Chapter 31 Rosanna
Chapter thirty-one
Rosanna
I'm working on the final touches of Chapter Seven when my phone buzzes with another city alert. My stomach clenches. I’ve learned to dread these notifications. But I make myself check anyway.
The number they are paying sits on my screen like a taunt. They're not just outbidding me—they're making it impossible for anyone else to even compete. They’re buying certainty. Speed. The right to demolish without interference.
My bid was laughable in comparison.
It felt enormous when I submitted it. It felt like proof that I was serious, that I was willing to put real money behind my values. Now it looks like exactly what it is: a gesture. Meaningless in the face of corporate resources I could never hope to match.
This isn’t a bid. It’s a surgical strike.
And my husband knew this was coming. Maybe not the exact numbers or the precise timing, but he knew.
He sat through the meetings. Reviewed the projections.
He kissed me in the park yesterday while his company prepared to make it impossible for me to save the one thing I've been fighting for.
The worst part is, I still want to believe that he's as blindsided by this as I am. But I can't make myself believe it. Because Seamus is the CEO.
I'm standing outside Seamus's office door before I make a conscious decision to move.
My hand is raised to knock when I hear his voice inside—he's on a call, his tone measured and professional. Corporate Seamus, the one who negotiates billion-dollar deals without blinking an eye.
"I understand the timeline concerns," he's saying.
"But we need to be thoughtful about community response.
There are preservation groups involved, and—" A pause.
"I'm aware of the strategic advantages. I'm simply suggesting we consider—" Another pause, longer this time.
"Yes. I understand. I'll review the brief this afternoon. "
He hangs up, and I should knock now. Should walk in and demand to know how long he's known, whether yesterday’s picnic was real or strategic. Whether any of this has been real or if I've just been the latest problem for him to manage with romantic gestures and careful distance.
But I don't knock.
Because I'm not sure I can handle whatever explanation he's going to offer.
I lower my hand and walk back to my studio.
My phone is still in my hand, the bid amount still glowing on the screen.
The number feels personal somehow, like it was calculated specifically to crush any hope I might have had.
Which is ridiculous—O'MalleyMart doesn't care about my hope. They care about acquiring property efficiently and eliminating complications.
I'm just collateral damage.
I sink into my chair and stare at my illustrations without really seeing them.
I need to talk to someone who isn't Seamus, someone who won't give me careful explanations filled with corporate speak.
I pull up Luna's contact, but before I can call, I see I already have a message from her.
Saw the O'MalleyMart bid. I'm so sorry, Rosie. Want me to come over?
I can't face Luna right now. Can't handle her sympathy or her I-told-you-so's or her well-meaning suggestions that I should leave before this gets worse.
Instead, I open my laptop and pull up my email. There's a message from Shay waiting, sent late last night in response to something I wrote about feeling trapped. I click it open like a lifeline.
Dear Anna,
I've been thinking about what you said—about being married to someone who won't let you in.
I understand that more than you know. I'm realizing that I've been doing the same thing to someone I care about.
Keeping them at a distance because I'm afraid of what happens if they see all of me.
The damaged parts. The parts that are still carrying wounds from before.
But here's what I'm learning: distance doesn't actually protect you. It just makes you lonely.
And eventually, the person you're keeping at a distance stops trying.
When you told me about playing chess with your husband in the park, I kept thinking about how hard you were trying.
Maybe he was trying too. Maybe you just couldn't see it.
I don't have advice. I'm struggling with this just as much as you are.
I wish I knew how to be this honest with everyone. How to be Shay in my real life instead of just in these emails.
Does that make sense?
- Shay
I read it twice, and something warm loosens in my chest despite everything else.
This is what real connection feels like.
Not the managed version of love I’ve been living in.
Dear Shay, I type, letting the words flow without editing.
Something happened today that's making me question everything.
My husband's company just made a move that destroys something I've been fighting for.
And the worst part is, he had to have known this was coming.
He sat across from me at breakfast and at picnics in the park, and never said a word.
I keep trying to find excuses for him.
But all those excuses don't matter.
Because the truth is simpler: he chose the business over me.
And now I'm sitting here wondering if anything we built was real, or if I've just been performing a role this entire time.
The stable wife. Proof he’s reformed.
I'm tired, Shay. I'm tired of feeling like I have to guess what people really mean when they could just tell me the truth.
I'm tired of wondering if the tender moments are genuine or strategic.
I'm tired of being the only one who seems to think honesty matters more than image.
You said keeping people at a distance makes you lonely. Yes.
But being let in and then realizing you were never actually trusted? That's worse. That's not just lonely. That's betrayal.
I don't know what I'm going to do. Part of me wants to leave before this gets any more complicated.
But another part of me still hopes that maybe I'm wrong.
Maybe they'll come to me and explain everything, and it will make sense, and we'll find a way through this.
Is that naive? Am I just talking myself into staying somewhere I shouldn't be?
Tell me the truth, Shay. Even if it's hard to hear. Especially if it's hard to hear. You're the one person in my life I trust to be honest with me.
- Anna
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, and immediately the tears I've been holding back start to fall. Because writing to Shay makes it real in a way that thinking about it doesn't.
I’m crying into my hands when a line in Shay’s email catches. I scroll back up.
When you told me about playing chess with your husband in the park, I kept picturing you across from him.
I never told him about the chess game.
My breath stutters.
I scroll through my sent emails. Skim. Search.
Nothing.
I never mentioned chess.
My eyes move back up the screen.
I wish I knew how to be Shay in my real life.
I pull up older emails. Scroll. Scroll. Looking for... I don't know what I'm looking for. Patterns. Inconsistencies.
Something that explains the niggling feeling.
There is only one explanation.
It can't be.
My hands are shaking as I pull up Seamus's contact information. Not his phone number—his email. The one he uses for personal correspondence, not business. The one I've never actually looked at closely because why would I?
It's Shay's.
I can't unsee it. The writing style. The hesitation. The fear of being used that permeates everything.
I wish I knew how to be Shay in my real life.
Because Shay isn't his real life. Seamus is.
And he’s been writing to me the entire time.
He's been the person I trusted with my deepest fears and greatest hopes. He's been my friend, my confidant.
He knew. And he never told me.
Instead of saying "Anna, it's me, it's been me all along," he just... kept writing. Kept the deception going.
The betrayal is so complete, so total, that I can't even process it.
It’s not just the building. It’s everything.
How long has he known? When did he figure it out?
My phone buzzes. A new email from Shay—from Seamus—responding to what I just sent.
I can't open it.
I stand up, and my whole body is shaking with rage and hurt and a betrayal.
I gave him my hope, my vulnerability, my love and he couldn't even give me honesty in return.
I can't stay here. Not another night. Not another hour.
Luna was right. I should have listened to my instincts at that community meeting. I should have seen exactly who Seamus O'Malley was and stayed far, far away.
But I didn't.
I let him charm me and marry me and lie to me in two different voices, and now I have to figure out how to survive the wreckage.
I grab my phone and text Luna:
Can I stay with you?
I start packing before I can change my mind. Before I talk myself into believing that maybe there's a reasonable explanation for systematic deception.
There isn't.
Her response is immediate:
Door's unlocked. Come whenever you're ready. I've got wine and the guest room is yours for as long as you need it.
I'm going to pack.
I'm going to confront him.
I'm going to cry my heart out on Luna's shoulders.
Then I'm going to survive this.
Because I'm married to my childhood pen pal.
And he kept it from me.