It does feel perfect, mostly.
Except for the small voice in the back of my head that keeps asking:Is this real?
He told me this wasn’t just another contract. He kissed me like he meant it.
And then… nothing.
No repeat of that moment. No lingering touches that weren’t part of our public performance.
I push the thought away and focus on Mira's hands, the way they cup around the tender green shoot.
The details are what matter in illustration—getting the small things right so the big emotions land. I lose myself in the work, in the meditative motion of graphite on paper, and for a while the doubts quiet down.
I'm deep into shading when I hear the door chime softly. A few minutes later, Seamus's office door opens, and I hear Seamus talking to someone.
I've met him twice—once at a board dinner and once when he stopped by the penthouse for a "quick document review".
Both times, he looked at me like I was an interesting piece of art: pleasant to look at, but ultimately decorative.
"These are the final evaluation packets," a woman’s voice says. "Mr. Whitlock asked that you review and return them before Friday’s board meeting."
I should go back to my sketching.
This is Seamus's business, not mine.
But there’s something in the assistant’s tone that makes me pause, pencil hovering over paper.
"I'll review them tonight," Seamus says.
"Of course, of course. No rush." The assistant's footwear clicks against the hardwood. "Though you know how these preservation groups can be. If you give them an inch, they'll tie you up in red tape for months."
My pencil stops moving entirely. Preservation groups. My stomach tighten. He's talking about the Heritage building.
"I'm aware of the timeline," Seamus says, and there's something in his voice I can't quite read. "I'll handle it."
The assistant laughs. "I'm sure you will. You've always been good at handling delicate situations. Impressive, really, how you've managed to keep your personal and professional interests so neatly separated. Not everyone could pull that off."
The comment hangs in the air like smoke.
I hear papers rustling, and then the soft click of the front door closing. "I'll leave these with you. Just sign and send them back when you're done. The board's eager to move forward."
The penthouse door closes. I hear Seamus moving around in his office, and then silence. I should call out to him, ask if he wants tea or if everything's okay. Instead, I sit very still, staring at my illustration without seeing it.
Five minutes pass. Ten. Then I hear Seamus's office door open and close, his footsteps heading toward the kitchen. I wait until I hear water running before I move.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
But the words keep echoing:Delicate situations. Personal and professional interests. Neatly separated.
I walk into Seamus's office before I can talk myself out of it. The documents are sitting on the desk, clipped together with one of those heavy binder clips that meansimportant. The top page is mostly dense legal language, but I scan it anyway, looking for... I don't know what I'm looking for.
Then I see it: "Property Evaluation - 428 Heritage Street." My breath catches.
I flip to the next page. It's a structural assessment. Fair condition. Some repairs needed but nothing critical. Historical significance noted but described as "limited commercial appeal."
My counter offer is mentioned as a side note.
The recommendation at the bottom is circled in red ink: "Proceed with acquisition."
