I didn't know what came next. The theater restoration. The vellum. The blank title block waiting for a name. But the light on the ceiling kept moving, unhurried, and for the first time in years I didn't need to know yet.
Chapter Thirteen
CALLUM
The boardroomon the thirty-second floor smelled like burnt coffee and someone’s too-aggressive cologne. Callum had called the meeting for eight-thirty; he’d been in the building since seven, a clear sign he was rattled before anyone even sat down.
David Okonkwo had his laptop open to a spreadsheet that looked like a casualty report. Three columns. Red highlights. The kind of document that made people stop mid-sentence when they walked past your desk.
“Walk me through it,” Callum said, and his voice had that particular smoothness he used when he wanted to project effortless control.
“Morrison boathouse revisions are nine days past deadline,” David said. “Elaine Morrison called my direct line this morning. Not the office line. My direct line. She wanted to know if we’d outsourced the design work to someone who’d never seen a lake before.”
“She said that?”
“She said worse. I’m paraphrasing for morale.”
Callum set his pen down very carefully. He didn’t look at Laura, which was the first thing that made her stiffen in her chair.
“The Alden estate structural analysis is still in review,” David said. “The underpinning fix added forty thousand to the budget, which the client is not thrilled about, and we have a design teamwaiting on direction for the stair hall. The original concept relied on load calculations no one currently on staff can replicate.”
“No one on staff,” Callum repeated.
“Holland did those calculations.” David said it the way he might read back meeting minutes. “She developed them three years ago for the Morrison project and adapted them for Alden. The file exists, but the methodology is hers. We don’t have it.”
Laura set her tablet down with a click that was slightly too precise. “Then we need to stop treating Holland’s work like some kind of proprietary magic. The firm has other designers. The firm has project managers. We can reassign the methodology.”
“You can’t reassign something you don’t understand,” David said.
“Then we learn it.”
“From what? The files she took with her? The client relationships she built? The design language she invented before this company even had an office?”
Laura smoothed the front of her jacket with two fingers. “You’re making her sound irreplaceable.”
“I’m not making her sound like anything. I’m telling you what’s in the spreadsheet.”
Callum stood up and walked to the window. The lake was gray this morning, flat and uncooperative, and the reflection of the boardroom table floated on the glass like a second, ghostlier meeting happening underwater. In the reflection, his own face looked back at him, older than thirty-one.
“The Thompson job,” he said, not turning around. “Is that still holding?”
“For now,” David said. “But the Thompsons flagged the foundation wall because Holland caught it. If she hadn’t been on-site three weeks ago, that three-inch discrepancy would have cost the firm a six-figure lawsuit. And the Thompsons know that. They asked me yesterday if Holland was still with the firm.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I said she was taking some personal time.”
“Good.”
“It wasn’t good. They didn’t believe me.”
Laura leaned forward with a sudden, sharp movement, as if she could no longer bear sitting still. “This is exactly what I’ve been saying. The confusion isn’t about Holland’s work. It’s about the lack of a clear executive structure. Clients don’t know who to call. Teams don’t know who has authority. Holland’s involvement was always informal, and now that informality is creating a vacuum.”
“Her involvement wasn’t informal,” Callum said. “She built the company.”
“She funded the company. There’s a difference.”
“No. There isn’t.”
