Page 22 of Thirty-Two Calls

Lance hit the ground running, tearing through the Rothwood Industries executive floor like a category-five hurricane. He was a man possessed. Meetings that usually dragged on for hours were mercilessly truncated into ten-minute dictates. Federal judges were ushered into boardrooms with unprecedented speed. The legal untangling of the Rothwood foundation, a process that should have taken a week of careful negotiation, was brutally finalized in forty-eight hours.

He didn't sleep. He barely ate. He just kept his eyes on the digital clock on his desk, counting down the hours until he could get back to the airport.

"If you type any faster, the keyboard is going to catch fire."

Lance didn't look up from his monitor as Richard Gavel strolled into the corner office, uninvited and entirely unwelcome. "I don't have time for a social call, Richard. I have a flight back to Nice at eighteen-hundred hours."

Richard chuckled, walking over to pour himself a coffee. He leaned against the mahogany wet bar, studying his oldest friend. Despite the dark circles under Lance's eyes and the frantic, almost unhinged pace of his work, Richard had never seen him look so incredibly vital.

"I have to admit," Richard said, a warm, genuine smile touching his face. "When I suggested the villa, I thought you might find a hobby. Maybe take up sailing. I didn't think you'd actually find her."

Lance finally stopped typing. He looked up, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction at the mention of Evie. "Van Foster's digital perimeter had a physical blind spot. He was protecting her from the grid, not from a village square."

"Well, whatever the logistics, I am happy for you, Lance. Truly," Richard said, raising his coffee mug in a silent toast. "You finally stopped waiting for the stars to align and just pulled them down yourself. Don't let her go again."

"I would cut off my own arm first," Lance replied, the absolute sincerity in his voice leaving no room for doubt.

The intercom on his desk buzzed, cutting the rare moment of camaraderie short.

"Mr. Rothwood," Connor's voice sounded tight. "Audrey Rothwood is here. She insists she has an appointment."

Lance’s jaw clenched instantly. The warmth vanished, replaced by the freezing, impenetrable armor of the CEO. "Send her in."

The Matriarch's Plea

Audrey Rothwood stepped into the executive suite with the practiced, regal grace she had honed over four decades. She wore a tailored Chanel suit, her silver hair immaculate, but the haughty, untouchable aura that used to precede her was noticeably brittle. The blind trusts had done their work. She was a queen without a treasury, reigning over an empty estate.

She did not sit. She stood before her son's desk, clutching her expensive leather handbag like a shield.

"Lance," Audrey began, forcing a polite, measured tone. "It is nearly impossible to get you on the phone these days. I had to threaten your assistant just to get a spot on your calendar."

"My calendar is dedicated to finalizing the dissolution of the holding accounts you used to leverage, Mother," Lance said coldly, leaning back in his chair. "Make it quick. My jet is waiting."

Audrey bristled at the dismissal but swallowed her pride. She needed to mend this bridge, or at least establish a foothold in the new, terrifyingly independent world her son had created. "I understand you are spending an inordinate amount of time in Europe. I also understand... she is with you."

Lance’s eyes darkened dangerously. "Evangeline’s name is not to be spoken by you. Ever. Is that clear?"

Audrey flinched, the sharp reprimand cracking her composed facade. "Lance, be reasonable. I am your mother. We cannot remain at war forever. I am willing to... make concessions. If Miss Foster is to be a permanent fixture in your life, I am prepared to formally welcome her to the estate. We can put the past behind us. For the sake of the family."

It was a staggering concession from a woman who had spent a decade treating Evie like a disease. But Lance saw right through the polished veneer. It wasn't an apology; it was a desperate bid for relevance.

Lance stood up slowly, towering over the mahogany desk.

"There is no family, Mother," Lance stated, his voice a quiet, devastating absolute. "Not in the way you understand it. You aren't offering an olive branch; you're looking for a way back into the vault. And you think Evangeline is your key."

"I am trying to rebuild a relationship with my son!" Audrey snapped, her desperation bleeding through.

"My relationship with you ended the day I watched a security tape of you stripping the woman I love of her dignity in a coffee shop," Lance replied, his tone entirely devoid of anger, which made it all the more terrifying. It was pure, clinical detachment. "You are insulated, Mother. You have your allowance, your staff, and your social circles. But you do not have me. And you will absolutely never have access to her."

He walked past her, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of a chair. "Do not come to this office again without a summons from my legal team."

Leaving the matriarch of the Rothwood institution standing entirely alone in the silent office, Lance walked out the heavy oak doors, his mind already three thousand miles away, racing toward a small stone cottage and the woman waiting on the terrace.

Chapter Seventeen: The Ink and the Ire

The transition from late summer to early autumn on the French Riviera was not marked by a sudden chill, but by a deepening of the light. The sun turned the color of spun honey, casting long, languid shadows across the stone floors of the villa.

For the past few months, Evangeline Foster had existed in a state of suspended grace. The sunroom, with its panoramic views of the Mediterranean, had become her absolute sanctuary. She sat curled in an oversized armchair, a sleek silver laptop resting on her knees, the rhythmic, rapid clicking of the keys the only sound in the quiet space.