His Father Bought Me-Chapter 8: Fresh From The Shower

"What? Wait." Estelle’s voice cracked. "Where are you going? Come back!"

Her words chased them down the hallway, but they did not turn, did not even hesitate. All Estelle saw was the white uniforms disappearing around the corner... leaving her alone... in front of a closed door.

"What the hell is going on in this house?" Estelle murmured, perplexed.

She looked at the door, her mind racing. Who could be behind this door?

She wheeled herself forward and pressed her ear to the door. Then she heard it. Water running, and then a shower shutting off. Then, there was movement behind the door.

Her heart stopped. Then it began to hammer again, far more fiercely this time. It’s not a guest room. It’s his room. Her eyes widened, and a mix of fear and shock gripped her. Before she could move, the lock rattled.

Once... twice... not a gentle turn nor a polite click. With a violent twist of metal, as if someone on the other side was yanking it open with more force than necessary.

Estelle’s stomach dropped, her heart threatening to escape her chest.

Then the door flew open, and there he was again.

Roman. Nothing like the man she had faced downstairs. This time, he looked like a Viking god. Half-dressed, shirtless, his skin still damp, water sliding in slow lines down his well-carved chest. His hair was wet, darker than before, curling slightly at the ends. Heat radiated off him. A towel hung loose in one hand.

Fresh from the shower. What is this? Couldn’t he even wear a shirt?

Estelle’s mind was a whirlwind as the smell of soap and something sharp, clean, masculine, cut through the cold hallway air. Her gaze dropped before she could stop it... to the towel that barely wrapped around his waist.

Her eyes moved again to his broad shoulders, defined chest, the faint sheen of moisture catching the light, and she swallowed hard.

And then she finally looked up, and whatever flicker had been in her expression died instantly. Because his face? His face held nothing but disgust. Raw, unfiltered, disgust. His grip on the doorframe tightened until his knuckles went white.

"What the hell are you doing at my door?" Roman demanded, his voice blazing. "You have some nerve showing up here."

"I didn’t know—"

"For your own good, get out of here and go back to wherever you came from!" he snapped, slicing through her words. "You are not welcome here!"

Each word hit like a slap.

Estelle opened her mouth again, but Roman stepped back and slammed the door in her face. The crack echoed down the hallway like a gunshot.

She flinched as the vibration ran through the wood, through the wheels, through her bones. For a moment, even time seemed to hesitate.

Estelle looked left, then right. The corridor stretched endlessly in both directions, closed doors, no footsteps, no rescue. She could see it. No one was coming, and if she needed saving, she would have to claw it for herself.

She closed her eyes briefly and inhaled, dragging air into her chest until it steadied. Then she knocked.

Once, nothing. Twice, still nothing.

She rolled forward again until her knees nearly touched the door. Then she leaned in close enough that her forehead brushed the wood.

"Open the door, Roman," she said, her voice lower now. Steadier. "Or don’t..." She paused for a breath. Then— "But if you walk out that front door to see Lena, Magnus cuts my surgeons. And if he cuts my surgeons—"

Before she could finish, the door exploded open, so hard the force knocked her balance backward. Her chair tipped, but strong hands caught her.

Roman’s grip locked around her arms, steadying her before she could fall. Their faces were inches apart. His breath was warm against her skin, and her pulse thundered between them like a live wire.

Neither moved. Neither spoke.

For one suspended second, the war stopped, and all that existed was the heat, the fury, and the dangerous awareness that he had just caught the very woman he claimed he didn’t want.

"If he cuts your surgeons?" Roman repeated, his voice was calm, the kind of calm that came right before something shattered. But he was still holding her, still close enough that she could see the faint pulse beating at the base of his throat.

Estelle lifted her chin, and her eyes locked onto his. "If he cuts my surgeons," she said evenly. "I tell the press that the Whitehall Beast couldn’t handle a wife in a wheelchair. How do you think that will look for your legacy?"

Her tone never wavered. The words hung between them like a lit match.

Roman’s gaze dropped. Not to her hands, not to the chair... to her lips. Just for a second. Heat flared in his eyes. Something darker than anger. His fingers tightened once before he forced himself to let go.

She pitched forward, the world tilting, but her hand shot out and caught the doorframe. Her palm scraped against polished wood, but she refused to fall.

Roman stepped back as if she’d burned him. "I thought being the Ice Queen meant grace, dignity," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Turns out you’re just bargaining like the rest of them." His mouth curled. "Another shark circling for a payout. You’d sell your soul just to stand on two feet again."

The words landed harder than they should have, slicing through bone and memory, through hospital corridors and sleepless nights and the echo of skates carving ice. For a split second, something fragile inside her cracked, but she didn’t let him see it.

Instead, she held his gaze, unblinking. "Would you keep your soul?" she asked quietly. "If it meant you never got to wear that gear again?"

Silence rushed in. Roman’s hand twitched toward the door. But he hadn’t closed it yet... and that told her everything.

Roman would burn the world to stay on the ice, to keep that gear on his back and have that stick in his hand.

"You’re the one in the wheelchair, not me," Roman finally shot back, colder now. "Do whatever twisted deal you want with my father, but keep me out of it."

Estelle’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. "Want to know why they called me the Ice Queen? It wasn’t because I was cold..." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes calculating. "But because I never missed a landing... and I don’t plan to start now."

A low chuckle left him, the sound was mocking. "Maybe not," he said softly. "Otherwise you’d be standing in front of me right now."

Then his eyes darkened. "And if you were, maybe I’d consider whether you’re worth carrying the Whitehall name."