His Father Bought Me-Chapter 13: I Won’t Go Back

Estelle stiffened, her heart hammered painfully in her chest.

On the ice, Justin lifted Serena again, higher this time. Serena’s arms stretched wide. Estelle’s gaze dropped to the dress again, to the delicate stitching at the waist, to the tiny flaw near the seam only she knew about. Except, it wasn’t there anymore, the imperfection had been fixed.

"That’s mine," she said quietly.

Victoria followed her gaze. "It was," she agreed. "But Serena noticed the flaw during her first fitting. Poor craftsmanship," she said. "We had it repaired."

"The hem is wrong. She’s going to trip because she doesn’t understand the physics of the silk," Estelle murmured, her eyes fixed on the dress.

There was a pause. As if Victoria was observing her comment. "Don’t worry, she has an eye for detail you never developed," she finally replied, her smile didn’t reach her eyes. "She’s everything you should have been."

The words cracked like a whip. Estelle flinched as if struck.

On the ice, Justin lowered Serena gently. Their bodies stayed close for a second too long as they looked at each other.

Estelle knew that look. She had memorized it. It was the same look he gave her right before he kissed her.

"Justin!" she screamed before she could stop herself, her voice shattered against the cold air.

Justin’s head snapped toward the sound, and their eyes met. Shock flickered across his face first, then guilt followed. His lips parted. "Estelle, I—"

"Don’t," Serena said quietly, her hand finding his arm. "You’re with me now."

Justin’s gaze held Estelle’s for one more moment, guilt creasing his brows. "I tried to call," he said, looking at Estelle. "But your number was disconnected. They told me you’re a Whitehall now."

"It’s not—" Before Estelle could gather her response, the wheelchair jerked backward. Victoria’s firm hands clamped around the handles.

"Wait, Mother. I need to talk to him!" Estelle yelled, twisting, trying to grab the wheels.

"What you need," Victoria snapped, pushing harder, "is to get out of here."

Justin moved, but Serena caught his arm, holding him in place.

The rubber tires of Estelle’s wheelchair squealed faintly against the rink floor as Victoria pushed.

"Mother..." The word broke in Estelle’s throat.

But no one came. Not her father, not her coach, and certainly not Justin.

And as if no one cared about her, on the ice, the music started again. Serena resumed her position as if her sister had never existed, and Justin took his place like he had never promised to hold her hand always.

Her world... the rink, the music, the lights, the applause... all of it collapsed inward like ice cracking beneath too much weight.

Her shoulders slumped. But only for a moment before something inside her snapped.

No. I’m not going down without a fight.

Estelle’s hands shot out, gripping the doorframe hard enough to whiten her knuckles. "No!" she gasped. "I’m not leaving. Not like this, Mother. This is my home too! You can’t just send me away! I belong right here. I fought for my place here!"

"Is that so?" Victoria said, her tone too calm.

For a brief second, Estelle thought she had won, that her mother finally saw reason and everything would go back to normal.

Then the sharp heel of Victoria’s designer shoe came down on Estelle’s fingers. Not hard enough to break them, just hard enough to hurt.

Estelle’s grip released with a sharp cry.

"You have no claim here," Victoria said, pushing the chair forward with brutal efficiency. "You are Mrs. Whitehall now. Act like it!"

The wheels hit the threshold, and the cold air slammed into Estelle’s face. She twisted, trying to see back inside, trying to catch one last glimpse of the ice, but the door was already closing, the slow hiss final.

Outside, Victoria stopped only long enough to snap her fingers at the chauffeur. "Take her back," she said flatly. "And this time, make sure she stays there... no one wants her here."

The driver hesitated just for a fraction of a second, and then he nodded. "Ma’am," he said gently, stepping forward, reaching for her. "We need to g—"

"Don’t touch me!" The words ripped from her throat, raw and filled with defiance as her fists slammed against the wheelchair arms. The metal rang with each impact.

"I won’t go back there. I won’t!" Her voice cracked.

The driver hesitated, glancing back at Victoria, confused.

Victoria’s expression didn’t change. "I said take her," she said simply. "She’ll calm down once she realizes there’s nowhere else to go."

Estelle’s hands flew to the wheels. She tried to push, to move, to go anywhere but toward that car. Unfortunately, her arms had nothing left. The strength that had carried her up the incline was gone, burned away.

The driver lifted her carefully, but she fought anyway. Her fists were weak, desperate, ineffective against his body.

"Please," she whispered as he placed her in the back seat. "Please don’t make me go back there."

Her pleas fell on deaf ears. The door shut with a heavy thud, sealing her inside. She pounded her fists against the window, once, twice, and then her hands fell limp. Through the window, the rink lights blurred.

Estelle didn’t realize she was crying until she tasted salt.

The music faded as the car pulled away, replaced by the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the tires on pavement. She pressed her palm against the glass, leaving a handprint in the condensation, and then watched it fade, then disappear as if she had never been there at all.

The Mercedes turned the corner, and the Rutledge Center vanished from view. She had arrived as a daughter searching for refuge. But she left as a Whitehall, sold, replaced, and sent back to the only cage she had left.

But as the car rolled forward, her mind spun. The Rutledge family had thrown her away. And now she was going back to the one place she had begged not to return to.

Back to Roman Whitehall.