"Ms. Lopez." His voice is exactly as I remember from the community meeting. Low. Controlled. Maddeningly calm.
"I didn't come here to accept this match," I say before he can continue. Before he can settle into whatever corporate script he's prepared. "I came here to tell you in person that this is never going to happen."
He doesn't react. Doesn't look offended or surprised.
He just gestures to the seating area that is set up with two armchairs facing each other across a low table. "Would you like to sit?"
"I'd prefer to stand."
"All right." He stays where he is, near the window, maintaining a safe distance. Like he's giving me space. Or maybe like he doesn't want to get too close to someone who clearly despises him.
I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder. "Do you even remember me? From the community meeting?"
"I remember." His gaze is steady, unwavering. "You spoke about the Heritage Street corridor. About preserving community spaces and historical buildings. You were passionate and articulate."
"And you dismissed everything I said."
He's quiet for a moment, and I see something shift in his expression. "I responded from a business perspective. That doesn't mean I dismissed you."
"It means exactly that," I snap. "You sat there with your calm voice and your reasonable tone and made it sound like caring about history and community is naive. Like profit and efficiency are the only things that matter."
Seamus moves to one of the chairs. He sits, and the gesture somehow makes him look less intimidating. More human.
"You're right," he says quietly.
I blink. "What?"
"You're right that I prioritized economic arguments over community concerns. You're right that my response was dismissive."
He looks up at me, and for the first time, his expression isn't under his mask of control. There's something almost tired in it.
“I learned the hard way what impulse costs. Sometimes I overcorrect.”
I don't know what to do with that. I came here ready for a fight, ready for him to be exactly what I expected. A cold, corporate, unmovable drone.
An apology, even a partial one, wasn't part of the script.
"That doesn't change anything," I say, but my voice has lost some of its edge. "Your company is still planning to demolish buildings that matter. You're still choosing profit over people."
“Buildings that matter to who? I’m choosing what keeps the lights on,” he corrects, but his tone isn't sharp. It's thoughtful.
"By erasing what makes it a neighborhood in the first place."
"By updating the area with buildings that are empty and falling apart." He leans forward slightly. "Ms. Lopez, I'm not the villain you think I am. I'm trying to do the right thing. We just disagree on what that looks like."
I want to argue.
I want to tell him he's wrong, that there's no moral equivalence between preservation and profit. But the way he's looking at me is steady and serious like he actually cares what I think. It throws me off balance.
"This is exactly why I can't marry you," I say, forcing steel back into my voice. "Even for six months. Even for the money. We'refundamentally opposed. You represent everything I'm fighting against."
I finally move to the chair across from him and sit, mostly because my legs are shaking and I don't want him to see it. "Do you understand how insane this is? ERS wants me to marry the man whose company is trying to destroy the building I've been saving for. The building I want to turn into something meaningful. How could I possibly do that and live with myself?"
“Because it would let you save it,” he says. “You know the funding would cover the building.”
"So I should sell out? Marry my enemy for money?"
"I'm not your enemy." His voice is quiet, but there's an edge to it now. "I'm a person making business decisions you disagree with. That's not the same thing."
