His Father Bought Me

Roman’s face drained of color as he stood there, frozen in the doorway, staring at the swarm of press. Microphones stretched toward him, voices overlapping, sharp and relentless. Behind him, Lena frowned, her brows pulling together as she tried to make sense of it.

"Mr. Whitehall, does your wife know where you are right now?" one reporter called out.

The question snapped something in him. Roman swallowed hard and stepped back immediately, slamming the door shut. The noise cut off the chaos outside, but not the echo of it in his head. He leaned against the door, chest rising and falling too fast, his eyes squeezing shut.

But never where the press can see it. No public dates. No photos. No accidental sightings.

His hand came up to his temples, pressing hard as if he could stop the spiral. The faint scent of Lena’s perfume clung to him, sharp now, suffocating.

"This is going to be a disaster," he muttered, his voice low, strained.

"Roman, what’s going on?" Lena asked, her voice tight with confusion. "How did they even know you were here?"

He opened his eyes and slowly turned to look at her. Something dark appeared in his gaze. In two quick strides, he was in front of her. His hands shot out, gripping her arms, fingers tightening without restraint.

"You did this, didn’t you?" he barked, his voice edged with accusation. "How could you?"

"I didn’t—" Lena winced, her face twisting in pain. "Roman, you’re hurting me. I didn’t tell anyone. I’m just as surprised as you are."

"Liar!" he snapped, releasing her so abruptly she staggered slightly. He dragged a hand through his hair, pacing once, his breath uneven.

Then he turned back to her, frustration spilling over. "You were the only one I told," he said, his voice lower now but no less intense. "Only you knew where I was. So how did this happen? What were you trying to gain?"

Lena’s chest rose sharply, her eyes glassy now, anger pushing past the hurt. "I didn’t do this," she shot back. "But honestly? I wish I did."

Roman froze.

"Because at least then I’d know I mattered enough," she continued, her voice shaking. "But I can see it now. You’ve already chosen her." Her lips curled bitterly. "You plan to keep me hidden, don’t you? In the shadows. As your mistress."

Her laugh was hollow, sharp. "After everything? Is that what I am worth to you?"

Roman stared at her for a second, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Then he scoffed. Without another word, he turned and walked back to the door. His hand hovered on the handle for a brief moment, just a second, before he pulled it open.

The noise crashed back in instantly. Flashes burst in his face, blinding, relentless. But Roman didn’t stop. He stepped out, lifting a hand to shield his eyes as he pushed forward, ignoring the barrage of questions thrown at him.

His mind was already somewhere else. Estelle. What will she think? Oh, Roman, you messed up. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he hurried toward his car, his pace uneven, almost desperate.

Across the street, inside a parked SUV, Vance watched quietly. A faint smile touched his lips as he lifted his phone and snapped a picture of Roman, disheveled, exposed, caught in the storm. Perfect. He glanced at the image for a second before sending it to Magnus.

Behind Roman, a reporter’s voice cut through the noise. "Does this mean you hate your wife?"

"Were you forced into the marriage?" another reporter called out, pushing forward with her microphone. "Because it looks like you prefer Lena Torres to your wife. The same wife you told us only hours ago means the world to you."

The words hit their mark, and Roman stopped.

For a moment, everything else blurred. The flashes, the voices, the heat of the lights. He turned slowly, his gaze locking onto the reporter. His chest rose sharply as if he was about to speak. But the words never came.

His jaw tightened, hard, as he swallowed whatever response burned at the back of his throat, turned on his heel, and kept walking. The gravel crunched louder beneath his shoes now, each step heavier than the last.

As he reached his car, a dark SUV rolled past him, slow enough to be noticed. The tinted window slid up. For a split second, Roman caught a clear glimpse inside and saw Vance. His eyes widened slightly, something cold settling in his chest. Well played, Father.

His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as the SUV disappeared down the street. But just as he reached for his car door, Lena’s voice cut through the noise behind him.

"It’s all fake," she said loudly, her tone steady, almost defiant. "I am the woman of his life."

Roman froze. The words landed like a trap snapping shut. His pulse spiked. He glanced back briefly, the reporters swarming her now, microphones rising, questions firing. For a second, he wavered. Go after Vance. Stop Lena. Fix it. But none of those thoughts held.

Only one did. Estelle. He needed to get back. Needed to explain before this spiraled any further.

With a sharp breath, he yanked open the car door, slid inside, and slammed it shut. The engine roared to life, and a second later, he sped off, tires scraping against the gravel.

Behind him, Lena stood still, watching his car disappear. Her jaw tightened, and without another word, she turned and walked back into the house, the door closing behind her with a quiet, final click.

Inside, the silence pressed in. Lena paced the length of the living room, her shoes striking sharply against the floor, her thoughts racing too fast to catch.

"You can’t just toss me aside like I’m nothing," she muttered, her voice tight with anger. "No, Roman." She stopped, her fingers curling into her palms. "I’ll make you see it," she said, quieter now, but firmer. "Your place is with me. No one else."

Her gaze shifted to the small stool by the couch where her phone lay. She picked it up and dialed without hesitation, lifting it to her ear. "Tell Mr. Whitehall that I’m in," she said, her tone clipped, final.

There was a brief pause. Then Vance’s voice came through, almost amused. "A lot of time has passed. Words alone won’t be enough."

Lena’s brows drew together slightly.

"I’ve sent you something," he continued. "Think of it as help. A way to prove yourself." The line went dead before she could speak or ask any questions.

Lena pulled the phone away slowly, her pulse ticking up as she opened the message. A number. And beneath it was a message.

That’s her number. Estelle’s. You might want to tell her what just happened. Your version of it. It could help her trust you.

Lena stared at the screen, her chest tightening as Roman’s rejection replayed in her mind again and again. Heat flared behind her eyes, and her jaw set.

Below the number, three options glowed faintly. Call. Copy. Save. Her thumb hovered for a second, and then she tapped. The phone rose back to her ear, her heart beating faster now, something sharp and determined settling in her chest.

"You think you can escape me, Roman? Not this time. Not ever."

Then the line began to ring.