The room held its breath. Every gaze was fixed on him.

"Sit down and let’s begin. You’ve already wasted enough time getting here." Magnus’s voice was cold, measured, official, stripped of anything resembling fatherly warmth.

Roman’s jaw tightened. His rebuttal rose to his lips, sharp and ready, but he swallowed it down. Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair, the leather creaking faintly beneath his weight.

His pulse thudded loudly in his ears, but he kept his eyes on Magnus, watching him as the realization settled fully into place.

But how? When did he gain this much control over the board?

"Now," Magnus said, folding his hands neatly on the table, "tell us exactly what happened." His tone was different here, detached. But his eyes? His eyes hadn’t changed at all.

Roman held his gaze, something tight coiling in his chest. How do I defend myself when the man judging me is the one who set this up? He’s not here to listen, he’s here to finish this.

As Roman parted his lips to speak, one of the panel members lifted a hand, stopping him mid-breath.

"Choose your words carefully," the man said, his voice low but pointed. "And make sure your answer proves your career is worth saving."

The room seemed to press in on him.

Roman glanced at the man, then back at the table, his fingers curling slightly against his thigh. What could he possibly say when the verdict already felt decided?

—

While Roman sat under judgment, across town, the ambulance sped past the tall gates of the Whitehall Estate, and the mansion came into view, grand, imposing in the morning light, but the vehicle didn’t slow at the front entrance.

Instead, it veered around the side.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires as it approached a secluded section at the back of the estate, where a discreet door stood partially hidden against the structure.

And Vance was already there, standing still, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, his posture relaxed, his expression unreadable as he watched the ambulance roll to a stop.

The back doors swung open with a metallic click and the stretcher slid out smoothly, wheels rattling softly as it touched the ground. Two nurses stepped forward immediately, slipping into position as if rehearsed. The surgical team followed close behind.

"This way," Vance said, his voice calm, gesturing toward the open door and they moved quickly.

Inside, the air shifted. It was cooler, quieter, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering beneath something older, more concealed.

Vance led them down a narrow staircase that went beneath the building, each step echoing faintly as they descended deeper, hidden beneath the estate.

At the bottom, a door awaited, opened to a fully prepared room, machines already humming, nurses moving with quiet efficiency as they connected drips, checked monitors, adjusted lines. The stretcher was wheeled in and locked into place.

—

Moments later, Estelle stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling as consciousness slowly dragged her upward. A dull heaviness clung to her limbs, her head thick and fogged as she squinted, trying to make sense of her surroundings.

This wasn’t the hospital. This wasn’t where she had closed her eyes. The ceiling looked different, the air was different as well. The silence was too complete, like the room was sealed off from the world.

"Where am I?" she whispered, her voice barely more than breath.

But Vance heard and he stepped forward, his gaze settling on her, his face completely devoid of emotion. "You have more than the setting to worry about," he said quietly.

And just like that, the first blow landed.

Estelle’s brows pulled together at his words, the fog in her head thinning just enough for unease to creep in. "What—what are you saying?" she asked, her voice rough, barely carrying past her lips as she struggled to push the words out.

The lead surgeon let out a slow breath and stepped closer to the bed. There was something in his expression, heavy, almost regretful, that made her pulse spike. The monitor beside her reacted instantly, its steady rhythm quickening into sharp, uneven beeps.

"What’s happening?" she asked again, her gaze locking onto his face, searching for something, anything.

He exhaled once more, his shoulders dipping slightly. "The surgery was complicated," he said carefully. "The damage to your spine was far more extensive than we anticipated."

Estelle’s eyes widened. Her heart lurched violently, and for a split second, she was back there again. On the cold hospital sheets, sterile lights, and the aftermath of the fall. The memory hit like a wave, stealing the air from her lungs.

Her chest rose and fell in uneven bursts as she tried to process what he was saying and what he wasn’t saying.

"Did you have any prior procedures done on your spine?" the surgeon asked gently.

Procedure? Estelle frowned, her head shifting weakly against the pillow. The movement sent a dull ache through her skull. She tried to think, but her mind felt thick, sluggish.

Then she shook her head. "No," she murmured, then forced a little more strength into her voice. "But what are you trying to say?" Her eyes flicked between him and Vance. "Do you think this was done on purpose? I was unconscious for days after my accident on the ice. Do you think—?"

The surgeon hesitated, his lips parting as if to answer—

"I think we should leave the past where it is," Vance cut in smoothly, his tone quiet but firm, slicing through the moment before the surgeon could respond.

The surgeon hesitated, glancing briefly at him, then turned back to Estelle. "We did everything we could," he said. "But the next few hours will be critical."

Estelle swallowed hard, her throat dry. "You think it didn’t work?" she asked, her voice trembling now, the monitor beside her echoing her rising panic with sharper, faster beeps.

The surgeon reached toward a tray and picked up a small reflex hammer, the metal catching the light. "We’ll run a simple test," he said, moving toward the foot of the bed. "It will give us a clearer picture. Tell me if you feel anything. Even the slightest sensation matters."

Estelle nodded, though her body felt anything but steady. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything else. Not again. This cannot be happening again. She drew in a shaky breath, the sterile scent in the air filling her lungs, and let it out slowly.

The surgeon tapped the underside of her right foot. He looked up at her expectantly. Estelle’s eyes widened slightly, and then she shook her head.

"No," she whispered.

A shadow passed over his face. Vance’s eyes narrowed as though he was also expectant.

He moved to her left foot and tapped again, a little firmer this time. The faint sound echoed in the quiet room. His gaze lifted to hers, and she shook her head again, more slowly this time.

"Nothing at all?" he asked.

Her vision blurred as tears gathered, burning at the edges of her eyes. Her chest tightened painfully. This was it, her only chance.

Then the surgeon tapped her heel once more, testing, waiting. But she shook her head again, the movement weaker now, her hope slipping with it. His shoulders sagged as he lowered the hammer slightly, preparing to set it aside.

Then—

"Wait." The word came out thin, but urgent as Estelle’s breath hitched. "I... I felt that," she said, her voice trembling, uncertain but desperate. "It was late, but I think I felt something."

Her eyes locked onto his, clinging to that fragile thread of hope. "Check it again."