The weakness they keep warning him about?
My phone buzzes. A text from Luna:
How's married life in the tower?
I stare at it for a long moment. Then I look at the documents, at my half-finished illustration, at the beautiful studio space in the penthouse that suddenly feels restrictive.
I type back:
What if this whole thing is a mistake?
Luna responds immediately:
What happened?
But I don't know how to answer that.
How do I explain that I fell in love with a man who might sign his name at the bottom of that page?
That I trusted someone who's apparently very good at separating his personal life from his professional obligations—which means I'm personal, and therefore expendable when it comes to business?
Graham's words echo again:Impressive, really, how you've managed to keep your personal and professional interests so neatly separated.
I look at my illustration of Mira. I've been that girl, planting hope in the cracks of a billionaire's carefully controlled life and believing that something real could grow there.
But maybe Luna was right. Maybe I've been confusing performance for authenticity, gratitude for love, strategicpositioning for genuine connection. Maybe the warm moments were just him being good at his job.
I can't ask him to put me over his company—his dream.
Maybe he could help me with mine.
I need to know I’m not disposable.
I set down my phone and look at the documents again. The demolition timeline stares back at me, circled in red like a warning I should have seen coming.
I’ve been playing house in a penthouse while his company schedules my dream for demolition.
I just don’t know if I’m something he protects.
Or another obstacle scheduled for removal.
Chapter twenty-five
Seamus
Iconsidered cooking tonight. But the thought of standing in the kitchen pretending everything was normal felt impossible.
So instead, I arranged for a chef to come in and prepare Rosanna’s favorite meal.
It's probably excessive, but I've been feeling the distance between us growing all day, and I don't know how else to bridge it except through gestures that might feel too large.
The chef is setting up in the kitchen now, and the penthouse smells like garlic and fresh herbs and the kind of warmth that should make everything feel right.
Rosanna has been quiet since this afternoon.
She emerged from her studio around three, made herself tea, and went back in without stopping by my office like she usually does.
No quick chat about her progress. No sketch shoved under my nose with a "What do you think of this?" No casual touch on my shoulder as she passed.
