"You've got to be fucking kidding me!"
The words sliced through the entrance like a blade on ice.
Estelle's breath caught.
She'd imagined this moment a hundred times in the hospital.
Meeting Roman Whitehall. The bad boy of hockey. Her new husband.
She hadn't imagined the disgust.
Roman's head snapped toward her.
His eyes moved over her figure with the precision of a predator assessing prey.
The wheelchair.
The hospital gown still visible beneath the blanket.
The defiant tilt of her chin. The only part of her that refused to break.
His expression didn't change.
But his knuckles whitened around his hockey stick, gripping it like he wanted to snap it in half.
Or maybe snap her.
"This is a joke!" he scoffed.
Magnus held his gaze, calm and cruel. "The deal is signed. You are married. To her."
Estelle's pulse thundered in her ears.
She opened her mouth to speak, but Roman cut in.
His eyes snapped to Magnus, fury and disbelief etched into every line of his face.
"No, Father. I don't care about your deal. You'd better take her back to where she came from. I'm not playing house with a crippled ghost!" he snapped.
Estelle blinked, heart stuttering.
She opened her mouth to fire back, but her gaze drifted to her legs.
He was right.
She was not just broken, but a shadow of her former self.
Roman froze mid-step, chest heaving, annoyance flaring.
His hand brushed the pocket where a small black velvet box rested.
The engagement ring he had bought that morning, meant for tonight.
"I'm not leaving," he snapped, spinning on his heel, eyes blazing. "I'm going to propose to Lena tonight, and you can't--"
His words broke off as his phone buzzed. He glanced down. Lena's name lit the screen.
"She's calling."
Across the room, Estelle's stomach dropped.
Magnus' gaze remained cold. "Tonight, the proposal is irrelevant. She will not be your fiancée. You already have a wife. And the press will be waiting for you to make your first reveal with your wife in 24 hours."
Roman's breath stalled. Every heartbeat pounded against the box in his pocket.
"Not happening, Father. Take her back to wherever you found her," he shot back. "Lena will be my wife. She's the only one I want."
For the briefest moment, his voice faltered.
Then his glare cut sideways, narrowing at Estelle.
"Someone who knows what it takes to rule the ice. That's who belongs here. Not some dancer who thinks twirling and swirling is all it's meant for."
The room went still.
Estelle's breath hitched.
The words hit like a slap, sharp and cold.
"Do not!" Estelle shot back, voice low, sharp, and trembling with fury.
"I'll be happy to leave. Hell, I don't even want to be here. But I will not let you insult me. I've won more gold than your entire franchise has seen in a decade."
Her words were precise and deliberate.
Roman turned, chuckle breaking free before he could stop it.
Harsh, echoing off the walls.
He shook his head, eyes flicking over her as she sat in the wheelchair.
For the first time, Magnus could see that their collision wasn't just anger.
It was something raw, heated, unspoken, impossible to ignore.
Then Roman fixed her with a look that was all challenge and danger.
"So, you think because you've danced on ice and been handed a few gold medals." His voice dripped with disbelief. "You own it?"
Estelle's jaw tightened.
Her fingers curled around the wheelchair handles.
She leaned forward slightly, heart hammering. "I don't think I own it," she said, her voice ice-cold.
"I know I do. And I've owned it for as long as you've been learning to take a hit without crying."
The insult landed like a punch he hadn't seen coming.
Roman's fists clenched, nostrils flaring.
The air between them thickened, crackling with tension.
"Well," he said, forcing a calm he didn't feel. "I'm sure we can both agree that's in the past. So maybe you should get used to your new situation. And stop pretending you are anything more than what I'm looking at. That ended a while ago."
Estelle's eyes burned as tears threatened to spill.
She said nothing, but her silence gnawed at Roman, tugging at something he didn't want to admit.
Still, the deed was done.
Roman turned back to Magnus. "I will not have her. She has to go."
Magnus' gaze hardened. "Maybe I did not make myself clear enough," he said, voice cold. "If you leave, you lose everything. If she leaves, you still lose everything."
Roman's eyes widened, disbelief sharp enough to taste.
Magnus leaned in, his words hanging like a guillotine. "Your only choice, if you want to keep your inheritance, your place in the NHL, this family, is to stay."
Roman's fists clenched. "What a choice. I will not lose everything over this. But tell me. Why her? Why would you choose her?"
Magnus paused, then delivered the blow. "Because she knows what it feels like to fall from the top. She's seen it. She's lived it. And if she will be a reminder of what will happen if you fail."
The room went still.
Roman's eyes flicked toward Estelle, then to her legs. "Have you thought about my image? How will she help it? Or worse, how will she not destroy it?"
Magnus shook his head slowly, eyes burning. "Your image?"
His tone sharpened. "Every time you look at her, you should see a reflection of your own career."
Roman felt a muscle ticking in his cheek.
Magnus' voice dropped lower, each word deliberate. "If you think she's not worthy of you, then know this. Your current status is not worthy of the Whitehall rink. And if you defy me, the world will know exactly why."
Roman's chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. "How can you say that? I am the most successful hockey player alive!" he snapped.
"Only because of me," Magnus fired back.
His gaze didn't waver.
"She is your wife. Deal with it, or lose everything."
Estelle swallowed hard.
Her pulse hammered as Roman's tongue pressed into his molar.
His eyes flicked to hers, dark and unreadable.
A storm brewed between them, fierce and magnetic.
She wanted to protest.
He wanted to fight.
Roman opened his mouth, but no words came.
His chest heaved.
Fists clenched so tight his knuckles whitened.
He glared at his father, a storm barely contained behind his eyes.
Then he turned to Estelle.
His gaze landed on her, blazing.
Every inch of him screamed warning and desire.
Anger and need tangled in one dangerous package.
"You'd better not think of coming inside my house," he said.
Low. Dangerous. Sharp.
"I don't want you."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched.
Then Roman's fingers flicked open his phone. The screen lit his dark eyes.
"Yeah, Lena," he growled into the line, voice tight. "I'm coming over. Now. Wear the red silk. "
The phone beeped and went silent.
He stormed off. Boots slammed against the floor.
Each thud was a hammer striking Estelle's chest.
She swallowed, breathless, trapped, her body screaming that nothing today would go as she'd imagined.
Magnus' jaw tightened as he watched Roman walk away.
Then his eyes flicked to her. "This is my house. It's my rules," he said, calm and unshakable. "You're not leaving unless I say so. So get comfortable."
He walked into the house.
Estelle sat, unmoving, staring at the space where they'd both stood.
Reality settled over her like a wet, suffocating cloak.
She was a pawn in a game between father and son.
High stakes. No rules.
Before she could even catch her breath, Vance stepped forward.
The soft click of his shoes against marble sounded louder than it should have.
"Section 4 C, clause 2," he recited smoothly, as if discussing market shares. "If Roman engages in sexual relations with another woman, you, Estelle, forfeit all financial coverage for your treatment."
The words settled slowly.
"So," he continued mildly. "Will you sit there and watch your husband leave to be with another woman? And who knows."
A faint pause. "Perhaps even propose to her."
The air thinned.
Estelle's face twisted, heat rushing to her cheeks. "Are you asking me to beg him to stay?"
Her voice cracked despite her effort to steady it.
Vance stepped closer.
He bent slightly, his breath warm against the shell of her ear.
"I am simply asking," he murmured. "That you do not let another woman steal your last chance to stand in skates again."
Her pulse roared.
He straightened, smoothing his cuffs.
"The decision is yours." His tone remained calm. "Skate again. Or remain exactly where you are."
The words echoed.
Her fingers dug into the arms of the wheelchair.
A tremor traveled up her arms, into her shoulders.
She could almost feel the ice beneath her blades.
The sharp glide.
The freedom.
And then.
Nothing.
Every instinct screamed at her to move.
To chase Roman. To stop him. To do something.
She had lost her legs. She would not lose her future.