The tension in the room was suffocating.

The doctor turned and gave a small nod to one of the nurses. Moments later, the nurse returned, a phone already in hand. She stepped forward and held it out.

Estelle didn’t hesitate. She grabbed it, her fingers tightening around the device. The call was already connected. She pressed it to her ear, and through the speaker, she heard the click of polished shoes. And she immediately knew.

"Tell him I’m right here," Estelle said quickly, skipping any greeting. "He’s clearly spiraling because he doesn’t know."

A pause stretched across the line before Magnus’s voice came through, almost too calm. "He hasn’t asked," he said. "And until he does, I won’t tell him anything. That was your condition, wasn’t it?"

Estelle’s breath hitched, and for a second, her certainty faltered. He hasn’t asked? Her brows pulled together as she shook her head, gripping the phone tighter. "That’s not true," she insisted. "Then why is he like that? Tell me!"

Magnus didn’t hesitate this time. "Roman is reacting to the headlines," he said evenly. "And the public’s response. Nothing more." His words settled coldly in her chest.

"Stop overestimating your importance," he continued, his tone almost clinical. "You’re not what drives him, his career is, and I suggest you focus on yours," he added, "before you’re forced to retire at the peak of it."

"I—" Estelle tried to speak, but the line went dead, and silence rushed in, loud and suffocating. She slowly lowered the phone, her grip loosening as her chest tightened with every uneven beat.

The doctor stepped forward, nodding to the nurses. "Take that from her," he said calmly. "And prepare her for theatre."

Gentle hands took the phone from her, easing it out of her grasp. Estelle barely resisted. Her brows remained furrowed as they wheeled her toward the door of the medical/surgery wing of the arena.

He’s only worried about the headlines? Did last night mean nothing to him? The thought echoed painfully.

—

Meanwhile, in the locker room, Roman stood frozen for a second too long. The air felt wrong, too thick, too tight in his lungs. Then the dizziness hit.

The room tilted slightly, the edges of his vision blurring as he struggled to draw in a full breath. His chest constricted, pressure building like something heavy had settled right on top of it. He dragged in air through his mouth, sharp and uneven, his hand flying to his chest as if he could force it to steady.

"What the hell—" he muttered under his breath, but there was no time to think. Not when everything inside him screamed that something was wrong.

He grabbed his gear without hesitation, fingers fumbling slightly, and stormed out of the locker room, one hand still pressed against his chest as he moved.

The hallway outside buzzed with noise and reporters waiting. The moment he stepped into view, he saw them, clustered, alert, hungry. He turned immediately, pivoting on his heel and heading the opposite direction.

"There he is!" someone shouted, and then footsteps erupted behind him.

Roman picked up his pace, his boots striking the floor harder now, his breath still uneven as he pushed forward. He veered off toward the back corridors, slipping into a quieter, private hallway where the noise dulled into a distant echo.

He glanced back once, but there was no one. For a moment, he slowed, closing his eyes as he pressed his palm harder against his chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm there.

In, out. In— and then he froze, his eyes snapping open.

He heard it. Estelle’s voice, soft, faint.

His heart slammed violently against his ribs, so hard it made his vision darken. He turned sharply, scanning the empty hallway, his breath catching.

"Estelle?" he called, his voice rough, uncertain, but silence answered him. He took a step forward, listened. Nothing.

Then—

"I found him!" a voice rang out. "Roman Whitehall, we have a few questions!" That shattered the spell.

Roman’s jaw tightened as he turned toward the noise, his mind racing. Did I imagine it? Or was she—? No.

There was no time to think. If she was here, then what the hell is going on? He spun around and pushed through the rear exit, the heavy door swinging open as cool air hit his face. He didn’t slow, his steps quick as he made his way toward the parking lot, to his car.

Footsteps echoed again behind him, closer now. The press had found another way around.

Roman’s teeth clenched as he reached the car and yanked the door open. He turned once, his eyes sharp, warning. "Stay away from me," he snapped, his voice low but dangerous. "Or I’ll make you regret it."

For once, they hesitated, and that was all he needed.

He slid into the driver’s seat and slammed the door shut, the engine roaring to life a second later. The tires screeched as he sped off, leaving them behind.

The morning sun stretched across the road ahead, bright and indifferent, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside him. His grip tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles paling as his jaw locked.

"I need to find you," he muttered, his voice strained. "Somehow."

—

Minutes later, the estate came into view.

Roman didn’t slow. The car screeched to a halt in front of the house, the abrupt stop sending a jolt through his already tense body. He killed the engine and was out in seconds, slamming the door behind him as he hurried toward the entrance.

The doors opened almost immediately, and the butler stood there.

Roman didn’t waste a second. "Where is my wife?" he demanded, his voice sharp, cutting through the quiet of the foyer. "No one walks in or out of this house without you knowing. So tell me, where did they take her?"

The butler stiffened slightly, caught off guard by the force in his tone. "Sir, I—"

"Don’t even dare lie to me," Roman snapped, stepping closer, his eyes blazing. "Tell me where she is."

The butler’s throat went dry, his composure slipping just a fraction. He had seen it, seen them take her, but the weight of his position held him in place. Carefully, he shook his head. "I didn’t see anything, Sir," he said, keeping his voice even. "Please, excuse me."

And with that, he turned to leave, but Roman gripped his arm with such force that he stumbled and was yanked back. The sudden movement knocked the breath from him. He froze when he saw Roman’s face. There was something in his eyes, sharp, unhinged, burning.

"If I find out you just lied to me," Roman said quietly, his voice low and calm, "you’ll have more than your job to worry about." The calm made it worse.

The butler swallowed, unable to respond. A second later, Roman released him. Without another word, he turned and stormed up the stairs, his steps quick, heavy, urgency driving every movement.

He went straight to Estelle’s room. As he opened the door, silence greeted him, forcing him to pause. The faint scent of her lingered in the air, soft and familiar, twisting something tight in his chest.

His eyes swept the room. The bed, dresser, and curtains shifted slightly with the breeze, but everything looked normal.

"No," he muttered under his breath, moving further in, searching, opening drawers, scanning every corner as if something might suddenly reveal itself. Nothing.

His shoulders sagged as the weight of it pressed down on him. He sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath him as he dragged a hand through his hair. His mind raced, thoughts colliding, refusing to settle.

Then, he stood abruptly. If there were answers anywhere, they were with Magnus. And Roman was done asking nicely.