"What? That’s impossible!" Victoria snapped. "Her spine can never be fixed. I made sure of it!"

Magnus smiled, his tone dropping lower. "That’s what you get for hiring quacks," he said.

Vance’s eyes flicked up at that. Magnus leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze distant, calculating.

"That is ridiculous. I saw it with my own two eyes. You need—"

"I suggest you save your speech and use this little head start wisely," Magnus cut in smoothly. "Build your defenses. Strengthen whatever it is you think will protect you." His lip curled faintly. "And spend less time parading that talentless duo of yours."

There was a brief pause. Then—

"Your daughter is ambitious and very useful," he added, almost conversational. "And we both know how easily that can be turned." His voice dropped just a fraction. "Especially when she’s flying under the Whitehall banner. And you already know I don’t lose."

"What are you—"

"Good luck, Victoria," Magnus cut in smoothly. "You’re going to need it." He ended the call before she could finish, and the screen went dark.

Silence rushed back into the room.

Magnus’s expression hardened almost instantly, the last trace of amusement gone. His fingers began to tap against the desk, each sound punctuating his thoughts.

Vance shook his head under his breath. "We should never have trusted her," he muttered. "That woman is vile."

Magnus didn’t look at him. "Focus on your job, Vance," he said flatly. "Make sure Estelle walks again. I’ll deal with Victoria when I’m ready."

He rose from his chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and crossed to the window. Slipping his hands into his pockets, he stared out, his gaze settling somewhere beyond the glass, toward the part of the estate where Estelle was being kept.

The light outside cast faint reflections across his face, but his expression remained unreadable.

"She tried to play me," he said at last, his voice calm, almost thoughtful. A faint pause. "And I know exactly how to deal with her."

—

Meanwhile, in another part of town, Roman sat rigidly in the back of the cab, his head tipped slightly back against the seat. His eyes were closed, but there was no rest in him, only noise as his thoughts collided, spiraled, refusing to settle.

The low hum of the engine and the faint rattle of the car over uneven roads filled the silence.

"We’re here," the driver said at last.

Roman drew in a slow breath, forcing his lungs to expand. He blinked his eyes open, momentarily disoriented, then reached into his pocket and made the payment without even looking.

The door creaked as he pushed it open, and the cool air brushed against his face as he stepped out, his mind still somewhere else entirely. He took one step, then another, and then he paused.

Something felt off. His foot shifted slightly against the ground, his brows pulling together. The texture beneath his shoes was wrong. The space was wrong. Even the ground was wrong.

He lifted his head, and that was when he realized that this wasn’t the Whitehall estate. Instead, a quiet duplex stood in front of him, tucked into a different part of town. The street was quieter, the faint hum of distant voices drifting through the air.

Roman turned sharply, striding back toward the cab. "This is not my home," he said, his voice tightening. "Where have you brought me?"

The driver didn’t look rattled. If anything, he seemed settled. "Where you need to be," he replied, glancing toward the house.

Roman followed that look, his eyes narrowing. And then recognition hit him a second later. His stomach tightened. This was where it had started. The argument. The fight. This was Leo’s house.

Roman swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and turned back to the driver. "And how did you know this is Leo’s place?" he asked, suspicion threading through his tone.

The driver shrugged faintly. "Just go in," he said. "Talk to him. Give him the same dignity I gave you." A brief pause. "After that, I’ll take you to the Whitehall estate just like you asked."

Roman held his gaze for a moment, searching for something, anything, but the man offered nothing more. Slowly, he exhaled and turned.

The house loomed a little larger now as he faced it fully. He drew in a deeper breath, steadying himself, and started forward. Each step felt heavier than the last.

As he got closer, the faint murmur of voices sharpened. Laughter, easy and unguarded, drifted through the door. The house sounded too lively for all the chaos the city was in.

"This is the most hilarious thing ever—"

Roman froze. His brows snapped together. That voice. No. His pulse spiked. That’s Leo. The realization hit hard, sending a jolt through him. His steps quickened instinctively, urgency replacing hesitation.

Within seconds, he was at the door. He knocked once, and the first thing he heard was silence. Then movement. The faint scuffle of feet against the floor, hurried, uneven. Something shifting inside.

Roman’s heartbeat picked up, thudding hard against his ribs. First, Leo’s voice, and now this?

Something wasn’t right.

He knocked again, sharper this time, his gaze flicking across the front of the house, until it caught on the curtain. Slightly open, just enough.

His breath hitched. That was his chance, and he wasn’t about to waste it.

His chest rose and fell unevenly as he turned away from the porch, his steps quickening almost without thought.

The wooden boards creaked faintly beneath his feet as he descended, the sound sharp against the rush of blood in his ears.

His gaze stayed locked on the window, the curtain shifted slightly in the breeze, just enough to keep that narrow gap open, just enough to pull him closer.

By the time he reached it, his pulse was hammering so hard it felt like it might split his chest open.

He slowed, just for a second, drew in a tight breath, and then he leaned in.

The fabric brushed lightly against his shoulder as he angled himself toward the opening, the faint glow from inside spilling across his face.

And when he looked through, his eyes widened, shock hitting so fast it left him momentarily breathless.