Chapter 36 Seamus
Chapter thirty-six
Seamus
Graham is at the head of the table looking like he's already mentally spending his bonus, and Malcolm is pulling up slides that frame the Heritage Street acquisition as a masterclass in strategic maneuvering.
"Closed this morning," Graham announces, and there's satisfaction in his voice that makes my skin crawl.
"Final purchase price came in slightly under projected budget, timeline accelerated thanks to the expedited permitting process. Demolition can begin as early as next month, which puts us ahead of schedule for the full development rollout."
The other board members nod approvingly. Talia makes a note on her tablet. Someone asks a question about the construction timeline.
They're talking about it like it's just another acquisition.
It doesn't feel that way to me.
"The timing worked out perfectly," Malcolm adds, clicking to a slide that shows the timeline overlaid with the historical designation review process.
"We submitted our permits forty-eight hours before the preservation committee could schedule their final review. By the time the city council voted to table the application, we already had all the necessary approvals in motion. Clean. Efficient. Exactly how these situations should be handled."
Something about the way he says it—the self-satisfaction, the emphasis on timing—makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
This wasn't just good strategy.
They had inside knowledge.
"How did we know the committee's review schedule?" I ask, and my voice cuts through Malcolm's presentation. "That's not public information until they publish their monthly agenda."
Malcolm doesn't miss a beat. "We have relationships with city planning staff. It's part of doing business in this city, Seamus. You know that."
"Relationships," I repeat, and I'm watching his face now, cataloging the micro-expressions. "Or inside information obtained through channels that might not stand up to scrutiny?"
The room goes quiet. Graham shifts in his seat, and I catch the briefest glance between him and Malcolm—there is something they're not saying out loud.
"I'm not sure I appreciate the implication," Malcolm says, and his tone has shifted from satisfied to defensive. "Everything we did was legal and above board. We consulted with our attorneys at every step."
"Then you won't mind if I have our compliance team review the acquisition process," I say.
I'm surprised by how calm my voice sounds when my pulse is hammering. "Standard internal audit. Make sure all our information sourcing was properly documented, that any contacts with city officials were appropriate, that we maintained ethical boundaries throughout."
"That seems excessive," Graham interjects smoothly. "This was a straightforward real estate transaction. Auditing it would tie up resources and send a message to the team that we don't trust their judgment."
"Or it would send a message that we take compliance seriously," I counter. "That we do things the right way, not just the fast way. That we don't cut corners just because we can get away with it."
I'm watching them both now, and I'm seeing things I should have noticed months ago.
The way they communicate in glances and subtle gestures. The way they frame every question as already decided, every objection as unnecessary sentiment.
The way they've been managing me—not working for me, but managing me, keeping me informed just enough to maintain plausible deniability while making all the real decisions themselves.
"Seamus," Talia speaks up, and her voice is careful.
"I think what Graham and Malcolm are trying to say is that an internal audit at this stage could raise questions about our processes right when we're trying to move forward.
If there's a specific concern, we should address it directly.
But a fishing expedition that implies wrongdoing when there wasn't any—that could be damaging to morale and to our reputation. "
She's not wrong. Launching an audit would undermine confidence right when we need to project stability.
It's the kind of move that justifies replacing CEOs who've lost control of their own organization.
But I don’t care anymore. The cost of maintaining stability is too high.
"As CEO, I'm initiating an internal audit of the Heritage Street acquisition," I say, and I can feel the shift in the room.
"Specifically, I want to know how we obtained information about the preservation committee's schedule, what contacts we had with city planning officials, and whether any of those contacts involved inappropriate influence or pressure. "
"This is absurd," Graham says, and now the smooth corporate veneer is cracking. "You're jeopardizing a successful project because of—what? Personal feelings about your wife's pet cause?"
"I'm doing due diligence," I correct him. "And if that makes you uncomfortable, Graham, maybe you should ask yourself why."
Malcolm leans forward, and his voice goes hard.
"This is what happens when you let sentimentality into leadership.
You start second-guessing sound business decisions because they conflict with personal attachments.
Your father understood that business requires making hard choices.
He never would have let a marriage interfere with what's best for the company. "
The invocation of my father is meant to sting.
To remind me that I'm failing to live up to the legacy, that I'm letting emotion cloud judgment, that I'm proving all the board's concerns about the marriage affecting my professional capacity.
And it works—I feel the jab land exactly where Malcolm intended.
But it also clarifies something I've been avoiding. My father did put the company first. Always. Above relationships, above community impact, above anything that couldn't be quantified in quarterly reports. And he built an empire, yes. But he also died alone in his office.
I don't want to be him.
I don't want to wake up at sixty-five and realize I've built something impressive and completely hollow.
"My father," I say slowly, "is dead. And this is my company now. We're doing the audit. Malcolm, Graham—you're both on administrative leave pending the investigation's completion."
The room erupts. Graham is on his feet, objecting.
Talia is trying to mediate, warning about the optics.
Someone is asking procedural questions about authority and board approval.
Malcolm just sits there, staring at me with an expression I can't quite read—surprise mixed with something that might be grudging respect.
"You can't do this," Graham says, but his voice lacks conviction.
Because we both know I can. As CEO, I have the authority to place executives on administrative leave pending investigation.
The board could override me, could vote no confidence and remove me from the position. But that would take time and create exactly the kind of public spectacle they've been trying to avoid.
"I can, and I am," I say. "The audit starts today. You'll both receive formal notification within the hour. In the meantime, I expect full cooperation with the compliance team's requests for documentation and interviews."
The meeting dissolves into chaos after that. Board members arguing about procedure and precedent. Malcolm and Graham making veiled threats about what this means for my future with the company. Talia trying to broker some kind of compromise that would let everyone save face.
I walk out before they finish. Just stand up, collect my materials, and leave them to argue without me.
Because I don't care about their objections or their warnings or their careful political calculations about what this means for board dynamics.
I care about doing the right thing, even if it's too late to matter for the outcome I actually want.
My phone is buzzing before I make it back to my office.
I silence my phone and close my office door.
Through the window, I can see the city spread out below—including somewhere in that grid the Heritage Street building that will soon be demolished.
The acquisition that closed this morning while I sat in my empty penthouse trying to figure out how to fix what I'd broken.
Too late for Rosanna. The building is sold. The permits are approved. The timeline is set. Even if the audit uncovers violations, it won’t change the outcome.
The acquisition is legal, the contracts are signed.
At best, I might force some procedural changes going forward. At worst, I'm committing professional suicide to prove a point that won't actually save anything.
But it's not about saving the building anymore.
It's about deciding what kind of person I want to be.
What kind of CEO I want to be. Whether I'm going to spend my life making "hard choices" that are really just rationalizations for hurting people because it's convenient, or whether I'm going to actually stand for something even when it costs me.
With Rosanna, I could accept an annulment. Let it end quietly. Call it a 'win.'
Or I can fight for her. Try to fix what I broke.
I've spent too long paralyzed by the certainty that it's too late, that Rosanna is gone and nothing I do can change that fundamental fact.
I pull out my phone and open a new text to ERS. To Tessa specifically, since she's been the one managing our contract.
Standing up in that board meeting wasn’t strategy. It was the first honest decision I’ve made in a long time.
I start typing.
Tessa — I’m not ready to sign anything.
I don’t know what’s possible.
But I’m not done.
I send them before I can second-guess myself. Before the practical voice in my head can catalog all the reasons this is futile and possibly destructive. Before I can retreat back into the safety of calculated decisions and managed outcomes.
My phone rings almost immediately. Tessa.
"Seamus," she says, and there's something in her voice I haven't heard before. Not the careful professional neutrality, but actual warmth. "I'm glad you reached out."
"I placed two of my executives on administrative leave this morning," I tell her. "I'm probably going to face a no-confidence vote from the board. The Heritage Street acquisition is already finalized. Rosanna won't answer my calls or read my emails. I don't know how to fix any of this."
"Okay," Tessa says simply. "Then let's figure out where to start. The marriage first, or the building?"
And I realize that for the first time in months, I'm not trying to keep those things separate.
Not trying to manage my personal life in one box and my professional responsibilities in another.
Not choosing between being a CEO and being a husband, between protecting the company and protecting what matters.
“I don’t know what I’m asking for,” I admit. “I just know I don’t want to walk away because it’s easier.”
"That's going to be hard," Tessa warns. "The building situation is complicated legally. The marriage situation is complicated emotionally. You're going to have to trust that doing the right thing is worth it even if it doesn't get you the outcome you want."
"I know." And I do know. I'm terrified of all of it—of the vulnerability, of the risk, of the very real possibility that I'll do everything right and still lose Rosanna because I damaged her trust too thoroughly to repair.
But I'm more terrified of the alternative.
Of spending the rest of my life knowing I had a chance to fight for something real and I chose safety instead.
Of becoming my father—successful and lonely and convinced that sacrifice equals strength.
“If there’s a way forward,” I say, “I need to be the kind of man who can take it.”
There's a pause, and then Tessa laughs softly. "Now that's what I've been waiting to hear."
It might be too late.
She might never come back.
The building might still fall.
The board might remove me.
But I’m done choosing safety.
I choose honesty.