Page 4 of Thirty-Two Calls

Van swore under his breath and reached to turn the television off, but Evie caught his wrist.

"Leave it," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

She stared at the screen; at the man she loved shielding the woman he married. It all made sense now—the ignored calls, the silent phone. He wasn't ignoring her out of malice; he was exactly where he belonged. He was inside the fortress, defending the heritage.

And she was exactly where she belonged: on the outside.

It was a cold, brutal epiphany. She would never breach those walls. Even if Lance eventually stepped away, the ghost of this exclusion would haunt them forever. She was destined to spend her life waiting at the back door for whatever crumbs of his time and affection he could spare to drop.

Van turned the television off anyway, tossing the remote onto the counter. He pulled out a chair and sat heavily across from her. He didn't offer empty platitudes or apologies. He just looked at her, his dark eyes fierce and fiercely protective.

"What do you want to do, Evie?" he asked quietly. It wasn't a question of how to get through the day; it was a question of how to get through the rest of her life.

Evie looked away from the blank screen and met her brother's gaze. The tears that had threatened to fall all morning suddenly vanished, replaced by a strange, sweeping calm.

"I want to leave," she said, the words tasting like foreign objects on her tongue, but ringing with absolute truth. "I want to go somewhere the Rothwood name means absolutely nothing. Somewhere his money can't touch me, and his security team can't find me." She took a shaky breath, her hands curling into fists in her lap. "I don't want to be the other woman anymore, Van. I don't want to be a shabby secret or a corporate punchline. I just want to be Evie. I want to be free."

Van’s posture straightened, a dangerous, competent energy radiating from him. The encryption specialist was already running algorithms in his head. "Say the word, bird. I can wipe our digital footprints by noon. We can pack my servers, ditch your phone, and be driving across state lines by tonight. He'll never find you."

The offer was deeply tempting. To just vanish into the ether and let Lance Rothwood wake up to a ghost. But Evie shook her head slowly.

"No," she said, her voice steadying. "Not tonight. If I disappear the day after his father-in-law's heart attack, his security team will tear the country apart looking for me, thinking it's corporate espionage or a kidnapping. He has too much power, Van. If we run now, we’ll always be looking over our shoulders."

"So, what's the play?" Van asked, leaning forward, his hands clasped on the table.

"Give me a few weeks," Evie said, her eyes darkening with a newfound resolve. "I need to tie up loose ends at the office. I need to close out my accounts, pack the things that actually belong to me, and leave that penthouse exactly the way I found it." She swallowed the lump in her throat. "And I have to be normal with him. When he finally calls, I have to play the part of the understanding, patient mistress one last time. I have to make him believe everything is fine so he looks the other way."

Van frowned, clearly hating the idea of her spending another second in Lance's orbit. "You think you can act that out? After everything?"

"I have to," Evie replied, standing up from the table. She pulled the oversized sleeves of the sweatshirt over her hands, feeling the last vestiges of her naive, hopeful self wither away. "He doesn't need to know my heart anymore, Van. He doesn't need to know anything about me at all."

Van watched her for a long moment, seeing the steel that had finally fused in his sister's spine. A slow, grim smile touched his lips. "A few weeks," he agreed, pulling his sleek black laptop from his bag and opening it on the breakfast table. Lines of code immediately reflected in his glasses. "I'll start building the backdoors into the Rothwood network to scrub your data. By the time you hand in your badge, Evangeline Foster won't exist."

Evie looked out the window one last time. The city was still there, but the cage was finally open.

Chapter Four: The Anatomy of an Outsider

Seventy-two hours. That was exactly how long it took for the silence to break.

When the encrypted message finally illuminated Evie’s new burner phone—procured by Van and hidden beneath a loose floorboard in her bedroom—it contained only a time and a place. 8:00 PM. Our place. I’m so sorry. Now, standing in the center of the sprawling, immaculate living room of the penthouse, Evie felt like an intruder in a museum. The "love nest," as Lance had once affectionately called it, was a masterpiece of modern design. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the glittering skyline, throwing sharp, geometric shadows across the plush, cream-colored rugs. The air smelled faintly of lemon polish and the expensive cedarwood candles Lance loved. For nine years, this space had been her sanctuary, the center of her universe. Tonight, it felt like a mausoleum.

At exactly eight o'clock, the private elevator chimed.

Lance stepped into the foyer, bringing the frantic, high-stakes energy of his world in with him. He looked exhausted. The bespoke navy suit he wore was impeccably tailored, but the knot of his silk tie was loosened, and a shadow of dark stubble lined his aristocratic jaw. The weight of the last three days—the press, the board meetings, the sudden vulnerability of the Deacon-Rothwood alliance—hung heavily on his broad shoulders.

He didn't say a word. He just crossed the vast expanse of the room, closed the distance between them, and pulled her into a desperate, crushing embrace.

"God, Evie," he breathed into her hair, his voice thick with a genuine, heavy exhaustion. "I am so sorry. I am so damn sorry."

He held her as if she were the only anchor in a violent storm, burying his face in the curve of her neck. He smelled of rain, expensive scotch, and the sterile, sharp scent of a hospital corridor. For a fleeting second, the muscle memory of the last decade kicked in. Evie’s hands automatically lifted, her palms resting gently against his back. She smoothed the expensive fabric of his jacket, playing the part she had perfected: the loving, kind, and endlessly patient harbor for the weary billionaire.

"It's okay, Lance," she murmured softly, her tone entirely devoid of the jagged edges that were currently tearing her apart on the inside. "I know. It's been a terrible few days for you."

Lance pulled back just enough to frame her face with his large, warm hands. His dark eyes searched hers, swimming with an apology she knew he truly meant. "It was chaos, Evie. Utter chaos. Theodore collapsed right in front of Camille. The press was everywhere within minutes. The board went into an absolute frenzy about the stock prices. I couldn't get away. I couldn't even breathe without a camera or a lawyer in my face."

He kissed her forehead, a tender, lingering touch. "I hated leaving you in the dark. I saw your calls. I hated it."

Evie smiled, a soft, understanding curve of her lips that didn't reach her eyes. She leaned into his touch, projecting absolute serenity. But the deeply ingrained, fragile human nature inside her—the part of her that had been bruised against a brick wall in an alleyway while her calls rang out into the void—couldn't completely suppress the question.