Page 16 of Thirty-Two Calls

Evangeline.

A violent, paralyzing war erupted inside Lance's chest. Every instinct he possessed, honed by years of ruthless corporate dominance, screamed at him to act. He wanted to cross the square in three long strides, drop to his knees on the rough, sun-baked stones, and beg for her forgiveness until his voice gave out. He wanted to grab her, to bury his face in her hair, to pull her against him so tightly that the last three hundred and sixty-five days of agonizing emptiness would be crushed out of existence. Mostly, he just wanted to reach out, take her hand, and simply stand beside her again.

But for the first time in his thirty-nine years, Lance Rothwood was completely, utterly terrified.

His polished leather shoes felt as though they had been set in concrete. If he stepped forward, what could he possibly say? The speeches he had rehearsed a thousand times in the empty penthouse dissolved into ash on his tongue.

I burned down the empire for you, Evie. Please come back. It sounded like a transaction, the very thing that had driven her away.

I am a worthless, hollow man without you. Please come back. It sounded pathetic, placing the burden of his salvation squarely on her shoulders.

Tell me what you want, name your price, and I will do it. But she hadn't wanted a price. She had only ever wanted him.

A thousand desperate apologies and fragmented pleas swirled in his mind, forming a chaotic storm of grief and longing. He couldn't stop staring at the golden light catching the silk ribbon in her hair, and yet, the master of the Rothwood foundation could not force himself to take a single step forward. The terror of her looking at him with cold indifference—or worse, fear—kept him anchored in the shadows of the fountain.

Evie smiled at the vendor, took her bundle of lavender, and turned. Lance held his breath, but her gaze swept harmlessly past his shadowed alcove. She began to walk away, her steps light and unburdened, moving toward the steep, winding alleys that led away from the sea.

Lance took a ragged, deep breath, willing his violently racing heart to slow. Don't lose her again. Just breathe. As she disappeared around a corner of pastel stucco, the paralysis finally broke. Lance stepped out of the shadows, keeping a careful, agonizing distance, and followed the only compass his world possessed.

The House of Rebirth

He trailed her through a labyrinth of narrow, sloping streets, staying out of sight behind weathered stone walls and cascading vines of bright purple bougainvillea. Finally, the cobblestones gave way to a quiet, sun-dappled lane at the very edge of the village, bordered by wild olive trees.

At the end of the lane sat a small, picturesque stone cottage with faded blue shutters and a terracotta roof.

Lance watched from the concealment of a low limestone wall as Evie pushed open the wooden gate. Just as she stepped onto the patio, the heavy oak front door opened. Evander Foster stepped out, tossing a set of keys into the air and catching them effortlessly. He was dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans, his massive frame looking entirely out of place in the delicate French countryside. Van smiled, said something to Evie that made her laugh again, and then squeezed her shoulder gently before heading down a side path in the opposite direction.

Evie went inside, the door clicking shut behind her.

Lance sagged against the limestone wall, his legs suddenly weak. He stared at the faded blue shutters, a profound, crushing wave of relief washing over him.

She is here. She is alive. She is safe.

The absolute, devastating finality of the last year finally began to recede. He didn't need to storm the cottage right now. He didn't need to drag her back to New York. If it took the rest of his natural life, he would stay in this village. He would learn the cobblestone streets, he would earn every single inch of ground he had lost, and he would win her back on her terms. Whatever she wanted, whatever she needed him to be, he would become it. He swore it to the quiet Mediterranean wind.

Bracing himself with a newfound, iron-clad resolve, Lance turned to leave his hiding spot.

And stopped dead.

Standing less than ten feet away, arms crossed over his massive chest, was Evander Foster.

The Architect and the Emperor

Van’s dark eyes were narrowed, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line. He had spotted the man shadowing his sister three streets back, and the protective fury had instantly ignited. But as Van stood in the shade of the olive trees, blocking Lance's only exit, the anger slowly began to curdle into something entirely unexpected.

Pity.

Van looked at the billionaire who had caused his sister a decade of immense, suffocating pain. He expected to see the arrogant, polished tycoon who owned boardrooms and bought politicians. Instead, he saw a man who looked completely shattered.

Lance was paler than he should be, his eyes sunken and hollowed out by a profound, starving desperation. He didn't look like a CEO; he looked like a man who had wandered the desert for a year and had finally stumbled upon an oasis he wasn't allowed to drink from.

So, he does love her, Van realized, a quiet sigh escaping his nose. He really does. He was just a colossal, arrogant idiot for nine years.

Van knew the truth about his sister, too. Evie had spent the last twelve months gracefully and painstakingly rebuilding herself from the ashes of her former life. She had found peace in the quiet rhythms of the village, but Van knew her heart. She still loved Lance. The love hadn't died; it was just buried under a mountain of self-preservation. Yet, looking at the vibrant, smiling woman Evie was today, Van wasn't entirely sure she would ever risk giving Lance Rothwood another chance to destroy her.

But seeing Lance now—starving, broken, and making no move to aggressively corner her—Van felt a strange tug of sympathy.

"You look like hell, Rothwood," Van said, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence.