His Father Bought Me Chapter 51: Throw Them Out

Roman’s eyes widened, just a fraction, before he forced himself to be calm. Estelle held his gaze for a beat longer, then her smile softened into sothing almost affectionate.

"You can decide," she murmured. "And when you’re ready, smile for the caras."

Before he could respond, she leaned in, her heart pounding hard against her ribs as her lips brushed his. The touch was brief, controlled, but convincing. Warmth flared, sharp and dangerous, before she pulled away just as quickly and turned back to the press.

Roman lingered for half a second, caught in the aftershock, then exhaled and followed her lead, a smile settling onto his face like armor. Around them, the room buzzed louder now, whispers, scribbling pens, the relentless clicking of caras.

A reporter leaned forward, extending a recorder toward them. "Out of curiosity," he said, his eyes sharp, "are you really in love? Because we can clearly see so tension."

"And would you mind telling us what that tension is about?" another added, her tone probing.

Roman’s heartbeat stopped for a mont, caught off guard, and Estelle noticed. Of course she did. Still smiling, she leaned forward slightly, her gaze settling calmly on the second reporter.

"Are you in a relationship?" she asked, her tone light, almost curious.

The question caught them off guard, and a few heads turned.

The woman hesitated, then nodded. "Yes. But what does that have to do with this?" she asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice.

"Everything," Estelle said, her smile widening just a touch. The lights were warm against her skin, the air thick with anticipation. "But I’m not sure you’re in love," she continued lightly, "because if you were, you’d know that conversations like the one my husband and I just had are very normal."

A few murmurs rippled through the room.

Another reporter leaned forward, ready to jump in, but Roman lifted a hand, shaking his head slightly. "What is this?" he cut in, his tone controlled. "I thought you were here to take good pictures of us."

A quiet scoff ca from the side. "Is that what you really thought?" the man shot back. "Or are you trying to dodge the question because you’re worried we’ll expose how you really feel being stuck with soone in a wheelchair?"

The words landed harshly in the room.

Estelle felt it first, a sharp, quiet sting that settled deep in her chest. But when she glanced at Roman, the reaction on his face was worse. His jaw had tightened, sothing dark flashing in his eyes as he leaned forward.

Before he could speak, Estelle’s fingers brushed his arm, her touch was light, grounding him. For a second, it worked, but then Roman turned, taking her hand fully into his. His grip was firm and steady. He lifted it and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, slowly, the warmth of his lips lingering against her skin.

Estelle’s breath caught.

Roman looked up, his gaze sweeping across the room before settling on the press again. "My wife," he said, his voice low but unwavering, "is not just soone in a wheelchair."

The room fell quieter.

"Even now," he continued, tightening his hold on her hand, "she is still the unbeatable Ice Queen, and the world better be ready for her coback, because she will co back."

His eyes hardened, burning with sothing fierce. "And when she does," he added, "it will be epic. She’ll remind the world who she is."

Estelle swallowed, her throat tight, her eyes stinging as she watched him. Why are you doing this?

Roman shifted his gaze to one of the caras, leaning slightly forward as if speaking directly to it. "This ssage is for the Rutledge Center," he said, his tone sharp with challenge. "You’d better be ready, because this Whitehall Queen is coming back. And when she does, she’ll tear down whatever it is you think you’re building without her."

A hush followed.

Estelle blinked quickly, trying to steady the sudden rush of emotion rising in her chest. Her vision blurred for a second, and she swallowed it down.

He turned to her imdiately. For a mont, everything else faded, the caras, the whispers, the weight of the room. He just looked at her, and then he smiled, soft, warm, and real enough to make sothing inside her chest twist. And just like that, it didn’t matter whether it was an act or not.

Roman shifted his gaze back to the press, rolling his shoulders once as if resetting himself. "Next question," he said, lifting his chin slightly. His eyes moved from one face to another, sharp, expectant.

Beside him, Estelle watched quietly. Why do his words sound so real? Is this still an act? The thought lingered, unsettling, as she sat there, her hands still, heart anything but.

Across the room, tucked into the corner, Magnus folded his arms. His gaze stayed fixed on them, narrowed, calculating.

Vance leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Roman looks like he’s in love with her," he murmured. "Look at how he defends her."

The corner of Magnus’s lips lifted, just barely. "The only one blind to it," he said softly, "is Roman." His eyes didn’t leave them. "And we might need to give him a little push, so he can finally see it."

Vance frowned slightly, glancing at him. "And how exactly are we going to do that?"

Magnus didn’t answer, he simply watched.

The tension in the room shifted again as another reporter leaned forward, eyes fixed on Estelle. "Miss Rutledge," he began, his voice cutting clean through the air, "can you tell us how it feels to be crippled at the peak of your career? I an, your family is already planning a morial for the death of your career."

The words landed like a slap. For a split second, the room went still.

Estelle’s breath caught. Her fingers tightened slightly against the armrest as she opened her mouth to respond, but Roman moved first. His chair scraped sharply against the floor as he stood. And in two quick strides, he was behind her.

Estelle turned, startled, her eyes lifting to him. Around them, the press shifted, whispers breaking out. Even Magnus straightened slightly, interest flickering across his face. Vance blinked, caught off guard.

But Roman didn’t look at any of them. He turned instead to one of the security personnel, his expression hard, his voice cold and controlled. "Throw them all out."

A stunned silence followed.

Then he faced the press again, his presence filling the room. "If my wife is not addressed with respect," he said, each word deliberate, "then there will be no more press etings." His jaw tightened. "This eting is over. Now, leave. After all," he added, his tone sharp, "this was ant to be an appearance, not an interrogation."

Estelle stared at him, sothing twisting deep in her chest. "Roman—"

"We’re leaving," he cut in, his voice final. And this ti, there was no room for argunt.