The room went quiet. David stared at his laptop. Laura’s gaze settled on Callum. Callum kept his eyes on the lake.
“The anniversary gala is five weeks away,” Laura said, and her voice had shifted into something softer, more careful, the tone she used when she was trying to lead him somewhere without letting him feel the leash. “That’s the moment to show the industry who Crestline is now. Not who we were seven years ago. Not who we were when Holland wrote the checks. Who we are today. Who stands beside you today.”
Callum turned around. “You think the gala solves a structural analysis problem? You think a cocktail dress and a speech make Elaine Morrison forget that her boathouse revisions are nine days late?”
“I think the gala shows the market that we’re not in chaos.”
“We are in chaos. That’s the point.”
Laura’s expression flickered, and for one second the polished surface of her cracked open. Underneath was something hungrier and less patient. “Then fix it. You’re the CEO. You’vebeen the face of this company for seven years. Stop acting like the only person who can solve a design problem is the woman you couldn’t keep.”
“She didn’t walk out. I—” Callum stopped. He was not going to have this conversation in front of David Okonkwo. He was not going to have this conversation, period.
“You what?”
“This isn’t about optics.”
“Everything is about optics. That’s what you taught me.”
David closed his laptop. “I’m going to check on the Alden site. The contractor needs a decision on the stair hall by end of day, and if we don’t have one, he’s going to start making his own.
“Don’t let him,” Callum said.
“Then give me something to tell him.”
The door closed behind David with a soft pneumatic hiss, and then it was just the two of them and the burnt-coffee smell and the reflection of the gray lake on the glass.
Laura didn’t wait. “You keep saying this isn’t about optics, but you built a company where Holland does the work and I put a pretty face on it. You decided she should be invisible. You’re the one who told me—told everyone—that I was the future of Crestline. “And now you’re panicking because your invisible engine has quit, and I can’t reverse-engineer her methodology overnight.”
“I’m not panicking.”
“You’ve sent her fourteen texts in five days. You’ve left seven voicemails. You drafted a message this morning before I even got here. I saw it on your screen.”
Callum’s jaw tightened, and he looked somewhere past her shoulder. “That’s not about the company.”
“Then what is it about?”
He didn’t answer. Laura’s eyes stayed on him, and for a long moment neither of them spoke, and the silence was more honest than any word they could have spoken.
“You don’t want her back because you love her,” Laura said. “You want her back because you need her. Because without her, the company doesn’t work. Because without her, you don’t work. And you’re terrified that if she doesn’t come back, everyone is going to see exactly how much of Crestline was never yours to begin with.”
Callum swallowed. He didn’t deny it.
“That’s the thing you won’t say out loud,” Laura continued, and her voice was colder now, stripped of the careful polish. “You don’t want me to replace her. You want me to stand in front of her—the face, while she stays invisible doing the work. The public sees me, the clients trust her, and you get to tell everyone you have built this with your own hands. And for that, I’m supposed to be grateful? To smile at the gala and pretend I don’t know this firm is still standing because of the woman you’re trying to hide?”
“That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
Callum looked at her, the truth a pressure in his throat. An image surfaced: Holland at her drafting table, the quiet hum of her focus making the work possible. Then another: Laura at his side at the Morrison gala, her smile catching the light, making him look good. He wanted the engine and the facade, the foundation and the finish. He wanted both, each in her place, silent and unquestioning.
He didn’t say any of that. He said, “I want the company to stop bleeding out.”
“So let me fix it.”
“You can’t fix it. You don’t understand what’s broken.”
Laura stood up. She was tall in her heels, and her hair was perfect, and her blouse was the kind of cream silk that looked effortless and cost more than most people’s rent. She looked exactly like the person who should be standing beside the CEO of a luxury design-build firm at its anniversary gala. And she knew it.
