Page 6 of Thirty-Two Calls

Standing just inside the entrance was Audrey Rothwood.

Lance’s mother was a terrifying physical manifestation of old money and ruthless aristocratic power. She wore an immaculate, slate-grey cashmere coat that draped perfectly over her sharp, angular frame. Her silver hair was styled in a flawless chignon, and the subtle, icy gleam of a flawless diamond at her throat caught the dim cafe light. She did not look around; her piercing, obsidian eyes locked immediately onto Evie.

Van bristled instantly, his massive shoulders tensing as he began to slide out of the booth. Evie shot her hand out, gripping his wrist tightly under the table. Don't.

Audrey crossed the scuffed linoleum floor with the measured, unhurried grace of an executioner. She stopped beside their table, completely ignoring Van’s towering, threatening presence. The scent of her—expensive, bespoke jasmine and cold power—overpowered the smell of roasted coffee beans.

"Nine years, Ms. Foster," Audrey began, her voice low, cultivated, and lethal. She didn't shout; she didn't need to. The quiet contempt in her tone was louder than a scream. "I must admit, I am astounded by your stamina. Nine years is more than enough time for a woman of your... station... to have bled my son dry."

Evie’s jaw tightened. She kept her hands folded in her lap, refusing to physically cower. "I haven't bled Lance of anything, Mrs. Rothwood."

"Please," Audrey scoffed gently, a razor-thin smile touching her painted lips. "Do not insult my intelligence. The penthouse. The wardrobe. The phantom promotions at the company. You have grown incredibly comfortable living on the fringe of the Rothwood wealth, feeding off the benefits of the heir."

"I loved him," Evie said. The words slipped out, fragile and quiet. It wasn't a defense of her current self, but an elegy for the twenty-year-old girl who had believed in a fairy tale.

Audrey’s eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine, aristocratic disgust crossing her features. "Love?" she repeated, making the word sound like a disease. "And what, exactly, did that profound love get you, Evangeline? Tell me. Did it get you a wedding ring? Did it get you a legal standing in his life? Did it earn you a seat at the table when the family closes ranks?"

Evie flinched as the words struck the exact, raw bruises Lance had left on her soul weeks ago.

"What you and my son have is not a romance," Audrey continued, leaning in just a fraction, the diamond at her throat flashing like a warning light. "It is a lie. It is a shabby, pathetic little secret. You are a scandal waiting to detonate, a stain on an institution that was built centuries before you were born. If you possessed even a singular shred of self-respect, you would have vanished years ago. You are nothing to him but a habit he lacks the discipline to break."

Audrey straightened up, adjusting her cashmere coat with a dismissive flick of her wrist. She looked down at Evie as if examining something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

"Do try to find some dignity, Ms. Foster," Audrey whispered. "Before someone has to find it for you."

Without waiting for a response, the matriarch turned on her heel and glided out of the cafe, the cheerful chime of the bell marking her departure.

The silence that rushed back into the cafe was deafening.

Van was shaking. His hands were clenched into massive, white-knuckled fists on the tabletop, his face flushed with a violent, unrestrained fury. He looked ready to tear the door off its hinges and chase the woman down the street.

"I'm going to kill him," Van growled, his voice a low, terrifying rumble. "I'm going to tear Lance Rothwood apart with my bare hands for letting them treat you like this."

"Van, stop," Evie said. Her voice was steady, completely devoid of tears.

Van stared at her, horrified by her calm. "Evie, did you hear what that venomous—"

"I heard her," Evie interrupted gently, finally lifting her eyes to meet her brother's. There was no pain in her gaze, only a profound, crystalline clarity. "And she was right."

Van blinked, the anger faltering into confusion. "What?"

"There wasn't a single untrue word in what she just said," Evie said softly, looking toward the door where Audrey had vanished. "It was a lie. It was a shabby secret. I stayed because I didn't have the self-respect to leave when I should have." She turned back to Van, a small, genuine, and incredibly tired smile touching her lips. "She came here to break me, Van. But you can't break something that’s already gone."

She reached across the table and placed her hand over his massive, clenched fist, her touch grounding him.

"We leave in forty-eight hours," Evie said, the words a quiet promise of salvation. "Let Audrey keep her inheritance. Let Lance keep his lies. Why bother with any of it anymore? We're already free."

Chapter Six: The Weight of Wings

The moonlight bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse, casting long, silvered shadows across the tangled silk sheets. It was Thursday night. The last night.

Evangeline lay perfectly still, the steady, rhythmic warmth of Lance’s breath fanning across her bare shoulder. He was deeply asleep, his arm draped heavily over her waist, anchoring her to him in the dark. Stripped of his bespoke suits and the crushing weight of the Rothwood empire, he looked devastatingly peaceful. The harsh, ruthless lines of his boardroom persona were smoothed away, leaving only the man she had given the absolute best years of her life to.

An overwhelming rush of affection swelled in her chest, so potent and pure it physically ached. She loved him. She loved him with a desperate, longing purity that had survived nine years of shadows and whispers. As she traced the faint, familiar line of his jaw without making contact, she allowed herself to acknowledge the profound truth of it. Her love had never been a lie. It had never been about the penthouse, the black cards, or the proximity to power. It had only ever been about him.

But love, she finally understood, was not enough to sustain a soul.

A single tear slipped down her temple, soaking silently into the pillowcase. She wouldn't try to kill the love she held for him; such an effort would only destroy her. Instead, she would take it, fold it meticulously into the deepest vault of her heart, and seal it away forever. She would carry the memory of him, but she would not allow him to own another second of her future, another fraction of her dignity, or another beat of her heart.