I find myself smiling in response. "That calls for celebration," I say, moving toward the kitchen. "I believe there's a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator."
We settle on the living room sofa with glasses of champagne, Rosanna tucking her feet beneath her in that casual way she has, her body language more relaxed around me than in those early awkward weeks.
She shows me the final spreads from her book.
I find myself genuinely impressed by the technical accuracy of the imaginary contraptions, the expression she's captured in the protagonist's determined face, and the subtle humor in the visual storytelling.
"You've created something remarkable," I tell her, the compliment unplanned but sincere.
She looks up, seemingly surprised by my assessment, and our eyes hold for a moment longer than usual.
"I never asked," she says, setting her glass down, "why did you agree to this arrangement? Not the company line about stability and public perception. I want the real reason."
The question catches me off-guard, disrupting the careful boundaries we've maintained around certain topics. Her direct gaze makes evasion seem suddenly dishonest in a way my ongoing email deception does not.
"It was the only option I could control," I answer. "I wanted to keep my father's company. I agreed because the alternative was losing everything."
The admission hangs between us, more revealing than I intended.
Rosanna studies me with a perceptive gaze that seems to see past my carefully constructed exterior.
"And now?" she asks quietly. "Is that still why you're here?"
"No," I say simply, the single word carrying the weight of a transformation I'm still coming to understand.
Her expression softens. And I watch her expression change from careful to brave. She reaches across the space between us, her hand covering mine on the sofa cushion.
The contact is nothing like the rehearsed touches we’ve perfected for cameras.
I turn my hand and lace our fingers together, slow enough to give her time to pull away. She doesn’t.
Neither of us moves for a breath, as if we’re both waiting for the other to call it off.
Rosanna’s thumb strokes once over my knuckle, and that small kindness breaks the last of my restraint. I lean in. She meets me halfway.
Our lips meet. Soft, tentative, and almost questioning.
Then her hand tightens in mine, and the question turns into an answer.
I kiss her once more—brief, careful, as if sealing the moment before either of us can talk ourselves out of it.
When we finally pull back, we don’t go far. Our foreheads are nearly touching, our breaths uneven.
She looks at me and I can't look away.
I’m unprepared for the intensity of it. Filled with desire, tenderness, and a vulnerability that would have terrified me months ago.
***
Hours later, after Rosanna has gone to bed, I sit alone in my study attempting to process what happened between us. The kiss has changed something fundamental in our arrangement.
The look in her eyes. The way she didn’t pull away.
I’ve negotiated billion-dollar contracts with less at stake than that kiss.
My computer screen glows with the email account I use as "Shay," a stark reminder of the deception I'm still maintaining. I am her husband in person. I am her confidant in secret.
And the longer I let that stand, the worse it becomes.
