Chapter 26 Rosanna
Chapter twenty-six
Rosanna
Igive Seamus a full day before I bring it up again.
A day to think about the advocacy group, to process what I asked for, to maybe realize that this matters to me in ways that go beyond just saving a building.
A day for him to be the man I've been falling in love with instead of the corporate CEO who measures everything in risk and return.
When I finally approach him in his office the next morning, he's already at his desk, perfectly dressed despite the early hour.
There's coffee in his hand and documents spread across the mahogany surface—always documents, always work, always the empire that demands his constant attention.
He looks up when I knock, and something flickers across his face. Not quite guilt. More like resignation.
"I've been thinking about what you asked," he says before I can speak. "The legal advocacy group. The retainer for the Heritage Street case."
Relief floods through me, warm and immediate. He's been thinking about it. That's good. That means he's taking it seriously, that he understands why this matters. "And?"
"I've already contacted my legal team." He gestures to his laptop, and I can see email threads open on the screen. "They're reviewing the advocacy group's credentials, their case history, their organizational structure. Once we have that information, we can discuss next steps."
The relief evaporates as quickly as it came, replaced by something cold settling in my stomach. "Your legal team? Seamus, I asked you about funding them, not investigating them."
"Due diligence is standard practice." His voice is measured, controlled—the tone he probably uses in board meetings when someone questions his decisions. "I don't hand over my money blindly."
He's pulling up documents now, showing me spreadsheets and analysis reports that his lawyers have already started compiling.
Background checks on the advocacy group's board members.
Financial audits. Success rates broken down by case type and jurisdiction.
It's thorough and professional and completely missing the point.
"I've also had them draft some preliminary agreements," Seamus continues, clicking through to another document.
"Standard NDAs to protect both parties. Visibility clauses so we can track how the funds are being used.
Reporting requirements—quarterly should be sufficient, but we could negotiate monthly if you prefer more frequent updates. "
I stare at the screen, at the dense legal language designed to wrap my simple request in layers of protection and control. "You want the advocacy group to sign NDAs? To report to you quarterly on how they're spending the money?"
"It's not about control." He says it so calmly, like it's obvious, like I'm the one being unreasonable for questioning any of this.
"It's about responsible stewardship. This isn't a small amount of money, Rosanna.
And if my name is going to be associated with this effort, I need to ensure it's being handled appropriately. "
"Your name." The words taste bitter. "This isn't about your name. This is about saving a building that matters to the community. About preserving something beautiful before it gets demolished for another corporate development."
"Which is exactly why we need to be strategic about it.
" Seamus leans back in his chair, and I can see him shifting into negotiation mode—the billionaire CEO who's navigated countless business deals and thinks this is just another transaction to be managed.
"If we're going to fight this, we need to do it properly.
That means legal protections, clear objectives, measurable outcomes.
It means treating this like what it is: a significant financial and reputational investment. "
Investment. He's talking about preserving community heritage like it's a line item on a balance sheet, something to be analyzed for ROI and risk mitigation.
And suddenly I'm seeing all of it through a different lens—the beautiful penthouse studio he set up for me, the spa day with Luna, the perfectly made coffee every morning.
Not gestures of affection, but investments he's made in maintaining his stable, respectable image.
"Why do you need all this oversight?" The question comes out quieter than I intended, but I can hear the hurt underneath it. "Why contact your lawyers at all? This is a legitimate nonprofit doing important work. Can't you just... help? Without turning it into a corporate project?"
Seamus's expression shifts—something hardens around his eyes.
"Because if my money is involved, my name is involved.
And I've spent the last three years rebuilding my reputation after.
.." He stops, jaw tightening. "I can't afford to be associated with anything that isn't thoroughly vetted and properly managed. "
“This isn’t about your reputation,” I say. “It’s a building. A real place. Not a PR calculation.”
"I didn't say it was." But his voice has gone cold, defensive. "I'm trying to help you, Rosanna. I'm trying to support this cause you care about. But I'm not going to do it recklessly. I'm not going to just write a check and hope for the best because that's what you think trust looks like."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not what I'm asking for."
"Isn't it?" He stands too now, and we're facing each other across his desk like opponents instead of partners.
"You want me to hand over a significant amount of money to an organization I've never worked with, for a project I have no oversight of, just because you asked.
No questions, no verification, no protection for either of us if this goes wrong. "
"I want you to trust me." My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. "I want you to believe that when I tell you this advocacy group is legitimate and important, I'm not trying to manipulate you or use you or whatever it is you're so terrified of."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. I watch Seamus's face, watch the struggle playing out behind his carefully controlled expression.
"I didn't ask you because you're rich." The words come out quiet but firm, and I need him to hear them, need him to understand what he's really doing here.
"I asked because you're my husband. Because I thought we were building something together.
Because when something matters to me, I wanted to share it with you. "
I watch the words land, watch him process them. For a second—just a second—I think I see something soften in his expression. Some recognition that he's handling this wrong, that the walls he's building are keeping out the wrong person.
But then his face closes off entirely, and what comes out of his mouth destroys everything.
"Are you sure there's a difference?"
The question hangs in the air between us, poisonous and revelatory. He thinks I'm using him.
After everything—after the quiet breakfasts and late-night conversations, after the way I've let him into my creative process and my daily life, after I've been falling in love with him—he still thinks I'm just another person trying to extract resources from Seamus O'Malley, billionaire.
The hurt is so immediate and overwhelming that I can't breathe for a second.
I just stare at him, at this man I thought I was beginning to know, and realize he doesn't know me at all.
Worse—he doesn't want to know me.
He wants to keep me at a safe distance where I can't hurt him, where every interaction can be managed and controlled and wrapped in legal protections.
"Forget it." My voice sounds strange, distant. "It obviously doesn't matter to you."
"Rosanna, wait—" He reaches for me, but I'm already moving, already putting distance between us before the tears I'm holding back can escape.
"Don't." I hold up a hand, stopping him mid-step. "Just... don't."
I make it to my studio before the tears come. I close the door carefully—not slamming it, because that would require an energy I don't have—and sink into the chair by my drafting table. My illustration of Mira stares back at me, her hopeful face and cupped hands protecting that fragile green shoot.
What a naive image. A girl who believes things can grow in impossible places.
In the real world, you get NDAs and oversight clauses instead of partnership.
I’ve been so careful. And none of it mattered.
My phone is in my hand before I make a conscious decision to reach for it.
I text Luna:
You were right. About all of it.
Her response comes within seconds:
Wait! What?
But I can't type it out. Can't reduce the last hour to a text conversation, can't explain how completely I misjudged what Seamus and I were building. Instead, I call her.
"He thinks I'm using him," I say when she answers, and my voice cracks on the words.
"I asked him to help fund a legal advocacy group for the storefront case, and he turned it into this whole corporate project with lawyers and NDAs and oversight clauses.
Like I'm a business risk he needs to protect himself from. "
Luna is quiet for a moment, and when she speaks, her voice is gentle but firm. "I hate to say I told you so—"
"Then don't."
"Rosie… that’s what I was afraid of. If he thinks everyone’s out to use him, how are you ever supposed to win?”
I want to defend him.
But he didn’t defend me.
After I hang up with Luna, I open my laptop. There's an email from Shay waiting, and I click it open like a lifeline. He's asking about my illustration project, sharing something funny that happened in his day, being the uncomplicated friend I desperately need right now.
I start typing a response, and the words pour out—not about Seamus specifically, but about feeling trapped, about realizing someone doesn't trust you no matter what you do, about the loneliness of being married to someone who won't let you in.
By the time I finish writing, my hands have stopped shaking. The email to Shay sits in my outbox, full of hurt and confusion and the desperate hope that someone, somewhere, actually sees me as more than a liability to be protected against.
I hit send and close my laptop, and in the silence of my beautiful studio in my husband's penthouse, I finally admit the truth to myself: I married a man who doesn’t trust me.
The contract has an exit clause.
I could walk away. Cleanly. Quietly. No explanations required.
The thought settles over me like a door I could open whenever I choose.
I look down at the illustration on my drafting table. Mira, still cupping that fragile green shoot like it might survive if she just believes hard enough.
Maybe it’s naive.
But I’m not ready to give up on something that hasn’t even had the chance to grow yet.
Not today.
I wipe my eyes.
For now, I stay.