His Father Bought Me-Chapter 2: I Can’t Be Sold

"No..." Estelle’s breath felt like it had turned to stone in her throat, heavy and impossible to swallow. She looked at her mother, searching for a glimmer of a joke or mistake. "You don’t mean—"

"I already said yes." The words hit harder than the fall.

A sharp, ragged gasp escaped Estelle’s lips before she could stop it. Her mother didn’t even flinch at the sound. She simply straightened the lapels of her blazer, smoothing out a wrinkle that wasn’t there.

"We just need your signature," Victoria said simply.

A broken, hysterical laugh escaped Estelle’s lips. "I just fell, Mother. I’m still in a hospital bed. I’m not— No... I can’t be sold."

"You didn’t just fall, Estelle. You lost your career. Don’t confuse the two." Victoria shot back, stepping closer. "One is a tragedy, the other is bankruptcy. I’m simply choosing the one that’s best for everyone."

"Best for everyone?" Tears burned in Estelle’s eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "I am not something you can just sell off."

Victoria’s expression shifted. "You were always something to sell, Estelle. You see, talent, beauty, and even tragedy are marketable." Her gaze softened artificially. "This is simply a different market."

The words wrapped around Estelle’s throat. "Who?" she whispered.

Victoria smiled. "A very powerful name in the NHL."

Ice spread through Estelle’s veins as her mother added carefully, "Someone we won’t say no to."

Her fingers dug into the sheet, nails leaving crescent marks as a tremor ran through her. "I don’t care. I won’t do it."

Her mother held her gaze steadily. "You will."

"Why? Because you said so?" Estelle demanded with glassy eyes.

"Because if you don’t." Victoria paused, then leaned in close enough that her shadow fell across Estelle’s body. "If you don’t, we cannot afford your rehabilitation."

"B-But you said it might be temporary," Estelle said, her voice breaking.

"It might be," her mother agreed. "With the best surgeons, the best facilities, and the best care."

She let the implication hang.

"And without it?"

"Those stay exactly as they are. Forever." Victoria let the words hang as her eyes drifted again to the legs beneath the sheet. "The window for spinal recovery is small. Weeks, not months. And the best surgeons don’t wait for payment plans."

A cold, suffocating weight settled on Estelle’s chest. She looked down at the pale, motionless legs that used to be her pride, her freedom. The thought of them never moving again, of being trapped in this stillness while the world moved on, was a terror more violent than the fall itself.

She looked at Victoria. "You would let me—"

"I would do what is necessary," Victoria cut in.

The truth settled like ash. This wasn’t about survival, it was about return on investment.

"What’s in it for you?" The words tasted like blood in Estelle’s mouth.

Victoria didn’t reply, but the way her lips curved said it all.

Estelle closed her eyes, and she could feel the ice beneath her again. The crack, the fall. She had always known she would break eventually, but she never thought her mother would push her.

Suddenly, the door opened again, and the nurse returned, apologetic. "I’m sorry, ma’am, but—"

"We’re done," Victoria cut in smoothly, gathering her folder. Before leaving, she looked down at Estelle. "You always said you would do anything to stay on top. Now prove it."

Her eyes didn’t blink as she swept out of the room, leaving only the sterile hum of machines and the weight of Estelle’s shattered world pressing down on her.

Estelle’s eyes burned as she looked at the closed door. The room didn’t feel like a place of healing. It felt like a pressurized chamber.

She was still processing her mother’s words when her phone buzzed. She reached for it, but the distance was a mocking reminder of her new reality. Her fingers brushed the edge, but the phone clattered to the floor anyway.

SPORTS INSIDER: Rutledge’s Fall: LUXE BLADE CO. and other Top Sponsors Begin Pulling Out. Could This Be The End of The Ice Queen?

The headline glowed up at her from the tiles, mocking. Digital vultures were already circling the carcass of her career.

Just then, a nurse walked in, picked up the phone, and placed it in her palm with a pitying smile. Estelle did not bother to thank her. She shifted her gaze back to the phone, her brows creased deeply.

They’re all pulling out. The words seemed unreal as she stared at them.

She tried to sit up, to throw the phone, to scream, to do anything, but her body was a prison. "How can they do that? I haven’t even left the hospital."

"I’m sure you’ve seen the news," a voice cut through the quiet.

Estelle didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. She knew the rhythm of those heels, because Victoria Rutledge didn’t walk, she marched.

It hasn’t even been ten minutes and she is back. It can’t be anything good.

"Did you forget something?"Estelle asked, her eyes still fixed on the words on the screen. "Or are you back to twist the knife further?" she finally looked up.

Victoria didn’t flinch. She simply stepped aside, her expression as cold. From the dim shadows near the door, a man emerged. He wasn’t wearing a white coat or carrying a stethoscope. He was dressed in a suit that likely cost more than Estelle’s last three pairs of custom skates combined.

He moved with a terrifying silence that made the hair on Estelle’s arms stand up. He didn’t look like he was there to save her life. He looked like an undertaker for the living, arriving just in time to claim the body.

"Miss Rutledge," the man said, his voice smooth. "I am Mr. Vance, representing the Whitehall Estate."

The name hit the room like a storm. Whitehall. The name of the most ruthless billionaire in the world’s NHL, and the same name that owned the ice she had just broken her back on.

"My employer saw your performance tonight," Vance continued, stepping into the light.

He didn’t look at her face first. His gaze skimmed the heart monitor, the IV line, and then stopped on the unmoving outline beneath the sheet. Then, he nodded. Assessment complete.

"He was... moved," Vance added, shifting his gaze to Estelle.

"Moved to do what?" Estelle whispered. "Sue me for scuffing his rink?"

Vance moved slowly until the cream-colored folder rested in Estelle’s lap. "Moved to invest," he replied.

Her fingers twitched. She wanted to throw it, scream at it, run, but her body betrayed her. She couldn’t even reach it.

He didn’t look at her, only at the monitor, then back to the folder. "Inside," he said quietly, "is everything your family owes. Every advance, every sponsorship, every surgical expense that keeps the hope of standing again alive."

Vance clicked a silver pen, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the sterile room. "It is a mountain of numbers that ends in your family’s bankruptcy, Estelle. Or, it could be a footnote in Magnus Whitehall’s ledger."

"So," he added calmly, extending the pen toward her, "do you want to be a pauper in a chair... or a Whitehall in a palace? Your call."