Chapter 29 Rosanna
Chapter twenty-nine
Rosanna
Seamus catches me in the kitchen Thursday morning while I'm making coffee. I've been avoiding him since our argument, spending more time in my studio with the door closed. It's easier that way.
"I was thinking we could get out of the penthouse today," he says, and there's something tentative in his voice I haven't heard before. "Maybe a picnic in Riverside Park? The weather's supposed to be perfect."
I should say no. I should tell him that a picnic isn't going to fix what's broken between us, that I can't just pretend everything is fine because he's planned a romantic outing.
But I'm tired of the tension, tired of the closed doors and careful silences. And maybe some part of me still wants to believe that we can find our way back to the easy moments we had before everything got complicated.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "That sounds nice."
Two hours later, we're spread out on a blanket under an old oak tree, and Seamus has somehow arranged for an actual picnic basket—the kind with real plates and cloth napkins and food that definitely didn't come from a grocery store.
There's cheese and fruit and some kind of artisan bread that probably costs more than most people spend on an entire meal.
It's excessive and thoughtful and so perfectly Seamus that I don't know whether to be charmed or frustrated.
"Tell me about your project," he says, pouring sparkling water into actual glass cups. "The illustration work. How's it coming along?"
It's such a normal question, the kind of thing he asks over breakfast on good days, and I find myself answering honestly.
"I'm almost done with Chapter Five. Mira's garden is really established now—she's starting to share it with other kids in the neighborhood, teaching them how to plant their own seeds. "
"That's the whole point, isn't it?" Seamus hands me a plate with cheese and grapes arranged more artfully than I could ever manage. "Not just creating something beautiful yourself, but showing other people they can do it too."
I look at him, surprised. "Yeah. Exactly that. It's about making space for growth, even in places that seem impossible."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, and I let myself relax into the moment—the warmth of the sun, the taste of good food, the simple pleasure of being outside instead of trapped in our separate offices pretending we're not avoiding each other.
Around us, the park is full of people living their lives: joggers and dog-walkers, parents with strollers, teenagers sprawled on the grass with their phones.
Near the fountain, there's a cluster of tables where people are playing chess.
I watch them for a few minutes—the intense concentration, the careful consideration of each move, the way some players chat while others maintain serious silence.
There's something peaceful about it, the way a complex game can create a space where nothing else matters except the board in front of you.
"I haven't played in years," I say, not really meaning to speak out loud.
Seamus follows my gaze. "Chess?"
"My grandfather taught me when I was little.
We used to play every Sunday after dinner.
" The memory surfaces unexpectedly—Grandpa's patient explanations, the way he'd let me take back moves when I was learning but never once let me win.
"I was terrible at it, but I loved the ritual.
The way each piece moved differently, had its own purpose. "
"Want to play now?" Seamus is already standing, offering me his hand. "Those tables are public. I think there are spare sets in the pavilion."
I should say no. I should tell him I'm too rusty, that I'll just embarrass myself.
But his hand is extended and there's something open in his expression—not the careful control he usually wears, but genuine interest. Like he actually wants to do this simple thing with me, not because it serves some purpose but just because.
"Sure," I say, and let him pull me to my feet.
Seamus finds a chess set and we claim an empty table.
The pieces are worn smooth from use, the board's squares faded but still clear.
He sets up his side with quick efficiency, and I arrange mine more slowly, trying to remember which pieces go where.
Knight, bishop, rook—the names come back easier than the strategy.
"Fair warning," I say as I place the last pawn. "I'm going to be terrible at this."
"I don't mind." He gestures for me to make the first move. "Ladies first."
I move a pawn forward, the classic opening I remember from childhood.
Seamus responds immediately, and we fall into the rhythm of the game.
He's good—I can tell within the first few moves.
He thinks several steps ahead, sets up combinations I don't see until they're already happening.
But he's not ruthless about it. When I make an obviously bad move, he doesn't immediately capitalize.
He gives me space to see my mistake, to adjust.
"You're going easy on me," I say after he passes up a clear opportunity to take my bishop.
"I'm playing the long game." He moves his knight into position. "Sometimes the obvious attack isn't the best strategy."
We play in comfortable silence, and I find myself relaxing into it—the simple pleasure of moving pieces, of trying to think ahead, of being challenged without feeling threatened. Around us, other games continue. Someone wins with a triumphant laugh. Someone else curses good-naturedly at a blunder.
Seamus wins, of course. It takes him maybe fifteen minutes to maneuver my king into a position where there's no escape. But the victory is gentle—he doesn't gloat, doesn't make me feel stupid for missing the trap he set up six moves ago.
"Good game," I say, and I mean it. "You're way better than I remember being."
"You were good too. You saw that combination with the rooks—not many people catch that." He's resetting the pieces, and I realize he's assuming we'll play again. "Want a rematch?"
We play three more games, and I lose all of them, but each time I last a little longer.
By the fourth game, I actually manage to put him in check once before he recovers and systematically dismantles my defense.
But I don't mind losing. There's something satisfying about the competition, about trying to think the way he thinks, about the small moments when I surprise him with a move he didn't expect.
"You're a good teacher," I tell him as we pack up the pieces. "You didn't make me feel dumb once."
"Why would I do that?" He looks genuinely confused. "You're learning. That's the whole point."
We walk back to our picnic blanket, and the afternoon has shifted into early evening—golden light slanting through the trees, the air cooling just enough to be pleasant.
Seamus packs up the basket while I shake out the blanket, and there's a domesticity to it that makes my chest ache.
This is what it could be like, I think. If we could figure out how to be honest with each other.
If he could trust me and I could trust him back.
"Thank you for today," I say as we walk toward the park exit. "I needed this. Getting out of the penthouse, just... being normal for a while."
"We can do it more often." He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it. "If you want."
"I'd like that."
We're almost to the street when he stops, turns to face me. There's something in his expression—vulnerable and hopeful and scared all at once. "Rosanna, I—"
He doesn't finish the sentence. Instead, he leans down and kisses me. It's soft, careful, nothing like the performative kisses we've shared for cameras. This is real—questioning and tentative and full of all the things neither of us knows how to say.
I kiss him back, and for a moment everything else falls away. The argument yesterday, the unsigned paperwork, the advocacy group—none of it matters as much as this moment, this connection, this feeling that maybe we can still find our way to something real.
When we pull apart, he rests his forehead against mine. "I'm trying," he says quietly. "I know I'm not good at this, but I'm trying."
"I know," I whisper back. And I do. I can feel him trying, can see the effort it takes for him to reach for me instead of retreating behind his walls.
We walk home hand in hand, and the evening feels full of possibility.
***
Later that night, I'm in my studio finishing some detail work on Mira's garden when my phone buzzes with a city alert. I almost ignore it—they're usually routine announcements about street closures or utility work—but something makes me check.
O'MalleyMart Inc. has put in a new bid for the storefront.
It's three times their original bidding price.
I read it multiple times, and each time the words rearrange themselves into something worse.
My hands are shaking as I click through to the city planning portal. The documents are dense with legal language and architectural renderings, but the essential facts are clear:
O'MalleyMart upped their bid for the property. They've filed for expedited approval. Demolition to follow.
The beautiful afternoon evaporates.
The memory of the kiss shifts, no longer uncomplicated, now sitting uneasily beside this filing notice.
I pull up my texts and find Tessa's number. My fingers feel clumsy as I type:
Did ERS know O'MalleyMart was going to do this?
I attach the link and hit send.
The response takes five minutes that feel like hours. When it comes, it's careful, measured—everything I'd expect from someone who deals with high-stakes matchmaking and the complications that come with it.
We don't access corporate intel—client privacy goes both ways. But we've seen situations like this before. When personal and professional interests collide, it can get complicated fast. If this becomes adversarial, ERS will protect you. That's in your contract. You're not alone in this.
I stare at the message, and something cold settles in my stomach.
Tessa's not saying ERS knew—but she's not saying they didn't know either.
She's saying they've seen this pattern before, which means this kind of conflict isn't unusual for couples matched through their agency.
Which means maybe I should have seen it coming.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Tessa:
Are you safe? Do you need anything right now?
The question catches me off-guard. Safe.
Like this is a domestic violence situation instead of just a marriage falling apart under the weight of secrets and competing interests.
But maybe that's what ERS has learned to ask—maybe they've seen enough relationships implode to know that "safe" is always the first question.
I'm fine.
I type back.
Furious. But fine.
I set down my phone and look at my illustration. Mira and her impossible garden, teaching other children that growth is possible even in concrete and shadow.
I used to think gardens grew because someone cared enough.
I’m starting to understand they grow because someone protects them.
What was I thinking, believing that hope and care could overcome the reality of corporate development and board votes and billionaires who kiss you in the park while their companies file demolition permits?
Seamus is in his office. I can hear him on a call, his voice low and controlled. Talking to lawyers, probably.
Or board members. Or whoever helps him destroy what matters while keeping his image polished.
I should confront him. Should walk into his office right now and demand to know how long he's known about this filing, whether today's picnic was genuine or just another strategic move to keep me manageable while his company pursued their objectives.
But I don't move. I just sit in my studio with my phone and the city alert and Tessa's carefully worded message, and I try to figure out what to do next.
Tomorrow, I'll ask him about it.
Tomorrow I'll demand answers and probably get more careful explanations that mean nothing.
But tonight, I'm just going to sit here and finish Mira's garden, and try not to think about how gardens don't actually grow in concrete, no matter how much you want them to.
I can hear him on the other side of the wall, his voice low and steady.
And I don’t know if he’s fighting for me —
or filing paperwork to bury what I love.