His Father Bought Me-Chapter 10: Fall Or Stay Trapped

Estelle’s heart hammered violently beneath her ribs as she tightened her fingers on the wheels. She looked at the stairs, calculating, strategizing, just like she always did before a jump. But this was different... and she knew it.

There was no ramp, no lift, and no one coming.

A slow exhale left her lips. "I’d rather fall than stay trapped here," she whispered... and she meant it.

She placed one trembling hand on the banister, and the cold metal bit into her palm. The other hand was pressed flat against the wall. Then she inched forward. One careful shift, then another.

The front wheels tipped over the first step, and her stomach dropped. For a moment, the chair held, and she thought she still had control. Then the wheel slipped, and gravity took over.

The chair lurched, dropped, slid.

The first impact jolted her spine, the second knocked a cry from her throat, and then the world became noise.

Wood cracked, metal rattled, and her own heartbeat roared in her ears as the wheelchair bounced violently down the steps, too fast, too rough. Her hands clawed at air, desperate to hold onto something... anything..

Then, the chair twisted sideways at the bottom. Her body slammed against the marble floor, and air blasted from her lungs in a harsh, broken sound.

For a moment, silence filled the space.

Her hair fell across her face, sticking to her damp skin, and the bitter taste of fear lingered at the back of her throat. For one second, she couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe.

Then footsteps rushed from the foyer below. "Miss! Are you—?"

"Get away from me!" She snapped, already dragging herself toward the chair, blood on her palms, hair in her face, but her eyes... Her eyes were alive with something the butler had never seen before.

Not defeat... fury.

The butler steadied the wheelchair as she dragged herself upright. Her arms shook violently from the strain, her muscles screamed as she hauled her weight back into the seat.

Finally, she settled, breathing hard, sweat cooling against her skin.

Somewhere upstairs, unseen cameras blinked, watching the fall and recording the impact.

She gripped the bent wheel and forced it forward anyway. It squealed in protest, but she didn’t stop.

"Miss, where are you going? You are injured," the butler called after her, confusion and concern lacing his voice.

Estelle didn’t answer. She didn’t even look back. She just continued forward, wheeling herself toward the massive foyer doors. As she reached, she stretched a trembling hand toward the handle and pushed.

The massive foyer doors opened with a low groan, and she froze.

The same black Mercedes was already waiting at the base of the steps. The driver stood beside it. His posture was rigid, and his hands were clasped behind his back, looking at her, not surprised... waiting.

For one suspended heartbeat, it felt like a hearse, and that made her pulse thunder erratically in her ears.

"Take me home!" she barked, the words scraped her throat on the way out, and her breath was still ragged from the strain of the stairs.

But the chauffeur didn’t move. He didn’t blink.

Before she could repeat herself, the foyer door creaked open behind her.

"Going somewhere?" Vance’s voice came from behind her, filled with authority and something else, something that made her heart skip.

Estelle didn’t turn. "To the rink."

"Of course you are." He stepped beside her, studying the bent wheelchair, the scrapes on her arms, and then her disheveled hair. "That was quite a fall," he said calmly. "We were observing."

Estelle looked at him now, her chest heaving. "You were watching..."

"We are always watching, Estelle. Always," he replied smoothly. Then, he turned to the chauffeur. "Take her wherever she wants to go."

The chauffeur nodded once and moved.

Vance’s eyes returned to her. "Remember what is at stake," he said and turned away.

Estelle refused to look at him or even acknowledge his words. Instead, she lifted her arms, offering herself up, the same way she had earlier. But this time, it wasn’t surrender, it was strategy. She silently hoped this would be the last time.

She had one card left, and she would play it even if it was the last thing she did.

The driver lifted her carefully into the back seat. As she settled into the chair, the leather was cool against her skin, a stark contrast to the heat that flooded her eyes. Then the door shut with a heavy, sealed sound.

As the chauffeur moved to the driver’s seat, Estelle’s gaze lifted, and she saw him. Her heart stopped beating for a brief second.

Magnus was standing at the top window, still as a statue. His hands were clasped behind his back as he watched her. There was no anger in his eyes, no urgency, just pure, unfiltered calculation, as if she were merely a piece sliding across a chessboard exactly as expected.

Her jaw tightened, and she held his gaze, refusing to look away first, making a silent declaration: You haven’t broken me... and I will fight before I let you break me. Only then did she turn her head, dismissing him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t just watched her nearly die.

"Get me out of here," she told the driver, with a voice that was low but fierce. "If this works out the way I know it will, I won’t be returning to this awful place, and better yet, I won’t need any one of them."

The engine roared to life, and from the top window, Vance stepped in beside Magnus. Together, they watched the Mercedes descend the driveway, moving towards the exit gates.

"Make the call," Magnus said calmly, but his voice had no emotion. "I want her back," he declared. Then his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. "And more obedient this time."

With that, he turned and walked away without another glance.

Vance did not waste another moment; he retrieved his phone and dialed, then he pressed the phone to his ear, his face hard as he watched the car disappear through the gates.

Then the line clicked.

"She is on her way, you know what to do."

The call ended.