"It feels the same from where I'm sitting."
Seamus is quiet for a moment, his gaze dropping to his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is different. It's less controlled, more raw.
"I know what people think of me. I know that I have a reputation. The reformed playboy. The serious CEO trying to live down his past."
He looks up. "What you saw at that meeting—that's who I am now. I'm controlled and careful. Maybe too careful. But I'm not careless anymore. I'm not reckless. And I've never been someone who takes advantage of people."
The shift catches me off guard. There's something vulnerable in his admission, something that doesn't match the corporate armor he wears.
"This whole arrangement," I say quietly, "it requires trust. And I don't trust you. I don't trust your company. I don't trust that you won't—" I stop, not sure how to finish that sentence.
"Won't what?" His eyes are intent on mine.
"Won't use me. Won't expect things that I can't give."
Understanding crosses Seamus's face. "You think I'd do that?"
"I think men with power usually do."
Seamus stands and walks back to the window. For a long moment, he just looks out at the city, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense.
When he finally speaks, his voice is measured, careful. "What if I could guarantee that wouldn't happen? In writing.”
I stand too, crossing my arms. "You can't contract away the power imbalance. You're a billionaire CEO. I'm a children's book illustrator."
"Rosanna, I won't take advantage of you."
I search his face for signs of manipulation, for the smooth corporate charm I expected. I don't find it. What I find instead is something more complicated.
"I need to think," I hear myself say.
"Of course."
He holds out his hand and shakes mine. My fingers brushing his for just a second. There's an unexpected, electric jolt, and I pull back quickly. If he felt it too, he doesn't show it.
"I won't change my mind," I say, but it comes out less certain than I intended.
"Then I wish you luck with the building." He means it. I can hear it in his voice. "For what it's worth, I hope you get it. I hope you prove that small things can survive in a city that keeps choosing scale over soul."
Those are my words. From the community meeting. He remembered. He actually listened.
I nod and turn to the door, not trusting myself to speak.
My hand is on the handle when he speaks again.
"Ms. Lopez." I stop but don't turn around. "What can I do to make this work?"
I should walk out and never look back. Instead, I turn my head slightly, just enough to see him in my peripheral vision.
"I don't know," I say honestly. "I don't know if there's any version of this that isn't me compromising everything I believe in."
"Or," he says quietly, "maybe it's you finding a way to fight for what you believe in from a position of actual power instead of just passion."
I’ve spent years fighting from the outside. Petitioning. Fundraising. Arguing in public forums where the decisions are already made before the microphones are turned on.
From the outside, passion is noise.
From the inside, it might be leverage.
