Tonight, I turn to a fresh page.
I sketch him as he stood in the museum atrium—charcoal suit, posture straight, expression composed.
And then, almost without thinking, I reach for the colored pencils.
I add another figure.
She’s painting the background behind him with yellows and oranges breaking into blue.
I stare at the page for a long time.
I didn’t mean to draw myself into the story.
But I did.
And for the first time, I’m not just sketching Seamus.
I’m imagining us together.
Chapter seventeen
Seamus
For years, my morning routine has been a solitary ritual. First, I shower, then I make coffee, and review the overnight reports. Usually it is all in silence broken only by the occasional notification from my phone.
Now, I find myself listening for sounds from the other side of the penthouse: the soft padding of bare feet, the gentle closing of a door, the quiet hum of Rosanna singing to herself as she prepares for the day.
These small disruptions have reordered my mornings.
I used to measure time in reports and deadlines. Now I measure it in the sound of her moving through the space.
Today, I pause outside her studio door on my way to the kitchen. It's partially open, unusual for this early hour, and I can see her already at work, bent over her illustration table, completely absorbed.
The morning light catches in her hair, turning the messy knot she always wears into something almost luminous against the white walls.
She hasn't noticed me yet, and I allow myself a moment to observe her in this unguarded state. I can see the slight furrow between her brows as she concentrates, the unconscious way she bites her lower lip when considering a particular detail, the movement in her hands as they create something from nothing.
It's a kind of focused creativity I've always respected but never fully understood.
In the kitchen, I make coffee for two instead of one, a modification to my routine that now feels natural rather than obligatory.
I set her mug (the one with cartoon otters that appeared in my cabinet one day without explanation) beside the espresso machine where she'll find it when she emerges.
These small accommodations have integrated themselves into my mornings with surprising ease.
My phone buzzes with a calendar notification as I settle at the kitchen island with my own coffee.
Our shared digital calendar has become the primary architecture of our arranged marriage.
Today features a blue block for my quarterly board meeting, a green block for Rosanna's deadline on her current illustration project.
Rosanna emerges from her studio just as I'm about to leave, her hair more disheveled than usual and a smudge of blue ink on her cheek.
She blinks in the brighter light of the kitchen.
"Morning," she says, making directly for the coffee I prepared. "You're running late."
The observation is accurate. I'm typically gone by this time, but I find I'm in no hurry to leave.
