The Wife in His Shadow (The Unchosen Women #1)

Holland

Chapter One

I spotted the Wexlers near the bar before Callum even finished checking his coat. That was the thing about doing this job for seven years. You learned to read a room faster than your husband could work it.

He said it like a compliment. He said it like he meant it. But he didn’t stay to hear my answer. He was already moving toward the cluster of investors near the windows, and I was left holding the wine and Margaret’s anxious, hopeful gaze.

Margaret’s shoulders dropped an inch. “Thank God. You remembered the joinery.”

“I remember everything about that house. You served me lemon cake in the kitchen while the inspector was on the roof.”

She laughed, and the sound was warm enough to carry me through the next ten minutes of small talk.

This was what I did at these events. I was the person who remembered the lemon cake and the window specs, while Callum worked the room and collected the credit.

I’d made peace with that arrangement years ago.

I’d even convinced myself it was a partnership.

Then I turned toward the main table and saw Laura Vale with her hand on my husband’s forearm.

She was seated beside him. Not beside her own date, if she’d brought one.

Not in the COO-appropriate spot three chairs down where the operations people usually sat.

She was in the seat I’d occupied at every client dinner for the last five years, and her manicured fingers were resting on Callum’s sleeve like she’d forgotten they were attached to her body.

I didn’t move. I stood near the bar with my wine glass and watched Laura lean in, her words drawing a laugh from Callum, her blonde hair brushing his shoulder.

She was wearing a navy dress I recognized from a Saks Fifth Avenue window.

I’d pointed it out two weeks ago, and now here it was, on her body, at my event.

“Mrs. Hart.” One of the junior associates appeared at my elbow with a seating chart. “We have you at table three.”

Table three was for the loyalists—the clients who mattered but didn’t need the charm offensive. The people who already trusted Crestline, who trusted me, and wouldn’t walk away just because they were denied five minutes with the CEO.

“Who did the seating?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

The associate glanced toward Laura. “Ms. Vale finalized it this afternoon.”

Of course, she did.

I took my seat at table three and spent the next hour doing what I always did.

I asked the right questions. I remembered the right details.

When the Thompsons brought up their concerns about the foundation work on their property, I was the one who pulled out my phone and showed them the soil report I’d commissioned six months ago.

When the Harpers mentioned their daughter was starting architecture school, I was the one who wrote down the name of a professor I knew at Columbia.

Callum worked the room with easy handshakes and practiced smiles. I held my own small corner of it together, discussing soil reports while my jaw ached from a smile I didn't feel.

And across the dining hall, Laura kept touching him. His sleeve. His wrist. Once, when he made a joke about zoning regulations, she laughed and put her palm flat against his back like she was steadying herself. Like she needed to. Like he was hers to steady.

I watched the way she turned her body toward him every time he spoke. The way she answered questions that were directed at him. The way she used “we” when she talked about the firm’s future.

“We’re really excited about the direction we’re taking the lakefront portfolio,” she said to a table of investors, and I heard it from three tables away. “We think there’s room to push the design language further.”

We.

The design language was mine. I’d built it from scratch seven years ago, pulling from mid-century modernism and the particular light quality of Lake Michigan at sunset.

Callum had never designed a single structure in his life.

He was a businessman. A very good one, but a businessman.

The aesthetic that made Crestline recognizable was something I’d drawn on tracing paper in a rented apartment while he was still learning how to read a balance sheet.

And Laura Vale was sitting there telling investors we were going to push it further.

I set my fork down.

“You okay?” asked the woman beside me. I hadn’t caught her name.

“Fine,” I said, managing a brief smile. “Just running through the Thompson foundation specs in my head.”

When the main course was cleared and the speeches started, I watched Callum stand at the podium and talk about Crestline’s vision.

He was good at this. He was always good at this.

His voice filled the room, and his smile was the right kind of practiced, and when he gestured toward the crowd, he made everyone feel like they were part of something important.

“None of this would be possible without the team we’ve built,” he said, and I waited for him to say my name. He didn’t. He gestured toward Laura instead. “Laura Vale, our COO, has been instrumental in shaping our strategy this year.”

Laura smiled. She didn’t look surprised. She didn’t look toward me. She accepted the acknowledgment like she’d been expecting it, like it was her due, like she was the partner Callum was thanking and I was just another guest at table three.

After the speeches, Gerald Finch, a client I’d worked with for years, found me near the dessert table. He’d hired Crestline for three projects, and every single one of them had my fingerprints on the design.

“Holland,” he said, his voice so warm it felt like an anchor in the shifting room. For a moment, I wasn’t just Callum’s wife; I was the architect. “I’ve been meaning to tell you. The Crestline look—it’s what keeps us coming back. You should be proud.”

I opened my mouth to thank him.

“It really is something special,” Laura said, appearing at my side like she’d been summoned. “Callum and I have been working hard to keep that vision consistent across all our new projects.”

Callum and I.

Gerald glanced between us. He knew me, had worked with me for years. But Laura was the COO, radiating confidence, and I saw the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the subtle recalculation of a man wondering if he’d just given credit to the wrong person.

“Well,” he said, “it’s a strong team.”

Laura’s smile widened. “It really is.”

She didn’t look at me. She didn’t need to. She’d just taken a compliment meant for my work and folded it into her own narrative, and she’d done it in front of a client who’d known me for years. And when I looked across the room at Callum, he was watching. He’d seen the entire exchange.

He gave Laura a small nod. The kind of nod that said good job. The kind of nod that said I see you.

He didn’t look at me.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of small talk and handshakes and the particular exhaustion that came from performing warmth you didn’t feel. By the time the valet brought our car around, I was so tired my bones ached.

Callum was quiet on the drive. Then, halfway across the bridge, he said, “You were tense tonight.”

“I wasn’t tense.”

“You were. You barely spoke to anyone after the speeches.”

I turned my head toward the window. The city lights blurred across the water. “I spoke to Gerald Finch. And the Thompsons. And Margaret Wexler.”

“That’s not what I mean.” His voice was calm. Patient. The voice he used when he was about to explain something to me that I should already understand. “You were cold with Laura.”

“I wasn’t cold with Laura. Laura inserted herself into a conversation I was having with a client.”

“She was being a supportive part of the team.”

“She took credit for my design language in front of Gerald Finch.”

Callum sighed. The sound was small and tired and somehow made me feel like I was the one being unreasonable. “She wasn’t taking credit. She was talking up the firm. That’s her job. You’re reading into things that aren’t there.”

I turned in my seat to face him. His profile was sharp against the dark window, his hands easy on the wheel. “She sat in my seat.”

“It’s a chair, Holland.”

“It’s been my chair for five years.”

“She’s COO. It makes sense for her to be near me at these things. It’s optics.” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “You’re being insecure about this. It’s not a good look.”

Insecure. He’d used that word before. He’d used it last month when I’d asked why Laura was in every meeting I used to be in.

He’d used it two weeks ago when I’d noticed she’d started signing off on client communications that used to come through my desk.

He was using it now, in the dark of the car, while the city slid past us and my wedding ring caught the dashboard light.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know how to answer. Because if I pushed, I was insecure. If I asked questions, I was paranoid. If I pointed out what I’d seen with my own eyes, I was reading into things that weren’t there.

He’d built a story where I was the problem, and I didn’t know when he’d started building it.

We drove the rest of the way in silence.

When we got home, Callum kissed my temple like nothing had happened and went upstairs to shower.

I stood in the kitchen, my coat still on, and stared at the marble countertops.

I’d picked them out three years ago, back when this house was just a project on paper.

I had made every decision about its light, its space, its feeling.

I’d designed this kitchen. I’d designed this house. I’d designed the firm that paid for both of them.

And somewhere along the way, I’d let myself become invisible in my own life.

I thought about Laura’s hand on Callum’s sleeve. The way she’d said we. The nod he’d given her across the room. The way she’d accepted a compliment meant for me without even glancing in my direction.

She wasn’t just positioning herself beside him. She was positioning herself in my place. And Callum wasn’t stopping her. He was nodding. He was approving. He was making room for her in full view of everyone, and when I noticed, he told me I was imagining things.

I pulled off my coat and hung it on the back of a chair. The house was quiet. Upstairs, the shower was running. I stood there in my kitchen. My husband was making room for another woman. The only real question left was whether I’d been the last person in the room to see it.