His Father Bought Me-Chapter 48: Lady Of The House

The maids returned before Estelle could gather her thoughts. One moved behind her, hands settling on the handles, and wheeled her inside. The room was lavish with soft lighting, polished floors, and the faint scent of fresh linen and something floral clinging to the air.

"Do you need—"

"That would be all," Estelle cut in smoothly, though her mind was still tangled in Magnus’s words.

The maids exchanged a quick glance, then nodded, and a moment later, the door clicked shut behind them with a quiet thud, and silence rushed in, settling over the room.

Estelle sat still, her fingers resting loosely on the armrests. Magnus’s voice rushed back into her head. Roman told me, and it made her stomach tighten. "Roman wouldn’t throw me under the bus like that," she murmured, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Then she let out a short, hollow scoff, pressing her fingers to her forehead. "Oh, Estelle," she muttered to herself. "You can’t let Magnus get into your head like this." But even as she said that, the reassurance didn’t stick, not even a little.

What if Magnus wasn’t bluffing? The thought made her heart race even faster. She exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself before she turned her wheelchair, forcing her attention outward.

The room was beautiful, undeniably so. The plush bedding came in soft tones, there were elegant drapes falling in gentle folds, and delicate floral patterns climbing the walls. Yet it felt cold, dark, and too quiet.

Her gaze drifted across the walls until it caught on a large framed portrait. Estelle stopped, her pulse spiking as she looked at it, and something about it pulled her in. She wheeled herself closer before she could stop herself, the faint sound of the wheels brushing against the floor breaking the stillness.

It was a woman, a beautiful one. She had long curls framing her face, and she sat poised in a chair, her smile was soft and almost warm. But it was her eyes that held Estelle. They were deep green, piercing, and familiar... just like Roman’s.

"Mrs. Whitehall..." Estelle murmured under her breath as she studied the portrait, her brows drawing together slightly. There was something in that expression, something she couldn’t quite name, but it tugged at her all the same and a quiet sigh slipped from her lips.

"Do you think I made the right decision coming here?" she asked softly, her voice barely more than a whisper in the still room, but the question lingered, unanswered. Of course it did.

After a moment, she looked away, her eyes shifting to the dressing mirror a few feet ahead, its surface catching the soft light. She hesitated, then pushed herself forward. The wheels squeaked quietly beneath her as she approached.

When she finally looked up, her reflection stared back at her, and for a second, her heart stopped in her chest. "Estelle..." Her voice came out softer than she expected.

Then she lifted her trembling hand almost hesitantly, and touched the mirror. Her fingertips brushed against the cool glass as if she needed to confirm the image staring back at her was real. But she looked pale, tired, and defeated.

Her fingers drifted to her cheek, tracing the same lines she saw in the mirror. "You can’t look like this, Estelle," she murmured. "You’re the ice queen, no matter what anyone says." She lifted her chin slightly. "And now, you’re the lady of this house."

The words settled differently. "As the lady of the house," she continued, her gaze hardening, "you don’t get to be weak."

Then, slowly, her eyes shifted back to the portrait on the wall. For a moment, she just stared at it, and then something changed. A glint of something dangerous, something almost playful, lit up in her eyes as an idea took shape and her lips curved slowly.

Magnus? Roman? You aren’t ready, not for this.

—

By the time the stylists arrived, the room no longer felt quiet. It buzzed with movement, soft chatter, the rustle of fabric, and the faint scent of powder and perfume drifted through the air as stylists moved around her. Brushes swept across her skin and fingers adjusted, smoothed, and perfected. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

"Did we nail the look?" the makeup artist asked, stepping back slightly, his eyes scanning Estelle’s reflection with quiet pride.

Estelle didn’t answer immediately, her eyes flicked to the portrait on the wall, then back to the mirror. This time, the woman staring back at her looked different. She looked more composed, polished, and untouchable.

A small smile curved her lips. "It’s perfect," she said.

As if on cue, a light knock sounded against the door before it swung open. Roman peeked in, his expression easy, a grin already forming. "Is my wife ready yet?" The words landed lightly, but they still twisted something deep in Estelle’s stomach.

He thinks this is funny. She didn’t turn, but her smile stayed in place as her eyes remained fixed on the mirror.

Roman stepped fully into the room, the door closing softly behind him as he moved closer. As he saw her reflection, he stopped abruptly. His face turned pale as if he was looking at a ghost. Estelle caught it, the way he froze, the way his expression shifted, the way his gaze lingered just a second too long. Her smile deepened, slow and satisfied. Got you.

She tilted her head slightly, finally turning her eyes to meet his in the mirror. "You don’t like it?" she asked, her tone light but edged with mischief.

Roman blinked, snapping out of it, shaking his head slightly. "You look—" He stopped, swallowing the rest.

"Beautiful," Estelle finished for him, her voice smooth as she held his gaze. "I already know." She let the moment sit, watching him, enjoying the way he struggled to recover.

Roman opened his mouth again, but the door opened before he could speak, and a maid stepped in, her posture straight, and her voice polite.

"Excuse me, Sir, Ma’am," she said with a slight bow. "Mr. Whitehall asked me to inform you that the press is ready."

The room seemed to be still for a beat.

"Thank you, Mary," Estelle said before Roman could speak, her tone almost too bright. The maid dipped her head and slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.

Roman’s gaze lingered on Estelle, his brows knitting together. "What are you—?"

"Are you ready?" she cut in smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. Her hands moved to the wheels of her chair. "We don’t want to keep them waiting."