Chapter 4
Eden stood at the edge of the ice, heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. The regional junior trials were packed today. The rink smelled of cold rubber mats and sweat, the overhead lights bright and unforgiving. Coaches from bigger clubs were scattered along the boards, clipboards in hand. A few scouts too. This was the kind of event that could actually change something.
He was seventeen, small and delicate, dressed in the only decent practice outfit he owned: black leggings, a simple white top, and the faded pink skirt that made everyone assume he was a girl. No one corrected the assumption. No one ever did.
His ankle still ached from yesterday's fall, but he ignored it. This was his only chance. Vivienne had made that clear this morning when she tossed the rink access card on the table like it was trash.
"You have one audition left before I pull the plug on this nonsense," she had said, not even looking up from her phone. "If you embarrass the family name again, that's it. No more ice. No more 'hobby.' You'll start pulling your weight or you'll leave."
Eden had nodded, throat tight, and left before she could see the tears.
Now he was here, blades on, waiting for his group to be called. The other skaters — mostly girls his age or younger — glanced at him with polite smiles. "Good luck, sweetie," one of them said. He smiled back, soft and quiet, the way he always did. Being mistaken for a girl had stopped hurting years ago. It was safer.
When his name was called — "Eden Moreau" — he glided out onto the ice. The cold air hit his face like a slap. The judges sat at the boards, clipboards ready. He took his position at center ice, arms loose, head high, trying to look confident even though his legs felt like they might give out.
The music started. Soft, haunting piano — the piece he had chosen because it felt like falling.
He began to move.
The first few strokes were clean. He built speed, the skirt fluttering around his thighs, and launched into a triple lutz. The takeoff was perfect. The rotation tight. The landing… wobbled. His ankle screamed, but he saved it, turning the mistake into a smooth transition into footwork. The sequence was intricate, fast, almost dancing. The judges leaned forward.
He could feel their eyes. He could feel the scouts watching. This was it. This was the moment someone might finally see him — the genius on the ice, not the "pretty girl" or the embarrassment his sister kept hidden.
He pushed into a layback spin, back arched deep, arms extended like broken wings. The speed increased. The world blurred. For a few seconds the pain faded and he was flying. The spin was centered, beautiful, the kind of position that made people hold their breath.
The music swelled and he dropped into the sit spin, knees tucked, spinning faster. The crowd murmured. Someone clapped early.
He came out of it into his final combination jump — triple salchow into double toe. The salchow was clean. The toe loop was perfect.
He finished with a final scratch spin, arms pulled in tight, spinning so fast the skirt became a blur.
When the music ended, the rink was silent for half a second.
Then the applause started. Real applause. Not polite. Loud. Excited.
Eden glided to the boards, chest heaving, cheeks flushed. One of the judges — a woman with sharp eyes — actually smiled at him. "That was lovely, dear. Very graceful. You have real talent."
He smiled back, soft and shy, the way he always did. "Thank you."
But as he stepped off the ice, the high crashed.
His phone vibrated in his bag. A text from Vivienne.
*Saw the scores online. 4th place. Pathetic. Come straight home after. We need to talk about your future. No more skating if you can't even place.*
Eden's stomach dropped. Fourth place. Not good enough. Never good enough.
He changed quickly in the cold locker room, hands shaking as he pulled on his hoodie. The other skaters congratulated him, calling him "sweetie" and "beautiful program." He thanked them quietly, eyes on the floor.
Outside the rink, the air was freezing. He started the long walk home, ankle throbbing with every step. The applause still rang in his ears, but it felt distant now, like it had happened to someone else.
Halfway home, his phone buzzed again. Another text from Vivienne.
*By the way, I spoke to the rink manager. Your access card has been deactivated. Effective immediately. Come home. We're done with this nonsense.*
Eden stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, the cold wind cutting through his thin hoodie. The card. His only way onto the ice. Gone.
He stood there, frozen, the applause from the audition already fading into nothing. The genius on the ice didn't matter. The fame he dreamed of didn't matter. All that mattered was the sister who hated him and the life she controlled.
Tears stung his eyes, but he blinked them back. He kept walking.
The estate loomed ahead, beautiful and cold, waiting to swallow him whole.
He had one audition left in his life, and he had just lost the ice forever.
When he pushed open the side door of the estate, the house felt colder than the rink. Vivienne was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed, designer suit still perfect even at this hour. Her eyes raked over him with open disgust.
"Fourth place," she said, voice dripping with contempt. "I watched the scores live. You looked like a little girl playing dress-up out there. Embarrassing. I told the manager to cancel your access. No more rink. No more skates. No more wasting my money on your delusions."
Eden's throat closed. He stood there, still in his hoodie, the skirt folded in his bag like evidence of a crime. "Please," he whispered. "It's the only thing I'm good at. I can get better. I can—"
"You can what?" Vivienne stepped closer, towering over his smaller frame. "Twirl prettier? Cry harder? You're seventeen. Old enough to stop being a burden. The estate pays for your little hobby out of pity, but that ends today. From now on, you'll do what I say. No more skating. No more pretending you matter."
The words landed like physical blows. Eden felt the familiar tightness in his chest, the trauma attack rising fast. His vision narrowed. Memories flashed: the nights she locked him out of the main wing, the public smiles followed by vicious whispers in the car, the endless comparisons that left him feeling like a broken, unwanted version of the child their parents had actually wanted.
He fought it back, nails digging into his palms until they bled. "I won't embarrass you again. I promise."
Vivienne laughed, cold and sharp. "You already do, just by existing. Go to your room. And Eden?" She used his name like a weapon. "If I hear one more rumor about 'that feminine skater boy' from anyone in the family, I'll sell every pair of skates you own and make sure no rink in the city lets you near the ice."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble.
Eden stood frozen in the foyer, the grand chandelier overhead mocking him with its crystal perfection. The trauma attack hit full force. He barely made it to the small guest bathroom before his legs gave out. He sank to the cold tile, curling into a ball as sobs tore from his throat — silent, choking, years of suppressed pain pouring out in waves. Hundreds of traumas crashed over him at once: the funeral where Vivienne had gripped his shoulder hard enough to bruise while smiling for cameras, the nights locked out, the public humiliations, the endless comparisons, the physical pain of skating without care, the crushing knowledge that no one would ever sponsor a "girly boy" whose own sister wanted him erased.
When the sobs finally subsided, he was shaking so badly he could barely stand. His reflection in the mirror showed red-rimmed eyes, damp hair plastered to his forehead, and the delicate, feminine features that had doomed him from birth. He looked exactly like the "broken doll" Vivienne always called him.
He dragged himself to the small room in the guest wing — barely more than a converted storage space with a narrow bed and a tiny desk. No posters. No trophies. Nothing that might suggest he belonged. He collapsed onto the bed still in his damp clothes, staring at the ceiling as fresh pain radiated from his ankle and back.
Tomorrow he would wake at dawn to ice his injuries in the kitchen sink before Vivienne saw. He would try to find another way to skate — any way. He would keep spinning, keep fighting, even though every day felt like another step toward the moment when his body or his spirit finally gave out.
Because that was all he had left.
A broken pirouette, still turning in the dark, waiting for the inevitable fall.
But as Eden lay there in the suffocating silence, his phone lit up with one final text from Vivienne. The message was short, cruel, and perfectly timed to destroy what little hope he had left:
*By the way, I spoke to the coach who watched your audition. He said you have potential but your 'look' is too distracting for serious competition. I agreed. No more auditions. No more training. You're done.*
Eden's breath caught in his throat. The phone slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered to the floor. The rink — his only escape, the only place where the world saw beauty instead of shame — was gone. Just like that. No warning. No discussion. Only Vivienne's iron will crushing the last fragile thread keeping him from shattering completely.
He curled tighter on the narrow bed, the trauma attack surging back with vicious force, sobs ripping silently from his chest as the reality sank in: he was completely, utterly alone, with nothing left but the memory of blades on ice and a body that was already breaking under the weight of a life designed to destroy him.