Page 31 of Thirty-Two Calls

He pulled back, forcing her to look into his eyes. His expression was no longer that of the CEO or the "Regretful Hero." He was just Lance.

"Then we don't go back," he said, his voice ringing with a sudden, absolute clarity.

Evie blinked through her tears. "What?"

"If you don't want the arena, we burn the tickets," Lance said, his touch turning infinitely tender. He tucked a damp lock of hair behind her ear, his eyes filled with a soft, glowing devotion. "If living here, in this village, with your books and your peace, is what you want, then that is our life. Forever. I don't need a cathedral in Manhattan. I don't need a gala at the Met. I just need you."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "I am absolutely committed to you, Evie. Not to the foundation, not to the image. If you never want to see a camera again, I will buy the privacy of this entire coastline. Whatever you need to feel safe… that is my only job now."

Evie looked at him, her chest heaving with the remnants of her sobs. She saw the truth in his eyes. He wasn't offering her a crown anymore; he was offering her a sanctuary.

"You'd stay here?" she whispered. "In this tiny village? Just being… us?"

"I'd stay in a cave if you were in it," Lance promised, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through his heartbreak. "I’ve had the world, Evie. It’s nothing compared to you."

Evie let out a long, shaky breath, the terror finally beginning to ebb away, replaced by a warmth so deep it made her dizzy. She reached up, pulling his head down to hers, her lips meeting his in a kiss that tasted of salt, tears, and the beginning of a life that finally belonged only to them.

Lance held her as the Mediterranean waves crashed below, a silent, powerful guardian of the peace they had both fought so hard to find.

Chapter Twenty-Three: The Crown and the Canvas

The ancient stone chapel at the heart of the village smelled of melting beeswax, old pine, and the heavy, sweet scent of wild jasmine that drifted in through the open arched windows. It was an impossibly small, profoundly quiet space, a universe away from the soaring, stained-glass cathedrals of Manhattan where Rothwood weddings were traditionally staged as corporate spectacles.

There were no flashing cameras. There were no board members. There were no society matrons whispering behind silk fans.

There was only Evangeline.

She stood at the altar bathed in the soft, bruised gold of the late afternoon sun, wearing a simple, breathtaking gown of flowing ivory silk. Her dark hair was loosely pinned back, adorned not with a Niederdorf tiara, but with a delicate crown of woven olive branches. To Lance, she had never looked more like a queen.

He held her hands in his, his thumbs trembling slightly as they brushed over her knuckles. Flanking them were their only two witnesses: Van, looking remarkably solemn in a dark suit that barely contained his massive frame, and Richard Gavel, who watched the proceedings with a warm, knowing smile.

As the local magistrate spoke the vows in soft, melodic French, Lance felt a profound, tectonic shift in his very soul.

He slid the plain, understated gold band onto her finger. The metal felt impossibly heavy with the weight of a decade's worth of regret, but as it settled into place, the darkness finally, permanently lifted. She was Evangeline Rothwood. In his heart, that name had belonged to her since the day she walked into his life as a brilliant, fresh-faced twenty-year-old. She was the only woman who had ever truly deserved to wear it.

The magistrate pronounced them husband and wife. Lance didn't simply kiss her; he took her face in his hands and breathed her in as if she were the only oxygen left on a dying planet. A single tear escaped his dark eyes, sliding down his cheek. He controlled billions of dollars, fleets of aircraft, and global markets, but as Evie smiled up at him, her hazel eyes shining with absolute, unshadowed love, Lance Rothwood knew he had just become the richest man in the universe.

The Village Celebration

They did not have a reception; they had a festival.

The village square had already been strung with warm, glowing paper lanterns for the annual autumn harvest. When the newlyweds stepped out of the chapel, the locals—who had come to adore the quiet, beautiful American woman and her fiercely devoted partner—erupted into cheers. Accordion music filled the balmy night air, mingling with the scent of roasted garlic, fresh bread, and spilling red wine.

Lance pulled Evie into the center of the cobblestone square. They danced under the canopy of stars, completely insulated by the joyous, anonymous crowd. Evie rested her head against his chest, her hand clutching the lapel of his suit. She looked up, catching his gaze, and her breath hitched.

The look in Lance's eyes was not merely love; it was an absolute, terrifyingly beautiful devotion. He looked at her as if she had personally hung the stars in the sky. All the fear, all the hesitation she had harbored over the last few months dissolved in the heat of that gaze. She was profoundly touched, the last fragmented pieces of her broken past finally fusing together.

The Brother's Wisdom

The following morning, the villa was steeped in a lazy, sun-drenched quiet.

Evie stood on the edge of the terracotta terrace, a mug of herbal tea in her hands, looking out at the glittering Mediterranean. The gold band on her left hand caught the light, a warm, constant comfort.

The sliding glass door opened, and Van stepped out, leaning his heavy forearms against the stone balustrade beside her. He looked at his sister, noting the absolute, radiant peace that seemed to radiate from her skin.

"Evangeline Rothwood," Van mused, his deep voice a gentle rumble. "It has a ring to it. Though I'll admit, I'm going to miss threatening him."

Evie laughed softly, bumping her shoulder against his arm. "Thank you, Van. For being here. For everything."