The rational part of my brain tries to construct justifications.
I didn't know the exact timing.
Graham and Malcolm moved forward without my explicit approval.
The board made this decision collectively, and overriding them would require evidence that it's bad for the company, which I don't have because objectively, it's sound business strategy.
But all the justifications feel hollow.
Because the truth is simpler and worse: I let this happen. I saw it coming and I stayed quiet because confronting it would have forced me to choose, and choosing meant risk.
Risk that I'd lose the company my father built.
Risk that I'd prove the board right about my judgment being compromised by marriage.
Risk that even if I fought for Rosanna, she'd realize I was too damaged to be worth fighting for.
So I chose silence and plausible deniability and the hope that somehow this would all work out without me having to actually take a stand.
***
I sit in my expensive office in my expensive penthouse with my expensive justifications, and I wait for the moment when she'll find out what kind of man she married.
A man who had a choice and made the wrong one. A man who protected himself instead of protecting her. A man who's about to lose the only real thing he's had in years, and whose only consolation is that at least he'll still have the company.
My father would be proud.
Chapter thirty-one
Rosanna
I'm working on the final touches of Chapter Seven when my phone buzzes with another city alert. My stomach clenches. I’ve learned to dread these notifications. But I make myself check anyway.
The number they are paying sits on my screen like a taunt. They're not just outbidding me—they're making it impossible for anyone else to even compete. They’re buying certainty. Speed. The right to demolish without interference.
My bid was laughable in comparison.
It felt enormous when I submitted it. It felt like proof that I was serious, that I was willing to put real money behind my values. Now it looks like exactly what it is: a gesture. Meaningless in the face of corporate resources I could never hope to match.
This isn’t a bid. It’s a surgical strike.
And my husband knew this was coming. Maybe not the exact numbers or the precise timing, but he knew.
He sat through the meetings. Reviewed the projections.
He kissed me in the park yesterday while his company prepared to make it impossible for me to save the one thing I've been fighting for.
The worst part is, I still want to believe that he's as blindsided by this as I am. But I can't make myself believe it. Because Seamus is the CEO.
I'm standing outside Seamus's office door before I make a conscious decision to move.
My hand is raised to knock when I hear his voice inside—he's on a call, his tone measured and professional. Corporate Seamus, the one who negotiates billion-dollar deals without blinking an eye.
"I understand the timeline concerns," he's saying. "But we need to be thoughtful about community response. There are preservation groups involved, and—" A pause. "I'm aware of the strategic advantages. I'm simply suggesting we consider—" Another pause, longer this time. "Yes. I understand. I'll review the brief this afternoon."
He hangs up, and I should knock now. Should walk in and demand to know how long he's known, whether yesterday’s picnic was real or strategic. Whether any of this has been real or if I've just been the latest problem for him to manage with romantic gestures and careful distance.
But I don't knock.
