Estelle felt suspended between two cliffs.
She placed her palms on the cold rubber of the wheelchair tires, ready to go.
The maids appeared before she could move.
Two women in crisp white uniforms, hands folded, eyes soft with that unbearable pity.
"Mister Magnus has asked us to take you to your bedroom and ensure you are comfortable," one of them said gently.
The words struck her like a slap.
Estelle's fingers locked around the armrest. "What bedroom?"
They didn't answer. One stepped behind her wheelchair. The handles clicked into position.
And just like that, she was moving. Whether she wanted to or not.
Estelle twisted, trying to look back. "What bedroom are you talking about?" she demanded, heart kicking against her ribs.
"Please, Ma'am," the older one replied calmly, already guiding the chair forward. "Remain at ease. We'll take the elevator."
The wheels rolled across the marble, the faint hum of motion echoing in the vast hall.
The house swallowed the sound whole.
They stopped before a narrow, polished elevator hidden discreetly in the wall.
The doors slid open with a quiet mechanical sigh.
Estelle's reflection stared back at her in the mirrored interior.
Pale, rigid, small.
The doors shut.
Her ears popped softly as they rose. Her pulse did not settle.
When the doors opened again, they stepped into the top floor.
The air felt different here.
Quieter. Colder.
Long hallways stretched ahead, lined with portraits and closed doors.
Her breathing grew shallow.
She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm beneath her ribs.
Then, the wheelchair stopped.
They had reached a door at the end of the corridor.
Dark wood. Polished. Imposing.
The older maid stepped forward and knocked three times.
She turned, gave the other woman a small nod, and both of them began to walk away.
Estelle's eyes widened.
"What? Wait." Her voice cracked. "Where are you going? Come back!"
Her words chased them down the hallway.
They did not turn.
Did not hesitate.
White uniforms disappeared around the corner.
Leaving her alone.
In front of a closed door.
"Where are you going?" Estelle called, her voice thinner than she wanted.
The hallway swallowed it whole.
Then she heard it.
Water running. A shower shutting off.
Movement behind the door.
Her heart stopped.
This wasn't a guest room. This was his room.
Before she could move, the lock rattled.
Once.
Twice.
Not a gentle turn. Not a polite click.
A violent twist of metal, as if someone on the other side was yanking it open with more force than necessary.
Estelle's stomach dropped.
The door flew open.
And there he was.
Roman.
Half-dressed.
Shirtless. Skin still damp, water sliding in slow lines down his chest.
His hair was wet, darker than before, curling slightly at the ends.
A towel hung loose in one hand.
Heat radiated off him, fresh from the shower.
Soap and something sharp. Clean, masculine. Cut through the cold hallway air.
Her eyes betrayed her.
They dropped.
Broad shoulders. Defined chest. The faint sheen of moisture catching the light.
She swallowed.
Hard.
Then she looked up.
And whatever flicker had been in her expression died instantly.
Because his face?
His face held nothing but disgust.
Raw. Unfiltered.
His grip on the doorframe tightened until his knuckles went white.
"What the hell are you doing at my door?" Roman demanded, his voice blazing. "You have some nerve showing up here."
"I didn't know."
"For your own good, get out of here and go back to wherever you came from!" he snapped, slicing through her words. "You are not welcome."
Each word hit like a slap.
Estelle opened her mouth again, but Roman stepped back.
And slammed the door in her face.
The crack echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.
She flinched.
The vibration ran through the wood. Through the wheels. Through her bones.
For a moment, even time seemed to hesitate.
Estelle looked left.
Then right.
The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions.
Closed doors. No footsteps. No rescue.
No one was coming.
If she needed saving, she would have to claw it for herself.
Her lungs burned.
She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled, dragging air into her chest until it steadied.
Then she knocked.
Once. Nothing.
Twice. Still nothing.
She rolled forward until her knees nearly touched the door.
She leaned in close enough that her forehead brushed the wood.
"Open the door, Roman," she said, her voice lower now. Steadier. "Or don't."
A pause.
"But if you walk out that front door to see Lena, Magnus cuts my surgeons. And if he cuts my surgeons."
The door exploded open.
So hard the force knocked her balance backward.
Her chair tipped, but strong hands caught her.
Roman.
His grip locked around her arms, steadying her before she could fall.
Their faces were inches apart.
His breath was warm against her skin.
Her pulse thundered between them like a live wire.
Neither moved.
Neither spoke.
For one suspended second, the war stopped.
And all that existed was heat. Fury.
And the dangerous awareness that he had just caught the very woman he claimed he didn't want.
"If he cuts your surgeons?" Roman repeated.
His voice was calm.
The kind of calm that came right before something shattered.
He was still holding her.
Still close enough that she could see the faint pulse beating at the base of his throat.
Estelle lifted her chin.
Her eyes locked onto his.
"If he cuts my surgeons," she said evenly. "I tell the press that the 'Whitehall Beast' couldn't handle a wife in a wheelchair."
A beat.
"How does that look for your legacy?"
Her tone never wavered.
The words hung between them like a lit match.
Roman's gaze dropped.
Not to her hands.
Not to the chair.
To her lips.
Just for a second.
Heat flared in his eyes. Something darker than anger.
Then he released her abruptly.
She pitched forward, the world tilting, but her hand shot out and caught the doorframe.
Her palm scraped against polished wood.
She refused to fall.
Roman stepped back as if she'd burned him.
"I thought being the 'Ice Queen' meant grace. Dignity," he said, shaking his head slowly. "But you're just like the rest of them."
His mouth curled.
"Another shark circling for a payout. You'd sell your soul just to stand on two feet again."
The words landed.
Harder than they should have.
They sliced through bone and memory.
Through hospital corridors and sleepless nights and the echo of skates carving ice.
For a split second, something fragile inside her cracked.
But she didn't let him see it.
She held his gaze.
Unblinking.
"Would you keep your soul?" she asked quietly. "If it meant you never got to wear that gear again?"
Silence.
His hand twitched toward the door.
She saw it.
"You're the one in the wheelchair," he shot back, colder now. "Not me."
But he hadn't closed the door yet. And that told her everything.
Roman would burn the world to stay on the ice.
"You're the one in the wheelchair," he shot back, colder now. "Not me. Do whatever twisted deal you want with my father. But keep me out of it."
"Want to know why they called me The Ice Queen. It wasn't because I was cold." She leaned forward slightly. "Because I never missed a landing. And I don't plan to start now."
A low chuckle left him.
Mocking.
"Maybe not," he said softly. "Otherwise you'd be standing in front of me right now."
His eyes darkened.
"And if you were, maybe I'd consider whether you're worth carrying the Whitehall name."
The words should have broken her.
Instead, Estelle smiled.
Not warm. Not kind.
The smile of someone who'd just decided to stop playing defense.
"You're right," she said quietly. "I'm not standing."
She rolled forward. Close enough that he had to look down to meet her eyes.
"But I'm still here. In your house. Wearing your ring. And you know why?"
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Your father calls the shots here. Not you."
Roman's jaw clenched. Something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.
"Get off your high horse, Roman."
Her voice dropped.
"We're the same. I'm in a wheelchair. You're in chains."
That one hit.
She saw it land.
"We can help each other," she pressed. "Or we can destroy each other. Your choice."
He didn't reply immediately. He just stared at her.
For a moment, she thought he might slam the door again.
Instead, he leaned down.
Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his still-damp skin.
"I choose B. Let's see how long you last," he murmured, his voice like gravel.
The door clicked shut.
Soft this time.
Like a trap closing.
Estelle sat there breathing.
Then she smiled.
"Let's see how long you last," she whispered to the closed door.