Estelle’s eyes slid shut, as if closing them might somehow send the plea out into the world, and he could somehow hear her.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and Estelle’s eyes flew open, hope flaring instantly, but it died just as fast.

Vance stepped in, and the air shifted with him. Her pulse spiked again, hard and fast against her ribs as he moved to her bedside, his expression set, unreadable.

"There will be consequences," he said evenly, "if you try to speak to any of the nurses again."

Estelle’s face tightened, confusion and frustration flashing across it. "I don’t understand," she said, her voice strained. "Then why is she here? I’m paralyzed, not mute. I need to talk to someone, or I’ll lose my mind in here."

Vance didn’t soften, didn’t waver. "Don’t push your luck, Estelle," he replied, his tone firm, final.

The machines continued their steady beeping in the silence that followed, the sound suddenly louder than before.

Estelle’s jaw tightened as she held his gaze, her fingers curling into the thin hospital sheets. The fabric crumpled softly under her grip. Not for much longer, she told herself. Slowly, she forced her hands to relax, smoothing the creases she had made.

"I just want my phone back," she said after a moment, her voice steadier now, her expression carefully neutral. "So I can catch up on what happened while I was unconscious."

Vance watched her, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though weighing every word. "Is that all?" he asked, his head tilted just a fraction. "Or do you want to call Roman?"

Estelle didn’t flinch. She met his gaze head-on, her chin lifting slightly despite the weakness in her body.

"And is it such a terrible thing," she asked quietly, "for a wife to want to speak to her husband?"

For a brief second, silence stretched between them.

Then Vance smiled, but it wasn’t warm, and it didn’t reach his eyes.

"Oh, Estelle," he murmured, almost amused, shaking his head as he unlocked the tablet in his hand. The faint glow of the screen lit his face from below. "You really do think highly of yourself."

His fingers moved quickly across the screen. Estelle’s eyes followed every movement, her pulse beginning to pick up again. She leaned forward as much as her body allowed, straining to catch even a glimpse.

"What are you—"

"Or maybe," Vance cut in smoothly, "you think too highly of him." He turned the tablet toward her, and Estelle’s breath caught.

For a moment, he held it just out of reach, just long enough for the anticipation to build, then he lifted it fully into her line of sight, and her eyes widened.

The image hit her all at once. Roman was standing close to Lena. The two of them facing each other beside a car at the arena. Too close, too familiar. The captured moment looked intimate in a way that made her chest tighten.

Something inside her dropped hard.

Vance watched her carefully, a slow satisfaction settling into his expression as her eyes began to glisten. "You see," he said softly, almost conversational, "we are only trying to protect you from things like this."

He turned the screen off before she could look any longer, lowering the tablet to his side. Estelle’s gaze lingered where it had been, as if the image were still there.

"Contrary to what you might think," he continued, "we do care. But Roman?" he added lightly, "I’ll leave you to decide that for yourself."

Estelle didn’t respond, she couldn’t. Her jaw tightened as she stared ahead, unfocused, the image replaying over and over in her mind. Roman’s face, Lena’s proximity, the way they had looked at each other. Each replay pressed deeper.

"As your friend," Vance went on, his tone almost thoughtful now, "I’d suggest you focus on getting back on your feet." His gaze flicked briefly to her legs, then back to her face. "So you can fight your own battles. Instead of lying here while your ’husband’ is out there living as if you never existed," he finished.

Estelle swallowed, the tightness in her throat lingering as she forced herself to steady her breathing. Then she nodded slowly. "When will the physiotherapist arrive?" she asked, her voice firm despite the strain beneath it. "I need to start as soon as possible."

Vance’s smile widened, almost pleased. "I like that," he said lightly. "That kind of enthusiasm will serve you well." He paused, watching her. "And if you follow protocol," he added, "you might even be able to attend the memorial your mother is so determined to host."

Estelle’s head snapped toward him, her pulse spiked instantly. "She fixed a date?" she asked, her voice sharper now, the words rushing out before she could stop them.

Vance reached into his pocket again, unhurried, and pulled out a card. He placed it neatly on the small table beside her bed. "I’ll leave this with you," he said. "You can look through it when you’re ready."

The card sat there, still, quiet, harmless in appearance.

Estelle stared at it, and her heart cracked somewhere deep in her chest. A date. Her family had chosen a date to bury her. And Roman— Her throat tightened. Roman had already moved on.

The image from the tablet flickered again in her mind, sharper this time, more cruel.

Vance watched her closely, as though reading every shift in her expression. "Get some rest, Estelle," he said, his tone smoothing out again. "You’ll need it for what’s coming."

He turned and walked out, the door closing behind him with a soft, final click, and silence settled in again, heavy and unforgiving.

Estelle didn’t move at first. She just stared at the card, her vision blurring slightly at the edges. "I disappear for one day," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her hand rose slowly to her temple, pressing there as if she could hold herself together. "And you already ran back to Lena?" A hollow breath left her. "God, I’m such a fool."