He shows up two days later.
I've been expecting it. The seventy-two hours Desmond gave us means Callum will want to talk before he signs anything, and the wedding wing is the easiest excuse to get me alone without making it look like we're making it personal.
I'm standing at my desk when he knocks, sorting fabric samples I don't need to sort. Linen in five shades of cream that all look identical under event lighting but make brides feel like they've chosen something.
"Come in."
The door opens. He fills the frame for half a second before he steps through, and I notice the same thing I noticed in the boardroom: he moves like someone used to ducking under things. Low beams. Scaffold bracing. Doorways built a century before people grew this tall.
"You said we'd discuss logistics separately," he says.
His voice is even. Professional. The same tone he used when he told Desmond he'd need the equity terms in writing.
I set the fabric samples down. "I did."
He closes the door behind him, leaving just enough gap that someone passing in the hall won't hear everything we say.
"I need the event schedule before I can finalize the scaffold timelines," he says. "The re-open's locked for fall, but I don't know how many bookings you're running between now and then."
This is the conversation we're supposed to be having. Timeline. Coordination. Two professionals who need to make sure a wedding venue and a construction site don't collide in the same building.
I pull up the calendar on my tablet. My voice comes out smooth, automatic. "We have four events between now and September. Two receptions in the garden, one ceremony in one of the ballrooms, one rehearsal dinner in the private dining space. None of them touch the restoration wings."
"Good."
He's looking at the room now. Not at me. His gaze moves across the walls like he's cataloging something. The moodboards. The fabric swatches pinned in neat rows. The vases on the credenza with test arrangements I'll pull apart tomorrow.
His eyes stop on the far wall.
The one with Birdie's drawings.
I don't know if he's even registered what they are yet. They're just color in a room full of cream and white. Marker and crayon, uneven lines, the kind of thing you'd expect to see on a refrigerator, not in a corporate office.
But they're here. Because this is the only place I spend more time than home, and Birdie likes knowing her work is somewhere I can see it.
He takes a step closer to the wall. Then another.
"She draws a lot," I say.
I don't know why I say it. Maybe because the silence is worse. Maybe because if I fill the space with words, he won't fill it with questions.
Callum stops in front of the drawings. There are six of them, taped up in a loose grid. A house with a lopsided door. A bird that might be a cardinal. A garden that's more scribble than flowers.
And the one in the center. A girl with dark hair and a wide smile, arms spread like she's about to take off. Underneath, in careful block letters: ME, AGE 8. And below that, just as precise: 2026.
He's quiet.
I watch him. I can't help it. I'm trying to read what he's seeing, but his face doesn't give me anything. Just that same steady focus he had in the boardroom when Desmond was talking about succession and Rooney was counting votes.
Then his head tilts. Just slightly. The way it might if he were standing in front of a wall that wasn't quite plumb.
My thumb finds the tape measure in my pocket, runs along the edge of the casing until it catches the small metal tab that locks the tape in place.
"She picks it up from the sites," I say. My voice is still smooth. Still easy. I sound like I'm explaining a vendor preference to a bride who doesn't know the difference between ivory and ecru. "Everything gets dated on a construction site. Permits, photos, material samples. She started doing it with her drawings a few years ago. Writes the year like it's documentation."
Nothing. If anything, he's gone more rigid than before.
I should stop talking. I know I should stop talking. But the silence is too big, and I don't know what he's thinking, and the not-knowing is worse than anything I could say to fill the gap.
"She's proud of it," I add. "Thinks it makes her work official."
He turns his head toward the window. Beyond it, the old oaks are heavy with Spanish moss, and past them I can see the scaffolding on the north wing, the tarps pulled tight over sections of roof that haven't been watertight in a decade.
His hand moves to his side, fingers curling slightly, then releasing.
"How old is she?" he asks.
The question comes out quiet. Almost casual. Like he's asking what kind of flowers I'm using for the next event.
"Eight." The word is out before I can stop it. Before I can think about whether I should've deflected or delayed or found some way to make this conversation about anything other than Birdie.
He nods once. A small movement. Then he looks back at the drawing.
I'm counting in my head. Counting the months between now and the re-open. Counting the number of events that will bring me to the site while he's here. Counting how many times Birdie might show up unannounced because Maeve brought her by, or because I forgot to arrange a sitter, or because my daughter has decided she likes watching buildings get put back together.
The tape measure clicks. I didn't mean to press the tab. My thumb just found it, and the spring released, and now there's a soft metallic sound in the quiet.
Callum's gaze shifts to the window. To my hand. To the pocket where the sound came from.
I pull my hand free. Set it on the desk.
"We can coordinate around the restoration timeline," I say. "If you send me the updated scaffold schedule, I'll make sure none of the events overlap with the heavy work."
"Good," he says again.
But he doesn't move toward the door. He's still standing in front of the drawings. His shoulders are angled away from me now, like he's trying to give himself space to think, or maybe just space to look without feeling watched.
I don't know what else to say. I don't know how to pull this conversation back to the safe ground of logistics and schedules and professional boundaries. Every word I've said about Birdie has been a step closer to the edge, and I don't know how to take a step back without making it obvious that I'm retreating.
Then he turns.
His eyes meet mine, sharper now. But there's something under the surface. Not anger. Not suspicion. Just a question he hasn't asked yet.
The air in the room feels thinner.
"When exactly is her birthday?"