"Just be careful, Rosie. Remember why you're really there—to save your storefront and get through the six months. Everything else is... risky."
I nod, acknowledging her concern while privately wondering if it's already too late for such caution.
I’m no longer sure where pretending ends.
***
Back at the penthouse, I find myself alone for the evening. Seamus texted earlier about a late meeting, his message characteristically brief but ending with an unexpected "Hope your coffee with Luna was enjoyable".
The empty apartment feels different now than it did in those first awkward weeks.
What was once intimidating space has become familiar territory.
I know which floorboard creaks near the kitchen island, how to adjust the shower to my preferred temperature, the perfect spot on the living room sofa to catch the last of the evening light for reading.
I settle at my desk with a cup of tea, opening my laptop to respond to Shay's email at last.
His words about impermanence and appreciation have been cycling through my thoughts all day, intertwining with Luna's warnings about getting emotionally invested in a situation designed to be temporary.
My fingers move across the keyboard, composing a response that feels more honest than I've allowed myself to be lately.
I write about how sometimes artificial structures can create space for authentic connection, about the challenge of distinguishing between what's real and what's circumstantial.
"Is it possible that something beginning as pretense can transform into truth? Or am I simply convincing myself of a reality I want to see because the alternative is too complicated to accept?"
The questions feel dangerous even as I type them, too revealing of my confused emotions regarding Seamus.
But Shay has always been my safe space for working through complicated feelings.
After sending the email, I remain at my desk, sketching idly as I process the day's conversations.
Luna's concern weighs on me, the practical voice of reason reminding me that the foundation of my relationship with Seamus is a contract, not an organic connection.
Yet I can't discount the genuine moments we've shared, the small bridges being built between our separate worlds.
My phone buzzes with an alert—Shay has already replied, much sooner I expected. I open the message eagerly, finding a response that seems to address my unspoken concerns.
"You once told me you do your best work inside limitations. Maybe people are the same. Maybe what feels like constraint is just structure. Sometimes what starts as performance turns into preference—if we let it."
I close my phone and lay it face down.
Has my performance become preference?
The way he looked at me at the museum. His hand at my waist. The quiet way he listens.
I let out a slow breath.
I'm in trouble.
Chapter nineteen
Seamus
The quarterly review drags into its third hour, projections flashing across the screen while department heads recite numbers I could calculate in my sleep.
I sit at the head of the table, my expression unreadable.
My thoughts are nowhere near the spreadsheet.
