My pretend husband.
I reach for my sketchbook before I can stop myself.
The Seamus Project has taken over half the pages now—boyhood curls, fencing whites, sharp suits.
This time, I draw him kissing my cheek.
His side of the page is charcoal. Clean lines. Controlled shadow.
Mine blooms in color.
The line between us should be clear.
It isn’t.
My pencil drags color past the border.
Into his hair—bold red hair with a hint of curls breaking through gray.
Into his eyes—green layered over graphite.
A scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
I close the sketchbook gently.
The truth spreads through me like ink dropped in water—slow, dark, impossible to pull back.
I’m not pretending anymore.
I’ve fallen for him.
Chapter twenty-one
Seamus
I'm halfway through my second coffee and half-listening to the rundown Malcolm is giving me when the text arrives:
Pap clip went viral. 6M views. You defending her = husband goals. Check your mentions.
It's from ERS's PR manager.
I don't check my mentions.
What I do check is the clip itself, watching on mute as the moment replays: the paparazzo's aggressive approach, my instinctive step forward, the way Rosanna's expression shifted from startled to something softer when I intervened. The comments scroll beneath—thousands of strangers giving their opinions.
He loves her.
This is what protection looks like.
Forget the playboy—this man is gone for his wife.
They're not wrong. That's the problem.
I close the video and return my attention to the meeting.
The conference room feels smaller than usual, or perhaps it's just the weight of what's being discussed.
Malcolm clicks through his presentation. "The evaluations are complete," he says, not quite looking at me. "Independent assessors confirm concerns that would make historical preservation... cost-prohibitive for any buyer."
