Page 8 of Thirty-Two Calls

That weekend, the sprawling stone manor was a hive of terrifyingly polite, high-stakes activity. Lance’s mother, Audrey, and his wife, Camille, had transformed the grand ballroom and the adjoining winter gardens into a war room. They were orchestrating the annual Rothwood Winter Festival Gala—a legendary, opulent affair that funded half the hospitals, charities, and social organizations on the Eastern Seaboard. Swarms of event planners holding iPads, florists hauling exotic winter blooms, and caterers presenting caviar samples buzzed through the vaulted hallways.

Lance wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

He was barricaded in his mahogany-paneled study in the west wing, a fire roaring in the massive stone hearth, doing his best to ignore the muffled sounds of string quartets auditioning in the drawing room. He wasn't avoiding the gala out of mere irritation; he was fighting a multi-billion-dollar war.

A critical corporate merger was hemorrhaging. Across the heavy antique desk sat his two top executive assistants, Connor Radcliff and Matthew Jordan, both looking entirely drained, their ties discarded and sleeves rolled up. Spreadsheets, legal briefs, and empty espresso cups littered the expensive leather surface.

"If they pull the subsidiary clause, the whole deal caves, sir," Matthew said, rubbing his eyes behind his wire-rimmed glasses.

"They won't pull it," Lance replied, his voice a low, commanding gravel. "Connor, draft a counter-addendum using the leverage we secured in the Berlin accounts. Box them in."

Usually, during weekends like this, Lance would retreat to the window seat with his encrypted phone, texting Evie. She was his pressure valve. A few words from her could untangle the knots in his chest. But this weekend, the crisis demanded every ounce of his lethal intellect.

And yet, beneath the exhaustion and the corporate warfare, a quiet, triumphant fire burned in Lance’s chest.

He was doing it. The master plan he had promised Evie—the one she thought was just a string of empty words—was actually in motion. For the last two years, Lance had been systematically, ruthlessly separating himself from the suffocating grip of the Rothwood Legacy. He had started doing it solely for her, desperate to be the man she deserved, a man unbound by ancient family bloodlines. But somewhere along the way, as his independent initiatives took root and his personal proposals gained massive market ground, he realized a thrilling truth: he was becoming too powerful to be caged.

Soon, the Rothwood legacy wouldn't be a chain around his neck; it would be a choice. He would be independently unassailable. If Evie still wanted him to walk away and burn it all down, he would do it without a second thought. But if she wanted to stand beside him, an equal partner wielding the Rothwood power, he could give her that, too. He was building an empire just for her. He just needed a little more time.

Monday and Tuesday offered no reprieve. The crisis had followed them from the upstate estate directly to the glass-and-steel stratosphere of the executive floor at Rothwood Industries.

Lance operated on pure adrenaline and black coffee. Back-to-back board meetings, tense conference calls with international regulators, and vicious negotiations consumed every waking second. The floor was a blur of frantic energy. He didn't even have time to look at his personal phone.

It wasn't until Wednesday morning, as the final signatures were inked and the merger was dragged back from the brink of death, that the adrenaline finally evaporated, leaving behind a sudden, chilling void.

Lance sat alone in his corner office, the winter sun glaring off the floor-to-ceiling windows. He let out a long breath, rolling his stiff shoulders, and finally reached into his suit pocket for his encrypted burner phone. He smiled, anticipating the backlog of gentle, supportive messages from Evie.

He unlocked the screen.

Zero new messages.

Lance frowned, his thumb hovering over the glass. That couldn't be right. He tapped into their chat history. The last message was his own, sent the previous Thursday night: I love you. Not a single text from her since Friday. No calls. Nothing.

A cold, irrational spike of unease pierced his chest. He checked his secure email. Empty. He picked up his desk phone and buzzed his assistant.

"Connor," Lance said, his voice tight. "Did any private messages come through the secondary switchboard for me since the weekend?"

"No, Mr. Rothwood," Connor’s crisp voice replied instantly. "Just the usual board communications."

Lance hung up. He stood, pacing the length of his office. The unease was metastasizing into a frantic, clawing anxiety. Evie never went dark. Never. Even when they fought, even when she was hurt, she always left a digital pulse. Was she sick? Had the stress of the last few weeks finally broken her immune system? Was she in the hospital?

By Wednesday afternoon, the anxiety had evolved into blind, deafening panic.

Lance threw open the heavy glass doors of his office and bypassed the private executive elevator entirely. He strode toward the main lifts, ignoring the startled looks of the senior vice presidents.

He rode the elevator down to the fiftieth floor—the Analyst division.

It was a cardinal rule between them: Never come to my floor. Evie had begged him years ago to keep his distance at the office to mitigate the suffocating gossip. He had honored that boundary flawlessly. Until today.

When the elevator doors parted, the bustling, open-plan floor of the acquisitions department practically froze. The sight of the billionaire CEO—a man who lived entirely in the clouds—stepping onto the analyst floor was like a shark gliding into a shallow reef. Keyboards stopped clacking. Conversations died in people's throats.

Lance didn't care. His dark, predatory eyes scanned the sea of cubicles and glass partitions, zeroing in on the corner desk by the east window. Her desk.

He bypassed three stunned managers, his long strides eating up the distance. He rounded the corner of her partition and stopped dead.

The desk was empty.

Not just unoccupied—it was completely stripped. The framed photo of the Brooklyn Bridge she loved was gone. Her ergonomic keyboard was missing. The small potted succulent she watered every Tuesday was nowhere to be seen. The surface was wiped down, sterile and lifeless.