His Father Bought Me-Chapter 9: Twenty-Three Steps

Roman expected the words to break her. Instead, Estelle smiled. Not warm, not kind, the smile of someone who’d just decided to stop playing defense.

"You’re right," she said quietly. "I’m not standing."

Then she rolled forward, close enough that he had to look down to meet her eyes.

"But I’m still here... in your house... and I’ll be wearing your ring any moment. Do you know why?" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Because your father calls the shots here... not you."

Roman’s jaw clenched, and something dangerous flashed in his eyes. He opened his mouth, but she cut him off.

"Get off your high horse, Roman." Her voice was calm, but it carried weight. "We’re the same. I’m in a wheelchair, and you’re in chains."

That one hit hard. And she saw it land.

"We can help each other," she pressed on. "Or we can destroy each other. Your choice."

He didn’t reply immediately. He just stared at her. Estelle braced herself, half-expecting the door to slam in her face again. But instead, Roman leaned down, close enough that she could feel the heat still clinging to his damp skin.

"I choose B. Let’s see how long you last," he murmured, his voice like gravel.

Before she could even muster a rebuttal, the door clicked shut, soft this time, like a trap closing.

Estelle sat there breathing. Then she smiled. "Let’s see how long you last," she whispered to the closed door, her eyes fixed on it for a moment longer than necessary.

She released a slow exhale through her nose. Every door she had knocked on today had slammed in her face, and she needed to find a way to survive.

She pulled her phone from her side. The screen lit up her pale features. Immediately, notifications flooded in. Tags, mentions, comments. The public was already sniffing blood. She stared at it for a second too long. Then she scoffed.

She opened her call log. Her thumb trembled as she scrolled to a name. Justin with a heart emoji. She tapped call.

The line didn’t ring. What she got was just an immediate, flat beeping tone, disconnected.

Her brows furrowed. She tried again, but nothing. Then she switched to messages.

’Are you there?’ Not delivered.

Her stomach dropped. She wasn’t just alone in this house, she was alone everywhere. Her breathing turned shallow. She looked at both ends of the hallway, it felt longer now. The silence pressed against her ears until it almost roared.

She needed an exit, needed air, needed control.

With stiff movements, she tucked the phone away and wheeled herself toward the elevator at the end of the corridor. Each push strained her arms, each rotation of the wheel echoed too loudly in the emptiness.

She finally reached the elevator and pressed the button. Nothing... no soft chime, no mechanical hum. She pressed the button again. Harder this time, still nothing. Then she noticed the indicator light was on. The elevator was functional, just locked... someone had locked it.

Her reflection stared back at her in the polished metal doors. She was trapped. Her gaze snapped to the corner of the ceiling. There, a small black camera lens stared back, and she knew the chilling truth... someone was watching.

—

Behind the blinking eyes of the hidden cameras, Magnus’s jaw hardened, holding her gaze as he stood in the dim glow of the CCTV room. Monitors lined the wall, grainy black-and-white footage flickered across them.

One screen zoomed in on the top-floor hallway... on Estelle. She looked small, alone in her wheelchair outside the elevator door.

"What do we do now, boss?" Vance asked quietly, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Magnus didn’t answer immediately, he watched her. She had folded inward, her face was buried in her hands, and her shoulders were trembling just slightly as she released a long exhale.

"Should we move her to the other bedroom?" Vance pressed.

Magnus’s brows knitted together. "What do you think she told him?" he asked, ignoring Vance’s question.

Vance adjusted his glasses, studying the replay of Roman slamming the door. "No idea. But whatever it was, it wasn’t enough for him to let her in."

Magnus’s mouth flattened, his lips pressed into a thin line. "Leave her," he said at last. "She needs to think. That is why she is here. If she cannot stop him from walking out of this house. Then she is useless to me."

Vance nodded once.

On the screen, Estelle shifted. She turned her chair slowly, wheels whispering against thick carpet. Her heart was breaking, Magnus could almost see it in the way her spine curved inward.

Estelle let out another shaky breath and looked back down the corridor. Left, right, endless doors, all closed. She closed her eyes. Just for a heartbeat. Breathe. Think.

Then she turned right. Her arms burned immediately, each push of the wheel sent a sharp protest through her shoulders, down her spine. The carpet dragged against the tires like the house itself was resisting her escape, but she pushed anyway.

Halfway down the corridor, a door opened, and a maid stepped out, her arms full of fresh linens. She froze when she saw Estelle. Their eyes met.

"Please," Estelle said, her voice hoarse. "The elevator. It’s not working. Can you—?"

The maid’s gaze flicked upward to the small black camera lens mounted there. Then her expression shuttered, and she lowered her head and hurried past. Estelle’s chest tightened.

Even the servants are afraid.

She kept moving anyway. Her palms were slick now, burning with each rotation. Then she heard it. Voices, low, male, coming from behind a door just ahead. She slowed, wanting to listen.

"Does she think she can just wheel herself out of here?" Vance’s voice, smooth and cold.

"Let her try." Magnus’s voice came, unmistakable. "The elevator is locked, her only option is the stairs, and those will break her spirit... or her body. Either way, she will learn her place."

A brief pause followed. Then—

"And if she makes it down?"

"Then she just might be the one we want."

Estelle’s hands froze on the wheels. They weren’t just watching, they were testing her. Every locked door, every obstacle. This was deliberate. Her jaw clenched so hard her teeth ached.

She forced herself forward. Past their door, past their voices... By the time the hallway opened up, her palms were slick, her muscles were trembling.

And then she saw it. The staircase. Wide, curving, endless.

She rolled to the edge and stopped. Her heart pounded so violently she thought she might black out. She looked down. Twenty-three steps. She counted them.

Twenty-three chances to break her neck. Twenty-three reasons to wait for help that would never come.

But how could she descend without falling?