But when Rosanna named the amount, it didn’t sound like a request.
It sounded like a negotiation.
Not because she made it one.
Because I’ve never been asked for money without there being terms attached.
When she said the number, I didn’t hear need.
I heard risk.
Chapter twenty-six
Rosanna
Igive Seamus a full day before I bring it up again. A day to think about the advocacy group, to process what I asked for, to maybe realize that this matters to me in ways that go beyond just saving a building. A day for him to be the man I've been falling in love with instead of the corporate CEO who measures everything in risk and return.
When I finally approach him in his office the next morning, he's already at his desk, perfectly dressed despite the early hour. There's coffee in his hand and documents spread across the mahogany surface—always documents, always work, always the empire that demands his constant attention. He looks up when I knock, and something flickers across his face. Not quite guilt. More like resignation.
"I've been thinking about what you asked," he says before I can speak. "The legal advocacy group. The retainer for the Heritage Street case."
Relief floods through me, warm and immediate. He's been thinking about it. That's good. That means he's taking it seriously, that he understands why this matters. "And?"
"I've already contacted my legal team." He gestures to his laptop, and I can see email threads open on the screen. "They're reviewing the advocacy group's credentials, their case history, their organizational structure. Once we have that information, we can discuss next steps."
The relief evaporates as quickly as it came, replaced by something cold settling in my stomach. "Your legal team? Seamus, I asked you about funding them, not investigating them."
"Due diligence is standard practice." His voice is measured, controlled—the tone he probably uses in board meetings when someone questions his decisions. "I don't hand over my money blindly."
He's pulling up documents now, showing me spreadsheets and analysis reports that his lawyers have already started compiling. Background checks on the advocacy group's board members. Financial audits. Success rates broken down by case type and jurisdiction. It's thorough and professional and completely missing the point.
"I've also had them draft some preliminary agreements," Seamus continues, clicking through to another document. "Standard NDAs to protect both parties. Visibility clauses so we can track how the funds are being used. Reporting requirements—quarterly should be sufficient, but we could negotiate monthly if you prefer more frequent updates."
I stare at the screen, at the dense legal language designed to wrap my simple request in layers of protection and control. "You want the advocacy group to sign NDAs? To report to you quarterly on how they're spending the money?"
"It's not about control." He says it so calmly, like it's obvious, like I'm the one being unreasonable for questioning any of this. "It's about responsible stewardship. This isn't a small amount of money, Rosanna. And if my name is going to be associated with this effort, I need to ensure it's being handled appropriately."
"Your name." The words taste bitter. "This isn't about your name. This is about saving a building that matters to the community. About preserving something beautiful before it gets demolished for another corporate development."
"Which is exactly why we need to be strategic about it." Seamus leans back in his chair, and I can see him shifting into negotiation mode—the billionaire CEO who's navigated countless business deals and thinks this is just another transaction to be managed. "If we're going to fight this, we need to do it properly. That means legal protections, clear objectives, measurable outcomes. It means treating this like what it is: a significant financial and reputational investment."
Investment. He's talking about preserving community heritage like it's a line item on a balance sheet, something to be analyzed for ROI and risk mitigation. And suddenly I'm seeing all of it through a different lens—the beautiful penthouse studio he set up for me, the spa day with Luna, the perfectly made coffee every morning. Not gestures of affection, but investments he's made in maintaining his stable, respectable image.
"Why do you need all this oversight?" The question comes out quieter than I intended, but I can hear the hurt underneath it. "Why contact your lawyers at all? This is a legitimate nonprofit doing important work. Can't you just... help? Without turning it into a corporate project?"
Seamus's expression shifts—something hardens around his eyes. "Because if my money is involved, my name is involved. And I've spent the last three years rebuilding my reputation after..." He stops, jaw tightening. "I can't afford to be associatedwith anything that isn't thoroughly vetted and properly managed."
“This isn’t about your reputation,” I say. “It’s a building. A real place. Not a PR calculation.”
"I didn't say it was." But his voice has gone cold, defensive. "I'm trying to help you, Rosanna. I'm trying to support this cause you care about. But I'm not going to do it recklessly. I'm not going to just write a check and hope for the best because that's what you think trust looks like."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not what I'm asking for."
"Isn't it?" He stands too now, and we're facing each other across his desk like opponents instead of partners. "You want me to hand over a significant amount of money to an organization I've never worked with, for a project I have no oversight of, just because you asked. No questions, no verification, no protection for either of us if this goes wrong."
"I want you to trust me." My voice is shaking now, and I hate it. "I want you to believe that when I tell you this advocacy group is legitimate and important, I'm not trying to manipulate you or use you or whatever it is you're so terrified of."
The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. I watch Seamus's face, watch the struggle playing out behind his carefully controlled expression.
