Press conference tomorrow. You'll present as a married couple.
I stare at the screen, my stomach tightening. Another message follows quickly:
Remember: you're newlyweds. Warmth sells. Distance doesn't.
I drop the phone onto the bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
What have I gotten myself into?
I can handle pretending for the storefront, for my dream. But as I hear Seamus moving around the kitchen, the reality of my situation sinks in.
I need to convince the world I’m in love with a man who pays to keep me at arm’s length.
And somehow, I have to do it without losing myself.
Chapter thirteen
Seamus
I found a coat today from the 1960s. The seams are hand-finished. The buttons are real horn. It was made to survive winters. I don’t think we make things like that anymore. Not clothes. Not buildings. Not promises. So I bought it. And I'll keep it and give it new life. —Anna (Age 25)
Iwake before dawn, my usual routine unbroken, despite the knowledge that someone else is sleeping in my home. The shower's steady pressure helps clear my thoughts as I mentally rehearse the narrative Marissa and the ERS team crafted for us.
A whirlwind romance kept private until now. Mutual respect that deepened quickly. A decision that felt right.
Simple statements that skirt the truth without outright lies. I know the play.
Standing before my closet, I select a navy suit that projects stability without seeming stuffy. The tie I choose is among the options ERS suggested for today.
Everything is calculated, from the wedding ring that still feels foreign on my hand to the shade of my pocket square.
I check my reflection, noting the controlled expression I've perfected over years of board meetings and investor calls.
Today, I need to look content but not smug. Invested, but not desperate.
I hear movement from the guest room (Rosanna's room now) and feel an unexpected tension in my shoulders.
Today will be our first public test, and I have no idea how she'll handle the scrutiny.
I've built my life around predictability, around systems I can control.
Rosanna Lopez is an unpredictable variable.
When she emerges from her room, I'm momentarily taken aback. The ERS stylist has clearly visited, because the woman before me bears little resemblance to the artist who confronted me at the community meeting.
Her dress is elegantly simple, her hair styled in soft waves instead of her usual messy knot. She looks polished but still recognizably herself. She's approachable, where I am formal.
It'll photograph well.
"Good morning," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Coffee's ready. We leave in thirty minutes."
***
The car ride is quiet, though not as uncomfortable as I expected. Rosanna stares out the window, occasionally making notes in the small sketchbook she insisted on bringing.
I check my phone, reviewing Marissa's final briefing notes.
Marissa suggests hand-holding today.
