Page 17 of Thirty-Two Calls

Lance’s posture straightened, the old defensive armor trying to slide into place, but failing miserably. "Van."

"There's a cafe down the hill. Le Petit Coin," Van stated, jerking his head toward the village. He didn't ask; it was a command. "Buy me a drink."

A Fragile Truce

Ten minutes later, the two men sat across from each other at a small, wobbly iron table on a shaded terrace overlooking the sea. Lance ordered a double espresso; Van ordered a local beer. The tension between them was thick enough to snap a knife.

"I could have you arrested for stalking," Van noted casually, taking a slow sip of his beer. "I built an ironclad digital perimeter around this town. It took you a year. I'm almost insulted."

Despite the exhaustion in his bones, a spark of genuine irritation flared in Lance's chest. He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto the encryption specialist. "You stole her. You erased her from the face of the earth, Van. For a year, I didn't know if she was alive, dead, or bleeding out in a ditch somewhere."

"I saved her," Van countered, his voice dropping to a dangerous, protective rumble. "From you. From your mother. From your wife. From the entire toxic empire you chained her to while you played king of the castle."

Lance flinched as if he had been struck. The anger instantly evaporated, leaving only the crushing weight of his guilt. He looked down at his espresso cup, the fight draining completely out of him.

"I know," Lance whispered, the admission costing him every ounce of his pride. "I know what I did. Or rather, what I failed to do." He looked back up, meeting Van's fiercely protective gaze. "The Rothwood legacy is gone, Van. It's locked in blind trusts. My mother is cut off. My wife has been served divorce papers. The empire that hurt her doesn't exist anymore."

Van’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. He was genuinely impressed. He had expected Lance to simply throw money at the problem, not burn his entire inheritance to the ground.

Van studied the broken billionaire for a long minute, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs below. He took a final swig of his beer and set the glass down with a definitive thud.

"Evie is happy here," Van said quietly, his tone stripping away the hostility. "She is whole again. She painted the shutters on that cottage herself. She learned French. She smiles without looking over her shoulder to see who is judging her."

Lance swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I don't want to take that away from her. I just... I just need to speak to her."

"I'm not going to stop you," Van said, leaning back in his chair.

Lance blinked, surprised. "You're not?"

"No," Van replied, crossing his arms. "I protected her when she needed protecting. But looking at you now... I don't think you're going to hurt her again. I think you finally understand exactly what you lost." Van let out a slow breath. "I won't interfere this time, Rothwood. But I won't help you, either. If you want her back, you are going to have to walk up to that cottage and face the music yourself. And if she tells you to go to hell..."

"Then I'll buy the house next door and spend the rest of my life trying to change her mind," Lance finished, his voice ringing with absolute, unshakeable certainty.

Van offered a small, grudging half-smile. He stood up, tossing a few Euro coins onto the iron table. "Good luck, Lance. You're going to need it."

As Van walked away, Lance remained at the table, staring up toward the winding road that led to the cottage with the blue shutters. The terror was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but beneath it, a tiny, fragile spark of hope had finally been lit.

Chapter Thirteen: The Weight of the Sun

The Mediterranean sun began its slow, majestic descent, bleeding hues of bruised peach, crushed violet, and spun gold across the sprawling canvas of the sea. The oppressive heat of the afternoon gave way to a cool, fragrant evening breeze that swept up the cliffside, carrying the intoxicating scent of wild rosemary and salt.

Lance Rothwood stood at the edge of the quiet, sun-dappled lane. He had waited for hours. He had walked the perimeter of the village until his expensive leather shoes were coated in pale, chalky dust, waiting for the frantic, terrifying hammering in his chest to subside. It never did.

The small stone cottage with the faded blue shutters stood at the end of the path, bathed in the soft, dying light.

With every step Lance took toward the wooden gate, a decade of arrogance, corporate armor, fell away, leaving him entirely exposed. He wasn't the CEO of Rothwood Industries anymore. He wasn't the untouchable billionaire who commanded boardrooms. He was just a man, starving and exhausted, walking toward the only source of light he had ever known.

His hand trembled as he unlatched the low wooden gate. The quiet click sounded like a gunshot in the serene evening air. He walked up the short terracotta pathway, his breath catching painfully in his throat. He raised his fist and knocked softly on the heavy oak door.

The silence that followed stretched into an eternity. Lance closed his eyes, bracing himself for the cold sting of rejection, for the sound of the deadbolt sliding into place.

Instead, the brass handle turned, and the door opened.

Evangeline stood in the doorway, the warm, golden light from inside the cottage spilling over her shoulders. She was still wearing the sea-colored sundress, her dark hair catching the breeze.

For a breathless, suspended moment, neither of them spoke.

Lance looked at her, truly looked at her, and felt his heart shatter all over again. She was breathtaking. The shadows that had always haunted her eyes in New York—the constant, exhausting vigilance of being a secret—were completely eradicated. She was serene, anchored, and profoundly whole.