I recognize the language. It's carefully neutral, technically accurate, and strategically devastating.
"What evaluators?" I ask, keeping my tone even.
"Third-party firms," Graham interjects smoothly. "To ensure objectivity."
What he doesn't say: these are firms we've worked with before. Firms that understand what conclusions serve our interests.
I've used this approach myself.
Except this time, the strategy targets my wife's dream.
“And there’s no scenario in which preservation is financially viable?” I ask.
Malcolm doesn’t hesitate. “Not at scale.”
“At scale,” I repeat.
Graham folds his hands. “We’re not in the business of symbolic gestures, Seamus.”
Malcolm continues outlining the accelerated timeline, and I nod without commitment.
After the others leave, Malcolm lingers.
"Seamus." He closes the door. "I want to be direct with you. This marriage—whatever it's become personally—can't derail the Heritage project. Scale matters more than nostalgia."
I meet his gaze without flinching. "I'm aware of the project's importance."
"Are you?" Malcolm leans against the table, dropping the corporate formality for something more personal. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're letting feelings cloud your judgment."
He's not threatening me. Malcolm doesn't operate that way. He's concerned that I'm compromising business objectives for personal reasons.
"The timeline remains on track," I say, the words tasting like ash. "My personal life won't interfere with corporate objectives."
Malcolm studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Good. Because this marriage was supposed to stabilize your image, not complicate your decision-making."
After he leaves, I sit alone in the empty conference room, staring at the projection screen.
Chapter twenty-two
Rosanna
Luna stretches out on the heated massage table like a cat in a sunbeam, her face mask making her look like some kind of mint-scented swamp creature.
"Your husband," she says, drawing out the word like it's a foreign concept she's still testing in her mouth, "paid for the deluxe package. Thedeluxepackage, Rosie. Do you know what that means? It means I'm getting my cuticles buffed by someone who probably has more training than most surgeons."
I laugh, flexing my own freshly manicured fingers. The nail technician suggested a soft pink that somehow makes my hands look elegant instead of like I've been mixing paint all day.
"He wanted to make sure we had a good time," I say, and even to my own ears, I sound defensive.
"Oh, he wanted to make sure, all right." Luna props herself up on one elbow, and the cucumber slices slide off her eyes. "Seamus O'Malley, reformed playboy billionaire, is suddenly a generous husband."
I watch the other women in the spa, all of them relaxed and boneless from their treatments, and I wonder if any of them are questioning their husbands' motives the way Luna is questioning mine.
"He just thought we'd enjoy this."
We move to the hair salon portion of the spa, and Luna settles into her chair. She's getting highlights (copper and gold threaded through her dark hair) and I'm just getting a trim and some kind of conditioning treatment that smells like heaven.
"Remember three months ago?" Luna says, watching me in the mirror as the stylist works through my hair. "Remember when you stood up at that community meeting and told Seamus O'Malley exactly what you thought of his corporation and its building-killing tendencies?" She grins, but there's something sharp underneath it. "You basically called him a power-hungry, money-grabbing, soulless corporate machine."
