just sign and send them back when you're done. The board's eager to move forward."
The penthouse door closes. I hear Seamus moving around in his office, and then silence. I should call out to him, ask if he wants tea or if everything's okay. Instead, I sit very still, staring at my illustration without seeing it.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Then I hear Seamus's office door open and close, his footsteps heading toward the kitchen. I wait until I hear water running before I move.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
But the words keep echoing: Delicate situations. Personal and professional interests. Neatly separated.
I walk into Seamus's office before I can talk myself out of it. The documents are sitting on the desk, clipped together with one of those heavy binder clips that means important. The top page is mostly dense legal language, but I scan it anyway, looking for... I don't know what I'm looking for.
Then I see it: "Property Evaluation - 428 Heritage Street." My breath catches.
I flip to the next page. It's a structural assessment. Fair condition. Some repairs needed but nothing critical. Historical significance noted but described as "limited commercial appeal."
My counter offer is mentioned as a side note.
The recommendation at the bottom is circled in red ink: "Proceed with acquisition."
Beneath it is the authorization line. CEO Signature.
I flip through more pages: market analysis, environmental impact assessment, projected construction timeline. It's all here.
Every detail of how O'MalleyMart plans to acquire and destroy the building I've been trying to save.
I've known for months that his company had plans to replace the building.
But seeing the authorization line made it feel immediate.
I'm standing there with the documents in my hands when I hear Seamus's phone ring in the kitchen. His voice carries through the penthouse—he must have answered on speaker while he's making coffee.
"Seamus, it's Malcolm." The voice is clipped, efficient. "Just confirming you received the evaluation package. We need your sign-off before the board meeting."
"I have it." Seamus sounds tired. "I'll review it."
"Good. The timeline's critical now. We've already had three delays on this project, and the investors are getting nervous. If we don't move forward with the Heritage Street acquisition in the next thirty days, we risk losing momentum entirely."
There's a pause. I should move, should go back to my studio.
My feet won't move.
"The building has historical significance," Seamus says quietly. "There's community opposition. We should consider—"
"We've considered everything we need to consider.
" Malcolm's voice hardens. "This is business, Seamus.
Not a preservation society. The building is in the way of a development that will generate significant revenue and revitalize an entire district.
You know this. Your father would have had this approved months ago. "
Another pause. Longer this time. "My father isn't running the company anymore."
"No, but the board is watching how you run it. And right now, they're seeing hesitation when they need to see leadership."
Malcolm's tone shifts, becomes almost gentle—which somehow makes it worse. “Look, the board is still worried about you,” Malcolm says carefully. “With your marriage, they expected it to stabilize perception. Not introduce new variables.”
"What's that supposed to mean?" Seamus's voice has gone very quiet.
"It means we needed you stable, not sentimental. The company comes first, Seamus. It always has. It always will. That's what being CEO means."
I hear footsteps—Seamus pacing, probably. "I'm aware of my responsibilities."
"Then prove it. Sign the evaluations. Let Graham move forward with the acquisition. Show the board that you can separate your professional obligations from your... domestic situation."
The call ends. I hear Seamus set his phone down with a sharp click, and then silence.
I'm back in my studio before I fully register moving, the documents still somehow in my hands. I set them down on my drafting table, and they sit there next to my illustration of Mira and her impossible garden—the girl who believes things can grow even when everything is working against them.
My chest feels tight, like something is constricting around my ribs.
They’re ready to move forward. All they need is him.
I think about Luna's words at the spa: What if you're confusing gratitude with something else?
If he asked me to walk away from the storefront, I would.
And maybe he would choose me.
I heard the hesitation in his voice.
But if he did, what would that make me?
The reason his board doubts him?
The weakness they keep warning him about?
My phone buzzes. A text from Luna:
How's married life in the tower?
I stare at it for a long moment. Then I look at the documents, at my half-finished illustration, at the beautiful studio space in the penthouse that suddenly feels restrictive.
I type back:
What if this whole thing is a mistake?
Luna responds immediately:
What happened?
But I don't know how to answer that.
How do I explain that I fell in love with a man who might sign his name at the bottom of that page?
That I trusted someone who's apparently very good at separating his personal life from his professional obligations—which means I'm personal, and therefore expendable when it comes to business?
Graham's words echo again: Impressive, really, how you've managed to keep your personal and professional interests so neatly separated.
I look at my illustration of Mira. I've been that girl, planting hope in the cracks of a billionaire's carefully controlled life and believing that something real could grow there.
But maybe Luna was right. Maybe I've been confusing performance for authenticity, gratitude for love, strategic positioning for genuine connection. Maybe the warm moments were just him being good at his job.
I can't ask him to put me over his company—his dream.
Maybe he could help me with mine.
I need to know I’m not disposable.
I set down my phone and look at the documents again. The demolition timeline stares back at me, circled in red like a warning I should have seen coming.
I’ve been playing house in a penthouse while his company schedules my dream for demolition.
I just don’t know if I’m something he protects.
Or another obstacle scheduled for removal.