Chapter 41 Rosanna
Chapter forty-one
Rosanna
I'd been terrified that his silence about being Shay was calculated manipulation—that every moment between us had been strategy rather than genuine connection.
But that's not what happened. He figured it out after we were already married, already starting to build something real. And instead of being honest, he reverted to the damage he's been carrying for years.
It doesn’t make it okay.
But it makes it human.
"I hoped that's what it was," I say, and my voice is thick with tears. "I hoped you just couldn't find the right way to tell me. That you were scared rather than scheming."
Seamus looks up at me, and his expression is so raw it makes my chest ache. "I wasn't. I swear, Rosanna, I wasn't manipulating you."
"I know. I can see it now."
I stand up and begin to pace, trying to organize my thoughts into something coherent.
"The lie hurt," I tell him. "Because it made me feel lost. Like I couldn't trust my own judgment about you. Like everything I thought we were building was just my naive interpretation of your calculated moves."
"It wasn't—" he starts, but I keep talking.
"It hurt because it meant you didn't trust me. That even as we were falling in love—or I was falling in love—you were still only half in."
I turn to face him fully.
Seamus is on his feet now, and he looks like he wants to reach for me but doesn't know if he's allowed.
"But you're telling me—it was real? What we were building? The feelings and the kisses—"
"Every single one."
I pull out my sketchbook. "Then I have something for you."
His hands shake as he opens it.
The boy with curls.
The teenager already wearing armor.
The man behind a desk too large for the room.
And then me. In the margins.
And finally, the pages I finished last night: Him, looking for me. Me reaching out to him. An embrace.
"I've been working on this for a while," I whisper, "Since we got married, actually."
His eyes are shining. "You saw me this way all along?"
"Yes," I say.
I cross the space between us and throw my arms around him, pressing my face against his chest. He freezes for half a second—shocked, maybe, or afraid this isn't real—and then his arms come around me and he's holding me like I'm the only thing keeping him upright.
I’m crying.
But this time it doesn’t feel like breaking.
It feels like breathing.
"I was so scared," I sob into his shirt. "So scared that you'd never actually let me in. That I'd spend our whole marriage loving someone who couldn't love me back because he was too afraid to try."
His hand moves to my hair, fingers gentle and trembling slightly. "I was scared too. Scared that if I let you all the way in, you'd see how broken I am and leave. Scared that the real me wasn't worth loving."
I pull back just enough to look at his face, and he's crying too. Not hiding it or trying to control it. Just letting the tears fall while he holds me.
"You're an idiot," I tell him, and my voice is half laugh, half sob. "A complete and utter idiot. I've been in love with you for weeks now. Maybe months. You should have just told me."
His eyes go wide, and I watch him process what I just said. "You still love me?" The question comes out stunned, like he can't quite believe it's possible.
"Yes, Seamus. I love you."
I reach up and cup his face, feeling the scruff of several days' worth of beard growth.
He hasn’t been taking care of himself.
The evidence is written all over his face.
"I love you," I repeat, making sure he can see the truth of it in my eyes. "All of you. Not just the easy parts."
He makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob, and then he's kissing me. Not the careful, controlled kisses we've shared before. This is desperate and honest and full of months of longing and fear and hope that we might actually make this work.
I kiss him back with everything I have, and it feels like coming home.
When we finally pull apart, we're both crying and laughing and holding each other like we're afraid to let go. Seamus presses his forehead against mine, and I can feel him trembling.
"Does this mean you'll move back home?" he asks quietly, and there's so much hope and fear in those words that I want to wrap him up and never let anything hurt him again.
"Missed me that much?" I tease, even though I'm crying too hard for it to land properly.
"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate, doesn't try to play it cool or protect himself. Just admits the truth like it's been torn out of him.
"The penthouse is empty without you. It’s exactly how it was before you moved in. And I hate it."
I brush the tears from his cheeks, even though mine are still falling. "No more pretending," I say softly. "No more contracts?"
"You don't have to sell me on this, Rose," he says, and he captures my gaze with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "I'm choosing you. Not because of the board or time limits. This time, I'm choosing you because I love you."
I kiss him again, softer this time. A promise instead of desperation. A beginning instead of an ending.
"I'll move back," I tell him when we finally pull apart. "But I'm keeping Luna's guest room as a standing option if you ever slip back into your controlling, emotionally constipated, secret-keeping ways."
He laughs, and it sounds rusty but genuine. "That's fair. I can't promise perfection. But I can promise I'll try."
"That's all I need," I say honestly.
He nuzzles into my hair, breathing me in like he's trying to memorize this moment. "I love you, Rosanna. And I'm going to spend the rest of our lives proving that I'm capable of the kind of love you deserve."
"I love you too." I pull back to look at him. "And you don't have to prove anything."
We stand there holding each other while the sun sets outside the conference room windows.
"Take me home?" I whisper against his chest.
“Yes,” he says simply.
He kisses the top of my head.
“Let’s go home.”