Page 21 of Thirty-Two Calls

Settling into a plush armchair in the sunroom, Evie looked out over the glittering expanse of the Mediterranean Sea. She pulled her knees to her chest, marveling at the sheer magnitude of the changes around her.

It was intoxicating. For nine years, she had been a ghost in his machine, a secret kept in the dark so the empire could shine. Now, the entire empire had been dragged across the Atlantic and forced to bend the knee to her comfort. Lance was a man completely changed, wearing his devotion to her like a badge of honor, daring anyone in his blast radius to disrespect her.

She was deeply, profoundly impressed. The broken, bruised parts of her heart were stitching themselves back together, bathed in the warmth of his absolute prioritization.

But as she watched a yacht slice through the distant blue waters, a small, stubborn knot of self-preservation pulled tight in her chest.

This was a villa in France. It was a beautiful, isolated bubble suspended outside of reality. Here, surrounded by the sea and a hand-picked staff who were loyal to a fault, it was easy to be brave. It was easy to let him love her.

But out there, across the ocean, the real world was still waiting. New York was still there, with its glass towers and its memories of her humiliation. Lance had changed, yes. He had burned the foundation. But the thought of moving back into that world, of testing this fragile, beautiful new dynamic against the crushing pressure of the city... it was still a bridge too far.

She wasn't ready to test the armor he had built around her. Not yet.

But as she heard Lance’s low, commanding voice echo faintly from the library, seamlessly followed by the sound of his footsteps heading toward the sunroom the exact second his calls were finished, Evie smiled.

She might not be ready for the world, but for the first time in a decade, she was finally ready for him.

Chapter Sixteen: The Pull of the Tide

For the next several weeks, the sun-drenched Mediterranean villa existed in a state of beautiful, suspended animation.

Lance Rothwood operated his global empire from the mahogany-paneled library, a ruthless tactician dominating the financial markets with a Bluetooth earpiece and a terrifying intellect. Yet, to the staff and executives who shared the space, the true spectacle was not the billion-dollar acquisitions being brokered—it was the CEO himself.

Lance was at peace. It was a profound, grounding serenity that only existed as long as Evangeline Foster was within his direct line of sight. He could be orchestrating a hostile takeover of a European tech conglomerate, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register, but if Evie wandered into the room with a book and curled up in the window seat, the hard, unforgiving lines of his face instantly melted. He just needed to see her. To reach out and touch her arm as she passed his chair. To know she was physically tethered to his reality. That alone was enough to fuel him.

Yet, beneath the idyllic surface of their days, a quiet agony still gnawed at Lance’s conscience.

It was in the subtle shifting of her hazel eyes. When he made grand, sweeping promises about their future, or when he swore he would never let the shadows of New York touch her again, Evie would smile warmly, but the light wouldn't quite reach the depths of her gaze. There was a lingering, fragile membrane of distrust. She expected the floor to drop out from beneath her, because for nine years, he had been the one pulling the lever.

It broke his heart every single time he saw it.

He lay awake at night, listening to her steady breathing, agonizing over what he could possibly do to make her feel completely safe. He would drain his accounts, buy sovereign islands, or strip the Rothwood name from every building in America. He would promise her the absolute universe. But Evie, true to the remarkable woman she had always been, never asked for a single thing.

In the ten years he had known her, she had only ever wanted him. She didn't want the penthouses, the black cards, or the wealth. She just wanted the man holding her hand. Staring at the ceiling of the French villa, Lance was routinely crushed by the staggering weight of his own remorse. How could he have been so catastrophically stupid? How could he have treated a flawless diamond with such careless, selfish cruelty, hiding her away as if she were made of glass when she had always been the strongest thing in his life?

The idyllic sanctuary, however, could not hold the world at bay forever.

On a bright Tuesday morning, Connor Radcliff stepped into the library, his tablet pressed to his chest, looking distinctly apologetic. A critical injunction had been filed regarding the dissolution of the primary Rothwood holding company. It required Lance's physical signature, in the presence of a federal judge, on American soil.

Duty called. And Lance vehemently, categorically refused to answer it.

"Have the legal team digitally notarize it. Bribe the clerk. I don't care, Connor, I am not crossing the Atlantic," Lance growled, pacing the length of the sunroom later that afternoon.

Evie sat on the plush sofa, watching his frantic pacing with deep, genuine amusement. "Lance, it's just a signature. You'll be gone for three days."

"Three days is seventy-two hours," Lance shot back, stopping to kneel in front of her, his large hands gripping her knees. The panic in his dark eyes was raw and entirely unmasked. He was terrified. He was viscerally, irrationally convinced that if he stepped onto a plane without her, he would return to an empty cottage and a scrubbed digital footprint. "Come with me. Please, Evie. Just to the city and back."

Evie gently reached out, smoothing the deep crease between his brows. "I am not ready for New York, Lance. And I am not going to disappear. I promised you."

"People break promises," he whispered, the vulnerability stripping away the last of his pride. I broke my promises to you for a decade.

"I don't," Evie replied softly, her voice an anchor in his spiraling anxiety. She leaned forward, pressing a warm, reassuring kiss to his mouth. "Go. Finish dismantling the empire. I will be right here on this terrace when you get back. I swear it."

It took another hour of coaxing, two solemn vows, and Lance personally securing a perimeter of private security around the village before he reluctantly boarded the private jet. He looked like a man walking to the gallows.

The Concrete Jungle

The transition from the balmy, lavender-scented air of the Riviera to the stark, steel-and-glass canyons of New York City was jarring.