Chapter Two The Echoes of an Empty Room
The late afternoon sky over the city was the color of a bruised plum, heavy with unspent rain and a creeping, damp chill.
Evangeline Foster pulled her trench coat tighter around her slender frame, her heels clicking a hurried rhythm against the damp pavement.
She was only two blocks away from the sprawling luxury high-rise that housed her apartment.
Her apartment. Or rather, the gilded cage Lance had bought for them before he slipped a Niederdorf diamond onto Camille’s finger.
Evie had spent months picking out the curtains for that place, foolishly believing it would be their shared sanctuary. Now, she just lived in it alone.
She decided to take the shortcut through the narrow, shadowed walkway that connected the financial district to the residential avenue. It was a mistake she would replay in her mind a thousand times.
The assault was a sudden, chaotic blur of violence.
A heavy hand clamped over her mouth, tasting of stale tobacco and grime.
An arm wrapped around her waist, dragging her backward into the deeper shadows of a service alcove.
The rough brick of the wall scraped painfully against her shoulder as she was slammed into it.
"Don't scream, sweetheart. Let's just have a little fun," a gravelly voice hissed against her ear.
Pure, unadulterated terror flooded Evie’s veins, but the decade she had spent surviving the cutthroat peripheral world of Lance Rothwood had forged a steel core inside her.
As the assailant’s hand fumbled with the buttons of her coat, Evie brought her stiletto heel down with every ounce of strength she possessed onto the man’s instep.
He roared in pain, his grip loosening just enough.
Evie didn't hesitate. She threw her weight forward, driving her elbow backward into his ribs, broke free, and ran.
She ran until her lungs burned, her coat tearing on a stray piece of scaffolding, tears blinding her as she burst out onto the crowded main street and threw herself through the heavy glass doors of the 4th Precinct police station.
The Interrogation of Morals
The police station was a sensory assault of buzzing fluorescent lights, ringing phones, and the sharp scent of stale coffee and floor wax.
Evie sat shivering in an uncomfortable plastic chair in an interview room, a thin, scratchy blanket draped over her shoulders.
Her lip was bleeding where she had bitten it, and her favorite silk blouse was torn at the collar.
Detective Miller, an older man with tired eyes, sat across from her.
Beside him stood Officer Davis, a younger woman with a clipboard.
Initially, their demeanor had been professional, soothing even.
But then Evie had to give her name, her employment at Rothwood Industries, and her address—a penthouse address famously linked to Lance Rothwood’s private real estate holdings.
The air in the room palpably shifted. Officer Davis exchanged a knowing, loaded glance with Detective Miller. The tabloids and the corporate gossip mill had done their work; Evangeline Foster’s reputation preceded her.
"So, Ms. Foster," Detective Miller sighed, leaning back in his chair. The gentle, paternal tone had evaporated, replaced by a weary skepticism. "You were walking alone down the service alley. You're sure you didn't... know this man? Maybe from a previous arrangement?"
Evie’s head snapped up. "An arrangement? He attacked me. I have no idea who he was."
Officer Davis clicked her pen. "It's just that, well, in your circles... and given your, um, public association with Mr. Rothwood... sometimes lines get blurred. Are you sure you didn't entice him in some way? A lingering look? What exactly were you wearing under the coat?"
Evie felt the blood drain from her face. The physical assault had terrified her, but this—this casual, cruel assassination of her character—hollowed her out. "I was walking home from work," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I was attacked."
"We're just trying to get the full picture, Evangeline," Miller said, using her first name with a distinct lack of respect.
"We see a lot of things in this precinct.
Women who make certain... moral compromises for money...
sometimes they attract unsavory elements.
What else can we expect to happen with a woman in your position?
Are you absolutely certain this wasn't a disagreement over compensation? "
They weren't looking at a victim. They were looking at the other woman. The home-wrecker. A woman whose choices had stripped her of the right to be protected or believed.
Evie stopped talking. She pulled the scratchy blanket tighter around herself, the cold seeping all the way into her bones.
Thirty-Two Rings
They left her alone in the holding area while they "processed her statement"—a euphemism, she was sure, for filing it away in the trash. Evie pulled her phone from her pocket with shaking hands.
She needed Lance. She needed the man who had promised to take care of her, the man whose power and influence could shield her from the judging stares of the officers passing by the glass window.
She dialed his private number.
Ring. Ring. Ring. "You have reached the voicemail of Lance Rothwood..."
She swallowed hard and dialed again. He was probably in a meeting. He just needed to see it was her.
Ring. Ring. Ring. Voicemail.
Ten times. Fifteen times. The officers at the desks outside occasionally glanced at her, their eyes filled with a toxic mixture of pity and contempt. She was a tragic, pathetic spectacle. The billionaire's discarded plaything, crying in a police station.
Twenty times. Twenty-five times. Her thumb grew numb from pressing the screen. Desperation clawed at her throat, making it hard to breathe. Please, Lance. Please pick up. I'm so scared. Thirty-two times.
On the thirty-second call, the line didn't even ring. It went straight to voicemail. He had turned his phone off.
Evie stared at the cracked screen of her phone, the finality of the silence crushing her. Nine years. She had given him nine years of her life, and he couldn't answer the phone when she was broken and bleeding.
A sob tore free from her chest, echoing loudly in the sterile room. She couldn't do this anymore. She couldn't be alone anymore. Wiping her eyes furiously, she scrolled to a different contact and pressed call.
He answered on the first ring.
"Evie?"
"Van," she choked out, her voice breaking completely. "Van, I need you. Please."
The Sanctuary of a Brother
Evander "Van" Foster hit the doors of the 4th Precinct like a battering ram.
Standing at six-foot-five and built like a professional linebacker, Van possessed a physical presence that commanded immediate, nervous respect.
He wore a faded flannel shirt and work boots, looking more like a lumberjack than the brilliant, high-level encryption specialist he was at Rothwood Industries.
He spotted her immediately.
"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.