I tell myself I'm reading too much into it. She's on a deadline. The illustration project has been consuming her attention for weeks, and sometimes creative work requires that kind of intense focus. It doesn't mean anything is wrong. It doesn't mean she's pulling away.
But I can't shake the feeling that something shifted today, and I don't know what it was or how to fix it.
The chef announces that dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, and I knock softly on Rosanna's studio door. "Hey. Dinner's almost ready."
She opens the door, and there's something in her eyes I can't quite read. Not anger, exactly. Something more like careful evaluation, like she's looking at me from a distance she hasn't occupied before. "Okay," she says. "I'll be right there."
We sit across from each other at the dining table, and the meal is perfect—pasta with that sauce she loves, crusty bread, a salad with pears and candied walnuts.
The chef has even prepared a dessert, something with chocolate that's waiting in the kitchen. It should be romantic.
It should feel like the kind of evening that draws us closer together.
Instead, it feels like we're playing roles in a scene neither of us fully believes in.
"This is really nice," Rosanna says, and her smile is warm but doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."
"I wanted to." I reach across the table, and she lets me take her hand, but there's a hesitation in the gesture that wasn't there yesterday. "I feel like we haven't really connected today. I thought maybe we could just... have dinner together. Talk."
"About what?" She's watching me carefully now, and I have the distinct feeling I'm being tested somehow, that there's a right answer to this question and I'm about to get it wrong.
I should tell her about the evaluations. About Graham's visit and Malcolm's call and the board meeting on Friday. I should lay it all out and give her the chance to understand the position I'm in—caught between the company my father built and the woman I'm falling in love with. But the words stick in my throat, and what comes out instead is: "About anything. About your project. About how things are going with the illustration work."
She nods slowly and withdraws her hand to pick up her fork. "The illustrations are coming along. I'm almost finished with Chapter Three."
"That's great." I'm floundering, and we both know it. "The one with the garden starting to grow, right?"
"Right." She takes a bite of pasta, chews thoughtfully. "It's about believing things can survive even when everything is working against them. Fragile things putting down roots in impossible places."
There's something in the way she says it—a weight to the words that suggests she's talking about more than just her illustration project. I want to ask what she means, want to pull at the thread and see what unravels, but I'm terrified of what I might find.
We're halfway through dinner when Rosanna sets down her fork and looks at me directly. "I need to ask you something."
My entire body goes on alert. "Of course. Anything."
She hesitates, and I watch her choose her words carefully. "The nonprofit legal advocacy group I mentioned—the one that specializes in preservation fights. I've been doing some research, and I think they could really help with the Heritage Street situation. The storefront."
And there it is. The ask I've been dreading since Graham dropped those evaluations on my desk. The moment where I have to choose between what Rosanna wants and what the boardexpects. Between being the husband she needs and the CEO the company requires.
"How much would they need?" I hear myself ask, and my voice comes out too measured, too controlled. Not the response of a husband being asked to help his wife with something she cares about. The response of a businessman evaluating a request.
She names a figure. It's significant but not unreasonable—I've spent more on art I never look at, on investments that meant nothing beyond portfolio diversification. But somehow this feels different. This feels like a test I'm failing before I've even begun.
"I'll look into it."
She nods, but her shoulders don’t relax.
***
Later, I’m sitting in my office, my laptop open. I have so many things running through my head that I need to sort out. But I can't email Anna about it this time.
The moment she named the number, something old and ugly stirred in me.
Just when I had started to believe that she saw the real me. Saw past all the hype and even past the careful walls I had been keeping around my heart.
I thought I was past this.
Past the heartbreak. Past being used by those around me.
