I pull out my phone and look at her contact:Rosanna - wife.
I gather my things, and leave the building. Outside, the city moves with its usual indifferent rhythm. People going about their Saturday, unaware that my entire life just shifted in the space of fifteen minutes.
Tomorrow, this arrangement becomes real in ways a signed contract can't capture.
I'll have to figure out how to live with someone without letting it dismantle the control I've spent six years building.
But today, I'm just going to go home and sit in the silence and try to process the fact that I'm married.
To a woman who wore a burgundy dress instead of white.
Who brought her sketchbook to her wedding. Who unsettled me with a single touch.
So I go home alone.
I sit in the silence and try to get used to the weight of the ring on my hand.
To the fact that Rosanna Lopez is my wife.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel entirely in control of what comes next.
Chapter twelve
Rosanna
I got my first real illustration job. They’re paying me actual money to draw things. I keep waiting for someone to realize I’m just guessing most of the time. I hope I grow into this. Sunny side up, even if I have to fake it at first. —Anna (Age 20)
Istand frozen in the private elevator as it climbs toward the top floor. Seamus guards the wall of buttons while I claim the opposite corner. My single suitcase sits beside me, looking painfully small.
The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a foyer of polished marble and minimalist art that probably costs more than my entire life savings.
Seamus steps out first, moving with the easy confidence of someone returning to familiar territory.
"Welcome home," he says, the words sounding strange between us.
He doesn't wait for my response before walking into the space, expecting me to follow.
The penthouse unfolds before me—a sprawling expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city below like a living painting.
Everything is immaculate, sleek lines and neutral colors. It's beautiful but untouched. Like a museum where breathing too hard might set off an alarm.
I trail behind him, taking in details: no personal photos, no clutter, not a single thing out of place.
The kitchen gleams with unused appliances, the living room furniture looks like it's never been sat upon, and there's not a speck of dust anywhere.
This isn’t a home. It’s a showroom.
"I'll show you to your room," Seamus says, picking up my suitcase before I can protest.
I follow him down a hallway, wondering how anyone lives in a place designed to keep life at a distance.
The guest room (my room now, I suppose) is larger than my entire apartment. It has the same pristine quality as the rest of the penthouse, but at least it includes a desk by the window where I might be able to work.
Seamus sets my suitcase beside the king-sized bed, which is covered in crisp white linens that look like they've never been slept in.
"The bathroom is through there," he gestures to a door on the far wall. "There's a walk-in closet as well, though I realize you might need to... acquire more things." His eyes flick briefly to my solitary suitcase.
"It's perfect." Translation:it's terrifying.
