While Estelle clung to the fragile thread of hope, across town, Roman sat under a very different kind of pressure.

The room felt close, too warm, too tight, as if the walls themselves were leaning in to listen. The faint hum of the air conditioner did little to cut through the tension.

Roman sat stiffly in his chair, his leg bouncing against the floor in a restless rhythm. His fingers curled against his thigh, then loosened, then curled again as he fought to keep himself steady.

"So far," Magnus said, his voice measured and cold, "since this interrogation began, you have not said anything convincing enough for us to allow you to ever set foot on the ice again." The words landed cleanly, without hesitation.

Roman drew in a breath, parting his lips to respond, but Magnus continued, not giving him the space.

"As far as we are concerned, you are a danger on the ice. Your recklessness is hardly news to anyone seated at this table."

A faint shuffle of movement followed. Subtle nods and quiet agreement.

Roman felt something tighten in his chest as his gaze moved from one face to another. No surprise there. If his own father sat at the head of the table, delivering judgment with that kind of certainty, what chance did he really have?

He exhaled slowly through his nose, a short, humorless scoff slipping out before he could stop it. Then he nodded once, twice, and then his eyes dropped briefly to the polished surface of the table before lifting again, this time settling directly on Magnus.

"I admit it," he said.

Magnus’s brows drew together slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his face as he studied him. What is he doing?

Roman held his gaze. "I was wrong," he continued, his voice steady, though something rough-edged beneath it. "I lost control." A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips. "I always do."

He shifted his attention to the rest of the panel, meeting their eyes one by one. "I’m not going to make excuses for what happened."

A murmur of approval rippled through the room, small nods, exchanged glances. For a moment, it almost felt like the tide had shifted. Almost. But Magnus didn’t move.

Roman drew in another breath, deeper this time, his chest rising as something heavier pressed forward. "But tell me something," he added, his voice tightening just slightly.

"How do you expect discipline from a man who’s never been allowed to make his own choices?" His gaze didn’t leave Magnus. "Every decision made before I even knew there was a choice to make."

A ripple moved through the panel. Frowns, shifting postures, low murmurs threaded through the silence.

"And what exactly do you mean by that?" one of the members asked, leaning forward. "Are you suggesting this is your father’s fault?"

Several heads turned toward Magnus, but he didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his gaze locked onto Roman’s, sharp and unyielding.

But Roman wasn’t finished. "I’m actually glad my father is the one chairing this panel," he said, his tone quieter now, but no less pointed, and his eyes didn’t leave Magnus. "Because all the answers are sitting right there."

All eyes shifted to Magnus once more. The room seemed to tighten around him, the low hum of the air conditioner suddenly too loud in the silence.

"Are you going to say something?" one of the panel members asked, leaning forward slightly.

A brief silence stretched. Not the usual kind, this one lingered, expectant, and even Magnus didn’t speak immediately.

He turned his head toward Roman, then gave a small shake. Fool. The word flickered through his mind before he adjusted in his seat, interlacing his fingers neatly on the table. When he spoke, his voice was controlled, carefully measured, but there was heat beneath it.

"This," he began, "is one of those moments I feel ashamed to be a father."

A faint stir moved through the room.

"Do you have any idea how bad you look," he continued, his gaze cutting back to Roman, "trying to blame the one person who has dedicated his life to your success?"

"Seriously?" Roman muttered under his breath, the words dry, almost lost in the space between them. "Don’t make me laugh."

Magnus ignored him. He turned slightly, addressing the rest of the panel now. "I never had to stand before a panel like this," he said. "And yet here I am, indirectly standing trial. Why?" he asked.

His gaze snapped back to Roman. "Because of you."

Roman didn’t respond. He simply shook his head slowly, a quiet, resigned motion. Here we go.

"If I failed anywhere," Magnus went on, his voice softening just enough to sound almost reflective, "it was in believing discipline would come naturally to my son."

He paused, drawing in a breath, his expression tightening as if weighed down by disappointment.

"I am ashamed," he added, his voice dipping, roughened just slightly. "Ashamed that I now sit at the head of a panel where my only son, whom I have done everything to see succeed, is the one being judged."

A faint sniff followed. He shook his head again.

Across the table, Roman let out a quiet scoff, the sound sharp against the polished silence. "Stop it, Father," he said, the irritation clear, cutting through whatever performance was unfolding.

"Are you suggesting he should be pardoned because of your position?" another panel member asked, his tone edged with skepticism.

Magnus turned to him quickly, exhaling through his nose. "No," he said, firm and immediate. "Quite the opposite." He straightened in his chair, his fingers tightening briefly before relaxing again. "As a matter of fact, I intend to set an example with my son."

Roman didn’t flinch. Of course. This was the point. Not just to judge him, but to do it while looking him in the eye.

Magnus swept his gaze across the table, taking in each member before he spoke again. "What I propose," he said, his voice taking on an official weight, "is a temporary ban on Roman Whitehall."

The words detonated in the quiet room.

"He will issue a formal, public admission of misconduct," Magnus continued. "Following that, he will undergo a full evaluation with the mental health team. We need to be certain he is fit, mentally and professionally, to return."

He paused briefly. "He will also complete retraining," he added, "including a structured program on the ethics of the sport, alongside mandatory community service within the hockey system."

Silence followed.

Roman felt his heart pound harder with each word, each condition stacking like a sentence being carved in stone, delivered by the very person who should have shielded him.

Magnus glanced around the table, reading the room, measuring reactions. But he didn’t look at Roman.

"That," he said at last, his tone final, "is my verdict."

For a moment, Roman forgot to breathe.