Malcolm doesn’t miss a beat. "The question isn’t whether people like the building, Seamus. It’s whether the site can generate sustainable income."
Rosanna is in my penthouse right now, probably sketching in the studio—while I sit in this boardroom discussing how to outmaneuver her.
"The good news," Malcolm continues, "is that we have the resources to move faster. If we increase our offer, it will accelerate the approval process. We can have this locked down before any historical designation goes through. Clean. Efficient. Irreversible."
"And the community pushback?" Talia asks. "We've seen some press coverage. Local advocacy groups getting involved."
Graham waves a dismissive hand. "Nostalgia and sentiment. The usual resistance to progress. Once we break ground on the larger development, people will see the value—jobs, modernization, economic growth. The opposition will quiet down once they realize we're serious."
I should speak up.
I should tell them that the opposition isn't just sentiment, that there are real people with real attachment to that space, that my wife is one of them.
But the words stick in my throat, and Malcolm is already moving to the next slide.
"There’s also the optics with your wife," Graham says carefully.
He folds his hands on the table. "Which is exactly why we’re trying to keep this clean for you, Seamus. No one here wants you caught between personal matters and company decisions."
"I'm recommending we finalize terms internally this week," Malcolm says. "Then hold the formal vote with the board."
He glances toward me.
"That way the details are settled. Cleaner process."
***
After the meeting, I return to my office and the retainer paperwork is still sitting where I left it this morning—right in the center of my desk, impossible to ignore.
My lawyers sent it over yesterday with a note: Ready for your signature. Advocacy group checks out. Standard language attached.
It's everything Rosanna asked for. The funding she needs to fight the Heritage Street acquisition. The legal support that could slow down or maybe even stop the board's timeline.
All it requires is my signature and a wire transfer.
Except signing it means funding opposition to my own project—choosing Rosanna over the board’s plan.
I pick up the pen, and my hand hovers over the signature line.
I think about Rosanna's face when she asked me for this—the hope in her eyes, the trust that I would understand why it mattered. I think about how that hope died when I started talking about NDAs and oversight committees, when I made it clear that I saw her request as a liability to be managed rather than a partnership to be honored.
Are you sure there's a difference?The memory makes me flinch.
I should sign this. Fund the advocacy group. Tell the board to find another property.
But I can't make my hand move. Because signing this doesn't just mean going against the board—it means admitting that I value my personal life over my professional obligations.
That kind of sentimentality can ruin a man in my position.
It means proving that the board was right to worry about me as CEO.
I set down the pen and open my desk drawer instead. The paperwork slides inside, and I close it carefully. Delaying—waiting for clarity I know isn’t coming.
***
The penthouse feels different when I get home that evening—quieter, the silence heavy with things unsaid. Rosanna's studio door is closed, and I can see light underneath it but no sound.
She's working, or pretending to work, or just avoiding me. All equally likely after this morning's disaster.
