Page 25 of Thirty-Two Calls

"You stayed because you loved the Rothwood name," Lance stated, stripping her bare. "You loved the galas, the power, and the lifestyle. You stayed for the crown. And you were never silent. You went out of your way to target Evie. You whispered about her in the coat checks. You made sure the other wives iced her out. You actively, maliciously participated in her torment because it made you feel superior to a woman you knew held the only thing you could never buy: my actual heart."

Camille's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The pristine, self-righteous armor she had worn for years was entirely shattered, leaving her completely exposed.

"There is no need for this pretend regret," Lance whispered, turning his back on her and walking toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. "Your friends will burn, Camille. And if you ever speak Evangeline’s name again, you will be next. Get out of my building."

The Hollow Gold

Three thousand miles away, the Mediterranean sun was casting a warm, golden haze over the stone terrace of the French villa.

The air smelled of lavender and sea salt, a world away from the toxic, electrified atmosphere of New York. Evangeline sat at a wrought-iron patio table, a half-finished manuscript glowing on her laptop screen, a cup of Earl Grey tea cooling beside it.

The sliding glass door opened, and Van stepped out onto the terrace, carrying two bottles of sparkling water. He set one down next to her laptop and took a seat opposite her, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate patio chair.

"I just checked the digital feeds," Van noted, twisting the cap off his bottle. "The New York financial sector is a bloodbath today. Looks like the Emperor found his targets."

Evie looked up from her screen, a small, soft sigh escaping her lips. "I wish he hadn't gone. I wish he had just let it burn out. Engaging with them only gives them validation."

Van studied his sister. The sunlight caught the golden undertones of her skin, highlighting a face that was entirely free of the haunted, exhausted shadows that had defined her twenties. She meant it. She wasn't holding back a secret reservoir of anger; she was genuinely, profoundly at peace.

"He went because he loves you, Evie," Van said quietly. "He went because he's terrified that if he doesn't sterilize the world for you, you'll pack your bags and disappear again."

Evie smiled, a sad, tender expression. She wrapped her hands around her warm teacup. "I know he loves me, Van. I love him, too. More than I ever thought possible. But... I don't have any expectations from him anymore. Not for the future, not for anything. I'm just... happy. I'm content with exactly what this is right now."

Van frowned slightly, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Content? Evie, the man is currently setting fire to half of Manhattan to avenge your honor. He's going to come back here, probably drop to one knee, and offer you the entire world on a silver platter. What happens when he proposes?"

Evie went perfectly still. The coastal breeze rustled the pages of a notebook on the table. She looked out at the vast, glittering expanse of the sea, her hazel eyes completely unreadable.

"I don't know," she admitted, her voice barely a whisper. "I honestly don't know if I would say yes."

Van sat back, genuinely surprised. "Are you kidding? Evie, you waited nine years for that. That was the holy grail. The wedding ring, the legality, the legitimacy... it's all you ever wanted."

"It was," Evie agreed, her tone laced with a profound, melancholic clarity. "I craved it. I would have traded my soul for it at twenty-two. I thought that if he just put a ring on my finger, it would magically validate my existence. I thought it would wipe away the shame."

She turned her gaze away from the sea and looked directly at her brother. The wisdom of her hard-won healing was etched into her features.

"But Van, look at what it actually means now," she said softly. "After a decade of being the punchline, what does becoming Evangeline Rothwood actually change? Those women at the country club, the board members, the gossips... they won't suddenly respect me. They'll just pretend to be silent because they are terrified of Lance's retribution. They'll smile to my face and bow their heads solely because of the power of his name, not because of my worth."

Van was silent, the profound truth of her words hanging heavy in the warm air.

"It would just be another form of depending on him," Evie continued, tracing the rim of her teacup. "A wedding ring wouldn't be a symbol of our partnership to them; it would be a shield he bought for me. And I don't want to live behind a shield anymore. It just feels... hollow."

Van let out a low, long breath, running a hand over his jaw. He was deeply impressed. The naive, desperate girl who used to cry in his apartment was completely gone, replaced by a woman of breathtaking self-awareness and quiet strength.

But as impressed as he was, Van also felt a sudden, sharp pang of pity for the billionaire currently raging across the Atlantic.

"He has no idea, does he?" Van murmured. "He thinks if he just slays enough dragons, you'll finally take the crown."

"I don't want a crown," Evie smiled, returning her attention to her laptop screen, the soft clicking of the keys resuming their rhythmic cadence. "I just want my peace. I love this life, Van. I love this village, and my writing, and I love having Lance here in the sun with me. But I'm just not sure I want anything more than that."

Van watched her type, a quiet, knowing smirk touching his lips. Lance Rothwood was fighting a world war to win a prize that no longer valued the currency he was offering. It was going to be an impossibly steep, uphill battle—and for the first time in the CEO's life, absolute victory was not guaranteed.

Chapter Nineteen: The Currency of Time

The heavy iron gates of the French villa groaned softly as they swung open, allowing the sleek black town car to crunch over the pale gravel driveway.

Lance Rothwood stepped out into the balmy, lavender-scented air of the Mediterranean afternoon. He looked every inch the conquering emperor returning from a brutal, victorious campaign. His bespoke charcoal suit was impeccably pressed, his jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line. In seventy-two hours, he had crossed an ocean, systematically dismantled the social and financial standing of half of Manhattan’s elite, faced down his ex-wife, and sterilized the world to ensure Evangeline Foster’s name would never be weaponized again.

He had brought the heads of his enemies back on a silver platter. He expected relief. He expected, perhaps, a profound gratitude, or at least a tearful acknowledgment that the nightmare was finally, permanently over.