He notices the way I linger and clears his throat. “I should… review some documents.”
He retreats toward his office, the boy already disappearing.
I stay on the couch with the album in my lap long after I hear his door close.
***
When I finally retreat to my room, I pull out a fresh sketchbook.
I start with his hair.
Loose lines. Spirals that refuse to lie flat. I exaggerate the curls, let them take up more space than they should. I soften the jaw. Make the eyes curious instead of guarded.
I don’t draw the tie. Or the watch. Or the controlled posture.
I draw the boy before the armor.
By the time I close the sketchbook, my hands are smudged with graphite.
I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling of my room (no longer thinking of it as the guest room) and reflect on the strange trajectory my life has taken.
Two weeks ago, I was in my small apartment fighting corporate development. Now I'm married to the corporation personified, living in a penthouse that costs more than I'll earn in a lifetime, and strategically planning public appearances to convince the world we're in love.
It should feel wrong.
It often does.
But there are moments that feel real.
I pick up my phone, opening Shay's email to read it once more before composing my reply.
I write about adaptation and authenticity, about finding myself in an environment so different from anything I've known.
I'm careful not to mention specifics since Shay and I have always maintained a certain privacy in our correspondence, but I try to capture the strange feeling of playing a role while still being myself.
"Maybe the self we protect and the self we present aren't as separate as we think," I write. "Maybe they're just different facets of the same whole, emphasized or diminished depending on what each situation requires."
As I send the email, I realize I'm looking forward to Shay's response. I set my phone aside and turn out the light, listening to the faint sounds of Seamus moving around in his own room down the hall.
My husband. A stranger I have a contract with for six months. A man who orders dinner without asking my preferences but makes sure there's coffee waiting for me every morning.
I fall asleep wondering which version of myself will greet him tomorrow—the defiant artist, the strategic partner, or someone new.
Chapter fifteen
Seamus
I used to worry about being too much. Too bright. Too hopeful. Too stubborn. Now I think maybe that’s the point. Sunny side up isn’t just a saying. It’s a decision. —Anna (Age 30)
Icheck my watch. The library event begins in two minutes, and we're already inside the building, standing in the community room where chairs have been arranged in a semi-circle around art tables.
This is the first ERS-scheduled appearance that wasn't my natural territory—no corporate backdrop, no press.
Instead, I find myself surrounded by art supplies, children's books, and hand-drawn posters announcing "Free Community Sketch Night with Local Illustrator."
Rosanna moves through the space with easy confidence, greeting the librarian and adjusting the positioning of sketchbooks and pencils at each station.
She's wearing a paint-splattered cardigan over a simple dress. Her hair is pulled back in its usual messy knot. It's a stark contrast to the polished image from our press conference.
