The nurse didn’t look back. Her pace was brisk and focused. The sterile scent of antiseptic grew stronger as she moved deeper into the building, headed toward the elite players’ recovery wing.

Roman’s brows furrowed further. Who could possibly be there? He kept his distance, shadowing her quietly until she reached the surgical wing.

She pushed through the doors and disappeared inside. Roman slowed as he approached, and then he saw it. The red light above the door. In surgery.

His pulse spiked, sharp and sudden as the thought landed heavily. Estelle. The name hit him like a jolt. What if she were in there? His chest tightened as he stepped closer, drawn toward the door, every instinct screaming at him to find out.

He took a few more steps, each one heavier than the last, until he stood right in front of the door, his pulse throbbing in his ears.

From the other side, he could hear it now, the steady, rhythmic beeping of machines, faint but unmistakable, threading through the silence. Clean, clinical, alive.

It had to be her.

A sharp breath filled his lungs, almost burning as he reached for the handle. Finally, he thought as his fingers closed around it.

"Hey! You! What are you doing there?" A voice cracked through the hallway, thick and commanding, freezing him mid-motion.

Roman glanced over his shoulder, irritation flashing across his face, but his mind was already racing ahead. He was too close now. Too close to stop. So, he turned back, his grip tightened around the handle, and he twisted it.

"I said stop there!" the man barked, his footsteps quickening, the faint crackle of a radio lifting from his shoulder as he reached for it.

Roman’s brows pulled together as he tried the handle again, nothing. He twisted harder, still nothing. The door was locked.

A flicker of frustration sparked in his chest just as the man reached him and grabbed his wrist.

Roman’s head snapped toward him, his eyes darkening as they dropped to the badge pinned neatly to the man’s uniform. Security.

"Take your hand off me," he snapped, his voice low but edged, jerking his arm free.

The man lifted his hands in a half-hearted surrender, though his stance didn’t shift. "You can’t be here, sir. Please leave, or I’ll have to call for reinforcement."

Roman straightened, rolling his shoulders back, forcing control into his tone as he drew in a steady breath. "I have every right to be here," he said, his voice firm, carrying quiet authority. "In case you haven’t noticed, I’m Roman Whitehall, the son of—"

"I know exactly who you are, sir," the guard cut in, his expression tightening slightly. "And I’m sure you know how popular you are right now."

The words landed, dull and unwelcome.

Roman’s shoulders dipped a fraction before he caught himself. He exhaled, slower this time, glancing briefly at the door again. The faint antiseptic smell still lingered in the air, sharp in his nose, mixing with the distant hum of machinery.

"Listen," he said, lowering his voice, trying a different approach. "I just need to know what’s going on in there. Why is there a surgery happening at this hour? Did a player get injured?"

The guard studied him, his eyes narrowing just slightly, weighing something. Then he shook his head. "You need to leave, sir. Or would you prefer I call your father?"

The words hit harder than they should have, making Roman freeze.

For a second, all he could hear was the quiet beep beyond the door and the echo of Magnus’s voice in his head. No. That was the last thing he needed.

His jaw tightened as he turned his gaze back to the door, staring at it as if he could see through it, his thoughts spiraling again. Now he was certain that Estelle was in there, she had to be.

But doubt crept in anyway, sharp and unwelcome. What if she wasn’t?

The security guard pressed the button on his radio, and a burst of static crackled through the hallway, sharp and grating. It snapped Roman’s attention back to him instantly.

"I need backup in the surgical—"

"There will be no need for that," Roman cut in, his voice firm but controlled. He stepped forward, brushing past the man, forcing calm into his stride even as tension coiled tightly in his chest.

"I think we can both agree I already have enough scandal on my plate," he continued, glancing back briefly. "No need to add another. You can put the radio away. I’m leaving."

The guard hesitated, then slowly lowered the radio, his gaze lingering on Roman’s retreating back. "Off the record—"

The words hung in the air, quiet but heavy enough to make Roman stop. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked back at the man.

The guard hesitated, his grip tightening slightly on the radio. "Look," he muttered, glancing briefly at the door, "whatever is happening in there, it’s above my pay grade."

Roman’s eyes sharpened. "Then whose grade is it?"

The guard exhaled, his jaw tightening. "Let’s just say your father is already handling it." He paused. Then, in a quieter tone, he added, "Something about Leo Saunders."

Roman’s brows drew together, suspicion sharpening his expression. "So you’re saying Leo is in there?" he asked, one brow lifting.

The guard didn’t elaborate. He just gave a small, confirming nod.

For a moment, Roman simply stared at the door. Relief spread through his chest, quick, unwanted. And then something twisted behind it, because a part of him had wanted it to be her.

Then he looked back at the guard. "And why are you telling me this?"

The man shrugged, a faint, almost sheepish smile touching his lips. "I’m a fan," he said simply.

Without waiting for a response, he turned and walked back to his post, positioning himself squarely in front of the door again, as if nothing had happened.

Roman lingered for a second longer, his mind spinning.

Magnus had refused to help him. He had made it clear there would be a price. So what changed? Or, was this even help? His jaw tightened. And where was Estelle? The thought cut through everything else, sharp and unrelenting.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair before turning away. His footsteps echoed faintly against the polished floor as he walked off, faster now, like he was chasing an answer just out of reach.

Behind him, the guard watched until Roman disappeared around the corner. Only then did he reach into his pocket and pull out his phone. He dialed the only number in the call log, lifting it to his ear as the line connected almost immediately.

"He came, just like you said," the guard murmured. "And I told him exactly what you told me to."

A brief pause followed, and then a voice slipped through the line, smooth and cold. "Perfect."