Page 13 of Thirty-Two Calls

Lance rubbed his temples, the dull ache of a persistent migraine pulsing behind his eyes. For the hundredth—no, the thousandth—time, he berated the arrogant, cowardly fool he had been for nine years. I am restructuring so we can be together safely, he used to tell her. What a pathetic lie he had told himself. He hadn't been protecting her; he had been protecting his own comfort, caging a vibrant, beautiful soul in the shadows because he lacked the spine to burn the cage down.

Now, the cage was ash. It was time to deal with the wardens.

The Matriarch's Surrender

Audrey Rothwood did not like being summoned. She preferred to be the one doing the summoning.

When she swept into Lance’s office that afternoon, wrapped in a gossamer silk scarf and radiating her usual aristocratic frost, she expected a consultation regarding the summer philanthropic calendar. Instead, she found her son standing by the floor-to-ceiling windows, his posture rigid, his dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth.

"Lance, darling, I only have twenty minutes," Audrey sighed, taking a seat in a leather armchair without being offered one. "The museum board is waiting on my approval for the new wing."

"You are no longer on the museum board, Mother," Lance said. His voice was quiet, but it carried a lethal, chilling weight. "Nor are you on the symphony committee, the hospital trust, or the foundation’s advisory council. I had my legal team draft your resignations this morning."

Audrey froze. The polished mask of maternal superiority slipped, revealing a flash of genuine shock. "Excuse me? You have no authority to—"

"I have absolute authority," Lance interrupted, turning to face her. He picked up a slim silver flash drive from his desk and held it up. "Do you know what this is, Mother? It’s the digitized security footage from a small, unassuming establishment called The Copper Kettle."

The color rapidly drained from Audrey’s face, leaving her chalk-white.

"Six months ago, exactly two days before Evangeline disappeared, you tracked her down," Lance continued, stepping slowly toward her, his voice vibrating with a suppressed, terrible wrath. "My investigators tracked down the barista working that night. He was more than happy to recite the vile, venomous things you said to the woman I love. You told her she had no dignity. You told her she was a shabby, pathetic secret."

"I was protecting this family!" Audrey snapped, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to reclaim her high ground. "She was a leech, Lance! A scandal waiting to destroy everything your grandfather built!"

Lance slammed his hand down on the desk, the sharp crack echoing like a gunshot. Audrey flinched violently, shrinking back into the leather chair.

"You protected nothing!" Lance roared, the last remnants of his composed facade shattering. "You chased away the only good, pure thing in my miserable life! You arrogantly assumed you could dictate my heart, and in doing so, you have destroyed your own standing."

He took a stabilizing breath, forcing his voice back into a cold, corporate monotone that was somehow infinitely more terrifying than his shout.

"The Rothwood accounts have been sealed," he stated. "Your unlimited access to the family fortune is revoked. You will be provided a monthly allowance—generous enough to maintain your estate and your staff, but nothing more. There will be no more vanity donations, no more buying influence, and no more leveraging the Rothwood name to terrorize people you deem beneath you. If you violate the behavioral clauses my lawyers have drafted, the allowance will be cut to a fraction. You will live quietly, Mother. Or you will live poorly."

Audrey stared up at her son, her chest heaving. For the first time in her pristine, sheltered life, she looked truly terrified. She searched his eyes, looking for the pragmatic, legacy-driven boy she thought she had raised. But he was gone.

"You..." Audrey whispered, her voice barely a breath. "You actually loved her. You loved that girl."

"I still do," Lance said softly, walking over to open the heavy oak door for her. "And I will spend the rest of my life making you all pay for what you did to her. Goodbye, Mother."

The End of an Illusion

If breaking his mother was an act of vengeance, confronting Camille was an act of profound, overdue justice.

He found his wife in the solarium of their sprawling city brownstone later that evening. She was sipping sparkling water, flawlessly dressed in a cream cashmere sweater, reviewing a stack of invitations. She didn't look up when he entered. Their marriage had always been an arrangement of polite, icy coexistence.

Lance didn't sit. He walked over to the glass coffee table and dropped a thick, bound legal document directly over her invitations.

Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

Camille finally looked up, her perfectly arched eyebrows drawing together in a rare display of confusion. "What is this, Lance? A joke?"

"I don't make jokes about my life anymore, Camille," he said smoothly, unbuttoning his suit jacket. "I've filed for divorce. The settlement is in there. My lawyers have been instructed to grant whatever financial concessions your team demands, provided they sign the NDAs by Friday."

Camille stood up, her cool composure cracking. "A Rothwood does not divorce a Deacon! We are a united front. My father just had a heart attack six months ago, you cannot possibly —"

"Your father has fully recovered and is currently playing eighteen holes of golf in Boca Raton," Lance cut in seamlessly. "And I am no longer interested in maintaining a united front for a tradition that no longer exists."

He looked at her, his expression hardening. For years, he had believed Camille was blissfully indifferent to Evie's existence. But the six months of tearing through his own life had revealed rotting floorboards he never knew existed.

"My investigators were very thorough, Camille," Lance said, his tone dropping to a dangerous register. "I know about the charity masquerade three years ago. I know what you whispered to Evie in the coat check. I know about the 'accidental' seating arrangements at the corporate galas, and the snide, vicious remarks you made about homewreckers when you knew she was standing right behind you."