Page 14 of Thirty-Two Calls

Camille lifted her chin defiantly, though a nervous flush crept up her neck. "I was your wife. I had every right to defend my territory from a—"

"Do not finish that sentence," Lance warned, stepping closer, his presence utterly dominating the bright, airy room. "Evangeline never said a word to me about your cruelty. Do you know why? Because she was so pure, so incredibly kind, that she actually believed she deserved it. She internalized your poison because she thought she was the 'other woman'."

A bitter, tragic laugh escaped Lance’s lips. He shook his head, looking at the woman he had tied himself to for seven hollow years.

"Let me make something perfectly, painfully clear to you, Camille," Lance said, his eyes locking onto hers, delivering the final, shattering blow to her pride. "Evie was never the other woman. You were. From the day I met her nine years ago, she was the absolute center of my universe. She was my priority, my heart, and my actual wife in every way that mattered. You were just a signature on a contract. You were the interloper in our relationship."

Camille physically recoiled, her hand flying to her throat. The sheer brutality of the truth—the obliteration of her status and her ego—rendered her completely speechless.

"The settlement is generous," Lance continued, his voice devoid of any pity. "You will maintain your lifestyle, subject to the conditions outlined in the trust. But you will no longer carry my name, and you will no longer pretend you ever meant anything to me. Sign the papers, Camille."

He turned and walked out of the solarium, leaving the petition resting on the glass table, a tombstone for a marriage that had never really been alive.

The Empty Throne

Later that night, Lance returned to the penthouse.

He hadn't sold it. He couldn't bring himself to. It remained exactly as Evie had left it—immaculate, silent, and suffocatingly empty. He poured a measure of scotch and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the glittering grid of the city.

The first directive was complete. The Rothwood Legacy was a burned-out husk, stripped of its teeth and locked away in legal vaults. His mother was contained. His wife was dismissed. He had destroyed the world that had hurt her, just as he promised himself he would.

He was a king standing in the ruins of his own castle, possessing all the power in the world, and absolutely nothing that he actually wanted.

Lance pressed his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes as the agonizing ache in his chest flared to life once more. He had cleared the board. He had made it safe.

"I burned it down, Evie," he whispered into the empty room, the silence swallowing his words whole. "I did it. Now, please... let me find you."

Chapter Eleven: The Echoes of the Riviera

Three hundred and sixty-five days.

That was how long the ghost of Evangeline Foster had haunted the glass-and-steel corridors of Rothwood Industries. Over the course of a single, agonizing year, Lance Rothwood had not simply changed; he had transmuted. The charming, untouchable billionaire who once commanded rooms with a quiet, lethal arrogance had been entirely consumed by the ice that now ran in his veins. He was colder. He was bolder. He was a man stripped of his final tether to humanity, operating with a ruthless, scorched-earth precision that left his rivals decimated and his own board of directors trembling in his wake.

Sitting at the head of the black marble conference table, Lance stared down the twelve most powerful executives in his empire. The silence in the room was absolute, suffocating and fraught with terror.

"The trusts are finalized," Lance said, his voice a low, gravelly monotone that offered zero room for debate. "The Rothwood legacy is now entirely insulated. I possess absolute, independent control of my personal capital, and the board's access to the institution funds is permanently restricted pending my direct, personal authorization."

An older board member swallowed audibly, a bead of sweat tracing the line of his collar. They had spent the better part of a decade catering to Lance’s mother, indulging his wife, and quietly, systematically dismissing the quiet analyst on the fiftieth floor. They had deemed Evangeline Foster a liability, a shabby secret, a stain on the crest.

Now, looking at the hollow, terrifying predator sitting at the head of the table, the board realized their fatal miscalculation. Evangeline had never been a liability. She had been the only thing keeping the monster at bay. She was the true power, the anchor to Lance’s humanity, and by driving her away, they had sealed their own doom. Lance needed nothing from them anymore. He was a king entirely untethered from his kingdom.

Lance stood, buttoning his bespoke suit jacket, dismissing the most powerful men in the city without another word.

He retreated to the absolute silence of his top-floor suite. Pouring a glass of Macallan that tasted like ash on his tongue, he stared out at the sprawling, indifferent city. He had spent the last year executing the most brilliant corporate and personal restructuring in modern history, ensuring that his world could never, ever hurt Evie again.

But without her to share it, the victory was hollow. He was slowly, quietly losing his mind.

He didn't know how to exist in a world where she didn't. Every private investigator, every cyber-bounty, every ex-intelligence operative he had hired had returned empty-handed. They were chasing a phantom. Van Foster’s digital labyrinth was an impenetrable fortress. As the months bled into one another, Lance’s blinding rage at Evie’s brother had morphed into a profound, heavy, grudging respect.

Van was a genius. But more importantly, Van was a protector. At least she has him, Lance thought, his chest aching with a familiar, crushing weight. At least she has someone to stand between her and the world, because God knows I was a worthless, pathetic excuse for a partner when it mattered most.

He just wanted to see her. Just once. Even if she looked at him with hatred, even if she told him she would never forgive him—just knowing she was breathing, smiling, existing somewhere under the same sky would be enough to keep his heart beating.

The heavy oak doors to his office swung open, shattering the heavy silence.

"You look like a corpse, Lance. An impeccably dressed corpse, but a corpse nonetheless."

Lance didn't turn around immediately. He recognized the smooth, cultured drawl. Richard Gavel, his oldest and most fiercely loyal friend, strolled into the office, bringing with him the scent of expensive European leather and sea salt. Richard had spent the last year touring the continent, expanding his own formidable business empire, and he looked sun-tanned and vibrant—a jarring contrast to Lance’s grim pallor.