"I said get out of my car. Now!" the driver barked again, sharper this time, the edge in his voice filling the tight space of the cab.

Roman didn’t move. For a second, he just sat there, his chest rising unevenly, his fingers curled loosely in his lap as if he’d run out of strength to even argue.

"Please..." His voice came out rough, thinner than he intended. His shoulders sagged, the fight draining out of him all at once. His eyes glistened, the weight of everything pressing down hard. "I need your help."

He swallowed, his throat dry. "If you throw me out now," he continued, quieter, "I’ll lose it. I don’t have the strength to fight the whole world anymore."

The words hung between them.

The driver looked at him, really looked this time, and then something in his expression shifted. The tension in his face eased, just a fraction. Then, with a low breath, he reached for the door and pulled it shut.

Then he slid back into his seat, the worn leather creaking faintly beneath him. The engine came alive again with a low hum, and he adjusted the rearview mirror, meeting Roman’s eyes briefly.

"As much as I’m disappointed in what you did," he said, his tone steadier now, "I’m still human, and you deserve your dignity." He paused, his voice dropping lower. "You should show Leo the same."

Roman’s lips parted, but no words came as the driver had already turned forward, easing the car back into motion.

Roman exhaled slowly, the breath trembling on its way out. He nodded faintly, more to himself than anyone else. "I’ll fix this. I promise," he murmured under his breath.

His chest still felt tight, almost hollow as he reached into his pocket again and pulled out his phone, dialing Estelle’s number with unsteady fingers.

The call didn’t ring this time, it just went straight to voicemail.

His grip tightened, knuckles paling. "Where the hell are you?" he whispered, pressing a hand to his temple as if he could quiet the pounding in his head. "Why would you leave me alone now?"

—

Meanwhile, deep beneath the Whitehall Estate, the recovery room lay quiet, sealed off from the world above.

Estelle rested on the narrow bed, the sheets tucked too tightly around her legs. Tubes trailed from her hands, cool against her skin, the steady drip of fluid and the soft beeping of machines were the only sounds keeping her company. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, sharp and clean, almost suffocating.

Her eyes stayed open as her mind refused to rest. She needed her phone. The thought circled endlessly, pressing harder with each passing second.

If she could just reach him, just hear his voice, then she could tell him everything. That there was hope, that she wasn’t gone. That she was still here. So close. Unknowingly, painfully close.

The faint creak of the door cut through the silence. Estelle’s gaze snapped toward it, her pulse quickening.

Vance stepped inside. His movements were measured, unhurried, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. His face, as always, revealed nothing. No irritation, no concern, no trace of whatever thoughts lay beneath. Just that same controlled stillness.

Estelle watched him closely, her eyes narrowing slightly, searching. As if this time, she might finally see through the mask he wore so effortlessly, but she found nothing.

"Will you let me be taken to the physiotherapist?" she asked, her voice still weak but steadier than before. "Or at least have him come here?"

Vance didn’t answer immediately. He moved closer instead, stopping beside her bed, his presence quiet but heavy.

"Do you think we won’t keep our end of the bargain?" he said at last, his tone calm, carrying no warmth, no reassurance. Just control. "We promised you surgery," he continued, looking down at her, "and the therapy you need to walk again."

A slight pause.

"And that will happen." His gaze sharpened just a fraction. "As long as you remain calm, and stop asking questions."

The machines continued their steady rhythm in the silence that followed.

Estelle let out a slow breath, forcing the tension from her chest as best as she could. Then she nodded, small but certain.

"I’m ready to walk again," she said, her voice steadier now, even with the faint tremor beneath it. "I’ll do whatever you ask of me."

"Good." Vance didn’t linger on it. His tone remained even, already turning toward the door. "The therapist will be here by morning."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the room fell quiet again. Just the soft, rhythmic beeping of machines and the faint hum of air circulating through the vents filled the air.

Estelle swallowed, her throat dry as her thoughts began to spin again. Slowly, she turned her head toward the corner of the room, where the nurse sat with a book resting in her lap.

"Can you please tell me where I am, Miss?" Estelle asked, her voice careful, almost gentle. "Please?"

The nurse’s head snapped up, her brows lifting slightly as their eyes met. For a moment, it seemed like she might answer, but then she looked away, back to the book.

Estelle’s fingers curled faintly against the sheets, urgency slipping into her tone. "Just tell me where I am."

There was no response. Instead, the nurse closed the book and stood, smoothing her uniform, and walked toward the door.

"Wait—" Estelle’s heart kicked harder. "Where are you going?"

But the nurse didn’t slow, didn’t turn.

"Can you at least give me my phone?" Estelle called after her, her voice rising just a little. "Please—"

Then she opened the door and stepped outside. For a split second, Estelle strained to see beyond it, anything, a hallway, a window, a clue, but it shut again just as quickly, cutting her off.

The silence that followed felt heavier as the thought of her situation hit her fully now, crashing through whatever composure she’d been holding onto. The walls suddenly felt too tight, the ceiling too low.

Her chest rose sharply as she tried to shift, but pain flared instantly down her back. She gasped, her breath catching as she stopped again, forcing herself to inhale slowly, the air trembling in her lungs.

"I need to know where I am. I have to find out somehow," she whispered to herself, though it did little to steady her.

Her eyes drifted to the ceiling, scanning it as if it might offer answers, cracks, patterns, anything familiar. Still nothing. Everything about the room felt wrong.

Her lips parted, and the words slipped out before she could stop them. "Oh God, I need help." Her voice broke softer now. "I need you, Roman."