"The Heritage development timeline is our primary concern," Graham says, his voice cutting through my distraction.
The conference room falls silent as he pulls up a slide showing the storefront at the center of the neighborhood resistance—the one Rosanna wants.
"There is pressure to raise our offer. On top of that, we're facing increased community organizing and delay tactics from preservation groups."
"Is it practical to raise our offer? Or do we let this one go?" I ask, secretly hoping the whole Heritage building situation will iron out without my input.
"We are doing a few more assessments, but everything seems to point to that being the best option."
I let out a slow breath, as the conversation turns to the community response. "These sentimental attachments to outdated structures are impacting our schedule and, by extension, our profit margins."
His eyes fix on me. "The board would like to know what steps you're taking to address these obstacles, Seamus."
Everyone in this room knows my wife is fighting to preserve that building. What they don’t know is that I’ve begun to see it through her eyes.
My response measured and noncommittal.
They share a look, and then jump to the next topic.
I nod without agreeing, already figuring out how to navigate this without betraying either my company or my wife.
***
Back in my office, I close the door and sit at my desk, opening my private email account.
The dual identity I’ve maintained is becoming harder to justify. What began as a test has turned into something else entirely.
Through these exchanges, I've come to know parts of Rosanna she keeps guarded in our daily interactions, just as I've expressed thoughts to her that I've never voiced aloud.
I begin drafting a new message, careful to maintain the voice and perspective she associates with "Shay" while still expressing genuine thoughts.
I write about seeing value in things others dismiss as impractical, about finding unexpected connections in contrast rather than similarity, about the courage required to choose authenticity over convenience.
The parallels are obvious.
The dual communication weighs on me more heavily with each exchange.
I'm actively deceiving someone I've come to genuinely care for, maintaining a fiction that grows more difficult to justify as our real relationship evolves.
And every day I wait makes the truth worse.
I send the email despite these concerns, telling myself I need more time to find the right approach for the truth.
As I close the email window, my gaze falls on the property assessments Malcolm mentioned during the meeting.
The accelerated timeline sits in stark contrast to the email I just sent.
I built my reputation on decisive leadership.
Now I can’t decide which version of myself I’m supposed to be.
***
Rosanna returns from her publisher meeting just after seven, her cheeks flushed with cold and excitement.
"They approved the final illustrations," she announces, dropping her portfolio by the door. "The book goes to print next month."
The genuine joy on her face sparks something unexpected within me—a mirroring happiness unrelated to metrics or strategic outcomes.
