"What can I do for you?"
"I need you to draft contract modifications," I say without preamble. “Clear protections around consent and autonomy.”
There's a pause. "She turned you down."
"Not yet. But she will unless I can prove this arrangement doesn't require her to compromise herself."
Noah is quiet for a moment, and I can hear him typing. "Walk me through what she's concerned about. Specifically."
I lean back in the chair, trying to recall her exact words. "She's afraid I'll expect things from her. Intimacy, compliance, some version of her making herself smaller to accommodate me. She's afraid the power imbalance means the contract is meaningless—that I can agree to terms and then ignore them because I have more resources and more leverage."
"Reasonable, given the circumstances," Noah says. "What did you tell her?"
"That I won't take advantage of her." I pause. "I don't think she believed me."
"Did you believe you?"
The question catches me off guard. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're asking me to draft protections against behavior you claim you'd never engage in anyway. Which suggests either you don't trust yourself, or you're worried she has good reason not to trust you."
Noah's voice is matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "I need to know which it is, Seamus. Because if this is about managing your own uncertainty, we need different language than if it's about reassuring her."
I close my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"I've built my entire life around control and distance was the main tool I used to accomplish that. This arrangement requires me to use new tools to keep myself in control of my past behaviors. And I don't know if I can do it without reverting to old patterns."
"Define what you mean by 'old patterns'?"
"Hurting people without meaning to because I didn't think through consequences."
Noah is quiet for a moment. "All right. Then we write protections that hold you accountable. Clear boundaries and consequences for violations."
The words sting, but they're not unfair. "Do it. Whatever it takes."
Noah exhales slowly. "You're really doing this."
"I don't really have a choice."
"That's not what I mean." There's something almost gentle in his voice now.
I don't answer.
After I hang up with Noah, I sit in the quiet conference room and pull up the photo from the community meeting. It's the blurry one where Rosanna is mid-argument, sketchbook clutched to her chest, eyes blazing. It's unprofessional. Irrelevant to the business decision at hand.
But, I find myself studying her expression. The passion. The conviction. The absolute certainty that she's fighting for something that matters.
When was the last time I felt that kind of certainty about anything other than quarterly projections?
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Tessa from ERS:
Should we begin preparing secondary matches?
I type back:
Send the revised contract to Ms. Lopez when Noah finishes it. And give her as much time as she needs to review.
Tessa's response is immediate:
