Page 3 of Thirty-Two Calls

"Evie," he breathed, his massive frame crossing the precinct in three long strides. He knelt in front of her plastic chair, his large, calloused hands gently framing her pale, tear-streaked face. "I'm here, Evie-bird. I've got you."

Officer Davis stepped forward, puffing up her chest. "Excuse me, sir, you can't just—"

Van stood up to his full height, turning a glare so utterly terrifying on the officer that she physically took a step back. "I am taking my sister home," his voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "If you have any questions, you can direct them to my lawyers. Now, do we have a problem?"

"N-no, sir. Her statement is finished."

Van didn't spare them another glance. He stripped off his heavy, fleece-lined jacket and wrapped it around Evie’s trembling shoulders, entirely engulfing her. He scooped her up effortlessly, her feet barely touching the ground, and guided her out of the suffocating judgment of the precinct and into the cool night air.

Half an hour later, Evie was safely locked inside Van’s apartment. It was a stark contrast to her penthouse—the furniture was mismatched, there were servers and computer monitors humming in the corner, and it smelled of old books and pepperoni pizza. It felt like a home.

Van sat beside her on his worn leather couch, gently pressing a mug of hot tea into her hands. He hadn't asked her a single question about the assault. He just listened as she broke down, sobbing out the fragmented story of the alleyway, the detectives' cruel questions, and the thirty-two unanswered calls.

Van's jaw ticked, a muscle jumping wildly in his cheek. He hated Lance Rothwood. He hated the arrogant, untouchable billionaire with a ferocity that bordered on violence. He had watched Lance drain the life and light out of his brilliant, beautiful sister for a decade. But looking at Evie now, completely shattered, Van forced his own rage down. She didn't need his anger right now; she needed his strength.

"Drink your tea, Evie," he said softly, his massive hand gently stroking her hair as she rested her head against his shoulder.

"He didn't answer, Van," she whispered into his flannel shirt, her eyes sliding shut from sheer exhaustion. "He wasn't there."

"I know, sweetheart," Van murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "But I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

He held her until her breathing evened out, her tears drying against his shirt as she finally fell into an exhausted sleep. As Van stared at the wall, listening to the hum of his servers, a cold, calculated resolve settled over him. Lance Rothwood had taken enough from his family. It was time the billionaire learned that his actions had consequences.

Chapter Three: The Structure of an Illusion

Morning arrived not with a gentle awakening, but with the stark, unforgiving light of a bruised reality. The storm from the night before had broken, leaving the city washed clean and glittering under a pale winter sun. Inside Van’s apartment, the heavy scent of dark roast coffee and humming electronics filled the air, a sharp contrast to the sterile, manicured emptiness of the penthouse Evie had called home.

She sat at the small, battered wooden table in the breakfast nook, her knees pulled to her chest. She wore one of Van’s oversized college sweatshirts, the thick cotton swamping her fragile frame. Outside the grimy windowpane, the city moved on—taxis blurred into streaks of yellow, pedestrians hurried along the sidewalks—but inside Evie, everything had come to a devastating halt.

Her ribs ached with a dull throb from the assault, but it was nothing compared to the hollow, cavernous ache in her chest.

What am I doing with my life? The question echoed in the quiet apartment, louder than the grinding of the coffee maker.

Nine years. She traced the rim of her ceramic mug with a trembling finger. Nine years of stolen weekends, hushed phone calls, and shadowed hotel rooms. She had fallen in love with him when she was just twenty, practically a child, mesmerized by the gravity of his attention. But it wasn't the billionaire she had given her soul to; it was the man beneath the armor. She had seen the profound burdens he carried as the Rothwood heir, the crushing weight of a heritage he never asked for but was duty-bound to uphold. Behind closed doors, Lance was sweet. He was attentive. He possessed a quiet, brilliant mind that could unravel any problem, and a tenderness that he reserved exclusively for her.

“When the time is right, Evie,” he had murmured into her hair a hundred times over the years. “I’ll separate myself from all of this. I’ll restructure the board, step down as CEO, and we’ll walk away. No one needs to get hurt. Just wait for me.”

She had believed him. She had believed that his supreme competence meant he could engineer a flawless escape for them both. But sitting in the harsh morning light, the illusion finally shattered. Lance didn't understand the fundamental flaw in his grand design: someone was already getting hurt. The collateral damage of his pristine, bloodless transition was her. Her dignity, her youth, her very soul had been chipped away, piece by piece, to buy him time.

She should have walked away seven years ago when he stood at an altar and promised his life to Camille Niederdorf. Why had she stayed? Because she had traded her self-respect for the desperate, pathetic hope that love would eventually conquer all.

With a trembling hand, she reached for her cracked phone resting on the table. One last time. Just to hear his voice. She pressed his name and pressed the phone to her ear.

Ring... "You have reached the voicemail of Lance Rothwood—"

Evie closed her eyes, letting the phone slip from her fingers onto the table. The silence that followed was absolute.

"Coffee's ready," Van announced, his deep voice cutting through the heavy atmosphere. He stepped into the kitchen, his massive frame seeming to shrink the room. He set a fresh plate of toast on the table, his eyes scanning her pale face with quiet concern. Without a word, he reached over and clicked on the small television perched on the kitchen counter, keeping the volume low.

A polished news anchor filled the screen, her expression arranged into a mask of professional solemnity.

"...breaking news this morning out of the financial district. Theodore Deacon, patriarch of the Deacon banking empire and father-in-law to Rothwood Industries CEO Lance Rothwood, has suffered a massive, sudden heart attack."

Evie froze. The air left her lungs in a sharp rush.

The screen flashed to a live feed outside a prestigious private hospital. Black SUVs lined the curb. And there, stepping out of a vehicle, was Lance. He looked immaculate, his jaw set in a grim line. Beside him was Camille, looking pale and fragile, dressed in understated designer black. As the flashbulbs erupted around them, Lance placed a protective, grounding hand on the small of his wife's back, guiding her through the throng of reporters.

"Sources close to the family state that the Deacons and the Rothwoods have closed ranks during this difficult time..."