"I remember." Heat creeps up my neck.
I'd been so certain then, so absolutely sure that I knew exactly who Seamus was and what he represented.
The world had been simpler when I could hate him from a distance.
"And now you're married to him. Living in his penthouse. Letting him fund spa days." Luna's voice is gentle, not accusatory, but it still makes something twist in my chest. "This was supposed to be temporary. Tactical. You marry the billionaire, save the storefront, walk away. That was the plan."
The stylist sprays something that smells like coconut into my hair, and I close my eyes against the mist. The question feels bigger than Luna probably intended it to be, expanding to fill all the uncertain spaces I've been trying not to examine too closely.
"He’s not who I thought he was," I say, meeting Luna’s gaze in the mirror. "And I’m not falling for a demolition project. I’m falling for a man."
"Of course." Luna's getting her eyebrows shaped now, so her words come out slightly distorted as she tries not to move her face. "Rosie, you were the one who said you’d never fall for someone who profits off tearing down neighborhoods. You were going to outsmart him. Not fall in love with him."
The words hit like cold water, and I feel my spine straighten automatically. "That's not fair. You don't know him like I do."
"You're right, I don't." Luna's voice softens as the esthetician moves away. "But Rosie, you've been married for what, a few months? And before that, you hated everything he stood for. I'm not saying he's conning you. I'm saying maybe you should be careful about confusing gratitude with something else."
I want to argue, want to list all the small moments that prove Luna wrong. The way Seamus makes coffee for me every morning. How he moved his schedule around so we could attend that library sketch class together. The feeling of his hand catching mine across the breakfast table, casual and warm like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.
But as I open my mouth to defend him, I hesitate. Not because I doubt him—because I can’t pinpoint when this stopped being strategy.
"You're right. I didn't plan for this. But, Luna, what am I supposed to do now that I'm in love with him?" I whisper, so quietly I'm not sure Luna hears me over the ambient spa music.
But she does. She reaches over and squeezes my hand, careful not to smudge either of our fresh manicures.
"Here's what I know," Luna says, her voice drowsy and content. "A few months ago, Seamus O'Malley was the most sought-after bachelor in the city. Headlines every week about some new woman, some new club, some new scandal. He was the definition of a playboy—charming, gorgeous, and completely unavailable for anything real."
I nod, because I remember those headlines too. I remember using them as evidence when I argued against his development project, proof that he cared more about pleasure and profit than people and preservation.
"And now—" Luna snaps her fingers. "—he's married. And Rosie, he’s happier. You’re happier. I just don’t want you to forget why you started this.”
"I won't."
Luna falls asleep, her breathing evening out into soft snores that the spa employees are too polite to comment on.
I sit with my cucumber water and try to remember who I was before all of this. Before the marriage, the penthouse, and before Seamus O’Malley looked at me like I was something precious.
I was the woman who stood up at community meetings and fought for what mattered. I was the illustrator who chose uncertainty over compromise. I was proud of the life I built with my own two hands.
And I still am.
But somewhere along the way, I also became the woman who waits for her husband’s footsteps in the hallway. The woman who feels steadier when his hand finds hers in a crowded room. The woman who smiles when he walks in, even when she doesn’t mean to.
Loving him doesn’t feel like being bought.
It feels like being seen.
The real question isn’t whether Seamus is using me.
It’s whether I know how to love someone powerful without feeling small beside him.
Whether I can stay myself.
I open my eyes and stare up at the spa’s painted ceiling.
I haven’t sold out.
I fell in love.
