I attach the link and hit send.
The response takes five minutes that feel like hours. When it comes, it's careful, measured—everything I'd expect from someone who deals with high-stakes matchmaking and the complications that come with it.
We don't access corporate intel—client privacy goes both ways. But we've seen situations like this before.When personal and professional interests collide, it can get complicated fast. If this becomes adversarial, ERS will protect you. That's in your contract. You're not alone in this.
I stare at the message, and something cold settles in my stomach. Tessa's not saying ERS knew—but she's not saying they didn't know either. She's saying they've seen this pattern before, which means this kind of conflict isn't unusual for couples matched through their agency. Which means maybe I should have seen it coming.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Tessa:
Are you safe? Do you need anything right now?
The question catches me off-guard. Safe. Like this is a domestic violence situation instead of just a marriage falling apart under the weight of secrets and competing interests. But maybe that's what ERS has learned to ask—maybe they've seen enough relationships implode to know that "safe" is always the first question.
I'm fine.
I type back.
Furious. But fine.
I set down my phone and look at my illustration. Mira and her impossible garden, teaching other children that growth is possible even in concrete and shadow.
I used to think gardens grew because someone cared enough.
I’m starting to understand they grow because someone protects them.
What was I thinking, believing that hope and care could overcome the reality of corporate development and board votes and billionaires who kiss you in the park while their companies file demolition permits?
Seamus is in his office. I can hear him on a call, his voice low and controlled. Talking to lawyers, probably.
Or board members. Or whoever helps him destroy what matters while keeping his image polished.
I should confront him. Should walk into his office right now and demand to know how long he's known about this filing, whether today's picnic was genuine or just another strategic move to keep me manageable while his company pursued their objectives.
But I don't move. I just sit in my studio with my phone and the city alert and Tessa's carefully worded message, and I try to figure out what to do next.
Tomorrow, I'll ask him about it.
Tomorrow I'll demand answers and probably get more careful explanations that mean nothing.
But tonight, I'm just going to sit here and finish Mira's garden, and try not to think about how gardens don't actually grow in concrete, no matter how much you want them to.
I can hear him on the other side of the wall, his voice low and steady.
And I don’t know if he’s fighting for me —
or filing paperwork to bury what I love.
Chapter thirty
Seamus
I'm reviewing quarterly reports Friday morning when the email comes through from Graham. Subject line: "Heritage Street - Updated Bid."
My stomach drops.
I read it three times, and each time the meaning stays the same. They did it. They filed the new bid, submitted the demolition permits, set the whole machine in motion.
Without telling me until it was done.
