Estelle's eyes were fixed on the door for a moment longer.
Every door she had knocked on today had slammed in her face.
She pulled her phone from her side.
The screen lit up her pale features.
Notifications flooded in.
Tags. Mentions. Comments.
The public was already sniffing blood.
She stared at it for a second too long.
Her thumb trembled as she scrolled to a name.
Justin with a heart emoji.
She tapped call.
The line didn't ring.
Just an immediate, flat beeping tone.
Disconnected.
Her brows furrowed. She tried again.
Nothing.
She switched to messages.
Are you there?
Not delivered.
Her stomach dropped.
She wasn't just alone in this house.
She was alone everywhere.
Her breathing turned shallow.
The hallway felt longer now.
The silence pressed against her ears until it almost roared.
She needed an exit.
Needed air.
Needed control.
With stiff movements, she tucked the phone away and wheeled herself toward the elevator at the end of the corridor.
Each push strained her arms.
Each rotation of the wheel echoed too loudly in the emptiness.
She reached the elevator and pressed the button.
Nothing.
No soft chime.
No mechanical hum.
She pressed the button again. Harder. Still nothing.
Then she noticed the indicator light was on. The elevator was functional. Just locked.
Someone had locked it.
Her reflection stared back at her in the polished metal doors.
She was trapped.
Her gaze snapped to the corner of the ceiling. A small black camera lens stared back.
Someone was watching.
—
Behind the blinking eyes of the hidden cameras, Magnus's jaw hardened as he stood in the dim glow of the CCTV room.
Monitors lined the wall.
Grainy black-and-white footage flickered across them.
One screen zoomed in on the top-floor hallway.
On Estelle.
Small in her wheelchair.
Alone outside the elevator door.
"What do we do now, boss?" Vance asked quietly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Magnus didn't answer immediately.
He watched her.
She had folded inward, face buried in her hands.
Shoulders trembling just slightly.
"Should we move her to the other bedroom?" Vance pressed.
Magnus's brows knitted together.
"What do you think she told him?" he asked instead.
Vance adjusted his glasses, studying the replay of Roman slamming the door. "No idea. But whatever it was, it wasn't enough."
Magnus's mouth flattened.
"Leave her," he said at last.
"She needs to think. That is why she is here. If she cannot stop him from walking out of this house." A pause. "Then she is useless to me."
Vance nodded once.
On the screen, Estelle shifted.
She turned her chair slowly, wheels whispering against thick carpet.
Her heart was breaking.
Magnus could almost see it in the way her spine curved inward.
Estelle let out a shaky breath and looked back down the corridor.
Left. Right. Endless doors. All closed.
She closed her eyes.
Just for a heartbeat. Breathe. Think.
Then she turned right.
Her arms burned immediately.
Each push of the wheel sent a sharp protest through her shoulders, down her spine.
The carpet dragged against the tires like the house itself was resisting her escape.
She pushed anyway.
Halfway down the corridor, a door opened.
A maid stepped out, arms full of fresh linens.
She froze when she saw Estelle.
Their eyes met.
"Please," Estelle said, voice hoarse. "The elevator. It's not working. Can you?"
The maid's gaze flicked upward.
To the small black camera lens mounted there.
Her expression shuttered. She hurried past.
Estelle's chest tightened.
Even the servants were afraid.
She kept moving.
Her palms were slick now, burning with each rotation.
Then she heard it.
Voices. Low. Male. Coming from behind a door just ahead.
She slowed.
"Can just wheel herself out?" Vance's voice, smooth and cold.
"Let her try." Magnus. Unmistakable. "The elevator is locked. The stairs will break her spirit or her body. Either way, she learns her place."
A pause.
"And if she makes it down?"
"Then we'll see."
Estelle's hands froze on the wheels.
They weren't just watching.
They were testing her.
Every locked door. Every obstacle.
This was deliberate.
Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.
She forced herself forward.
Past their door.
Past their voices.
Past their expectations.
By the time the hallway opened up, her palms were slick.
Her muscles trembled.
And then she saw it.
The staircase.
Wide. Curving. Endless.
She rolled to the edge and stopped.
Her heart pounded so violently she thought she might black out.
She looked down. Twenty-three steps. She counted them.
Twenty-three chances to break her neck. Twenty-three reasons to wait for help that would never come.
But how could she descend without falling?
Her fingers tightened on the wheels.
There was no ramp.
No lift.
No one coming.
A slow exhale left her lips.
"I'd rather fall than stay trapped here," she whispered.
And she meant it.
She placed one trembling hand on the banister.
Cold metal bit into her palm. The other pressed flat against the wall.
She inched forward.
One careful shift.
Another.
The front wheels tipped over the first step.
Her stomach dropped.
For half a second, she thought she still had control.
Then gravity decided otherwise.
The chair lurched.
Dropped.
Slid.
The first impact jolted her spine.
The second knocked a cry from her throat.
The world became noise.
Wood cracking, metal rattling, her own heartbeat roaring in her ears as the wheelchair bounced violently down the steps.
Too fast.
Too rough.
Her hands clawed at air.
Then, the chair twisted sideways at the bottom.
Her body slammed against the marble floor.
Air blasted from her lungs in a harsh, broken sound.
Silence followed.
Her hair fell across her face, sticking to damp skin.
The metallic taste of fear lingered at the back of her throat.
For a moment, she couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
"Miss! Are you?"
"Get away from me."
She was already dragging herself toward the chair.
Blood on her palms. Hair in her face.
But her eyes. Her eyes were alive with something the butler had never seen before.
Not defeat.
Fury.
The butler steadied the wheelchair as she dragged herself upright.
Her arms shook violently from the strain. Her muscles screamed as she hauled her weight back into the seat.
Finally, she settled.
Breathing hard.
Sweat cooling against her skin.
Somewhere upstairs, unseen cameras blinked.
Watching the fall.
Recording the impact.
She gripped the bent wheel and forced it forward anyway.
It squealed in protest.
She didn't stop.
"Miss, where are you going?" the butler called after her, confusion and concern lacing his voice.
Estelle didn't answer.
Didn't look back.
She wheeled toward the massive foyer doors.
Estelle stretched a trembling hand toward the handle.
She pushed.
The massive foyer doors opened with a low groan, and she froze.
The same black Mercedes waited at the base of the steps.
The driver stood beside it, posture rigid, hands clasped behind his back.
Watching her.
Not surprised.
Waiting.
For one suspended heartbeat, it felt like a hearse.
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
"Take me home," she barked, breath ragged from the strain of the stairs.
The words scraped her throat on the way out.
The chauffeur didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Before she could repeat herself, the foyer door creaked open behind her.
"Going somewhere?" Vance's voice came from behind her, smooth as silk.
She didn't turn. "To the rink."
"Of course you are." He stepped beside her, studying the bent wheelchair, the scrapes on her arms. "That was quite a fall. We were concerned."
Estelle looked at him now. "You were watching."
"We're always watching, Estelle."
He turned to the chauffeur. "Take her wherever she wants to go."
The chauffeur nodded once.
Vance's eyes returned to her.
"Remember what is at stake," he said and turned away.
Estelle refused to look at him.
Instead, she lifted her arms.
Offered herself up.
The same way she had earlier.
But this time, it wasn't surrender.
It was strategy.
She had one card left.
And she would play it.
The driver lifted her carefully into the back seat. The leather was cool against her skin.
The door shut with a heavy, sealed sound.
As he moved to the driver's seat, Estelle's gaze lifted.
And she saw him.
Magnus. Standing at the top window.
Still as stone.
Hands clasped behind his back.
Watching.
No anger.
No urgency.
Just calculation.
As if she were a piece sliding across a board exactly as expected.
Her jaw tightened. She held his gaze. Refused to look away first.
A silent declaration: 'You haven't broken me. Not yet.'
Only then did she turn her head, dismissing him like he was nothing.
Like he hadn't just watched her nearly die.
"Get me out of here," she told the driver, voice low but fierce. "If this works, I won't need them anymore."
The engine roared to life.
From the top window, Vance stepped in beside Magnus.
They watched the Mercedes descend the drive.
"Make the call," Magnus said quietly.
No emotion.
"I want her back."
A beat.
"And obedient."
He turned and walked away without another glance.