I wait for one of his carefully neutral compliments, but instead, he finishes with, "beautiful."
"Thank you," I respond, suddenly aware of the heat rising in my cheeks. "You clean up pretty well yourself."
The understated joke falls flat, but I give him a small smile and step into the hallway.
Seamus clears his throat, checking his watch.
"The car will be waiting," he says, his tone returning to its usual controlled register.
I nod and grab my wrap, clutch and sketchbook, following him to the elevator.
Seamus glances once at my sketchbook, a hint of a smile catching the edge of his mouth.
As we descend, I catch our reflection in the polished metal doors. We make a striking couple, perfectly matched in our formal attire, looking for all the world like we belong together.
For a moment, I forget the contract.
The museum buzzes with mid-afternoon energy—donors in designer wear mingle with art students and families taking advantage of free admission.
A string quartet plays in one corner, providing a refined soundtrack to the constant hum of conversation.
Seamus places his hand on the small of my back as we enter the main hall, the touch light but deliberate.
The museum’s grand atrium is filled. Waiters circulate with trays of champagne and sparkling water, offering refreshments to guests as they move between exhibits.
Seamus navigates this terrain with practiced ease, his hand remaining at my back as he guides me through the throng, stopping occasionally to make introductions.
"My wife, Rosanna," he says each time, the phrase still sounding strange in my ears.
I spot another ERS couple across the gallery. The woman is impossible to miss—her sparkly sequined bag catching the light just like it did at our wedding. She stands among the tailored guests in jeans and a bedazzled hoodie, utterly unconcerned with blending in.
Beside her, her husband stands immaculate in a dark suit, posture straight and watchful.
They make an unusual pair, her brightness against his restraint, but something in their dynamic seems genuine despite the circumstantial nature of their match.
A waiter offers champagne from a passing tray, and I accept gratefully, taking a small sip to steady my nerves.
Seamus declines with a slight shake of his head. "The museum director will want to speak with you," he murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "She's been supportive of community art initiatives."
I nod, appreciating the preparation while feeling a flutter of anxiety.
These social waters run deeper than I’m used to.
Seamus must sense my tension because his hand moves slightly on my back, a small circular motion that feels oddly comforting.
"Just be yourself," he adds, surprising me. "That's what they'll respond to."
The afternoon progresses as we make our way through the exhibits, pausing to admire installations and exchange pleasantries with other guests.
I find myself genuinely engaged in conversation with the museum's education director about expanding access to art programs in underserved schools when a commotion erupts across the gallery.
There's a sharp cry, then raised voices, the discordant sounds cutting through the genteel atmosphere like a jagged line through a clean canvas.
My attention snaps toward the source of the disturbance. Lindsay Smith stands near a modern sculpture, one hand clutching the strap of her rhinestone-encrusted crossbody bag while a man in a rumpled suit yanks at it from the other side.
In an instant, her husband is there, moving with surprising speed for someone so controlled.
He places himself between Lindsay and the would-be thief, his stance protective but precise.
