Eden's blades scraped against the ice with a sound like breaking bones as he fought to hold the final spin. The rink was supposed to close at midnight, but the night attendant had taken pity on him again—another quiet act of kindness that would probably earn the man a reprimand if Vivienne ever found out. Seventeen years old and already running on borrowed time, Eden pushed through the burning in his ankles, the fire in his lower back, and the sharp stab of old stress fractures that flared with every rotation. His practice skirt clung to sweat-damp thighs, the cheap chiffon fraying at the hem from too many washes in the estate's utility sink. His tights hid a fresh bruise blooming purple on his hip from yesterday's fall, and the boots—scuffed hand-me-downs two sizes too small—dug lace bite deep into his skin.
He was a genius here. No one could deny that. The triple lutz he'd just landed had been textbook perfect, the kind of jump that made local coaches whisper behind their clipboards. Footwork sequences flowed like liquid, spins centered with terrifying precision, laybacks so deep and graceful they looked almost ethereal. But genius meant nothing without support. No coach had contacted him in months. No sponsor had replied to the cautious emails he sent from the library computer when Vivienne wasn't watching. The family money sat in accounts he couldn't touch, controlled entirely by his twenty-five-year-old sister.
Vivienne.
The name alone triggered the first tremor.
Eden stumbled out of the spin, catching himself hard on the boards. His breath came in short, panicked gasps that had nothing to do with exertion. His vision tunneled, the empty rink blurring at the edges. A trauma attack—cold, familiar, merciless—slammed into him without warning. Suddenly he wasn't on the ice anymore. He was nine years old again, standing in the grand foyer of the estate while Vivienne towered over him in black mourning clothes, her voice slicing like a blade.
"You think they loved you? They pitied you. The soft little boy who twirled in the living room like a broken doll. I was the one they were proud of. And now I have to waste my life cleaning up their mistake."
The memory tightened around his throat. Eden slid down the boards until he was sitting on the cold ice, knees drawn to his chest, arms wrapped tight around them. His heart hammered so violently he could feel it in his teeth. Hundreds of traumas layered on top of one another in that single moment: the nights Vivienne locked him in the small guest wing because "little girls don't sleep near adults," the public smiles at charity events followed by vicious whispers in the car home that he was an embarrassment to the family name, the way she mocked his feminine features in front of staff until they stopped meeting his eyes. The physical pain of skating without proper medical care—chronic shin splints, recurring ankle sprains, back strains that made every morning feel like punishment. The crushing loneliness of being rich on paper yet completely abandoned. The constant misgendering that felt safer than being seen as the "wrong" kind of boy.
He rocked slightly on the ice, whispering to himself the grounding words he'd learned from a single free counseling session he'd snuck to last year: "I'm here. I'm on the ice. I'm breathing." But the attack didn't loosen its grip easily. Images flashed faster—his mother's disappointed sigh the last time she saw him in a skirt before the jet crash, his father's rare attempt at affection cut short by Vivienne's sharp "He's not worth the effort." The way Vivienne had smiled sweetly at the funeral while gripping his shoulder hard enough to bruise, whispering, "Don't embarrass me today, or I'll make sure you regret it."
Minutes passed—maybe ten, maybe twenty—before the panic began to ebb. Eden's breathing slowed, but the exhaustion that followed was bone-deep. He was shaking. His skirt was damp from melted ice. The rink lights seemed harsher now, exposing every flaw: the frayed hem, the mismatched laces on his boots, the dark circles under his eyes from nights spent lying awake listening for Vivienne's footsteps in the hall.
He forced himself to stand. His ankle protested with a sharp stab, but he ignored it. There was still time for one more run-through of his program before the attendant kicked him out. He pushed off, determined to lose himself in the movement again. The layback spin came easier this time, back arched beautifully, head dropped back so the lights blurred into streaks. For a few precious seconds the ice forgave him. The trauma quieted. He was just Eden—delicate, feminine, moving with a grace that made the world see only a girl, and for once that felt like freedom instead of a cage.
Then his phone buzzed from the bench.
The sound shattered the moment. Eden stumbled out of the spin, nearly falling again. He glided to the boards on trembling legs and picked up the device with shaking hands. The screen showed a text from Vivienne. Short. Cruel. Perfectly timed, as always.
Home by 11. If you're late, the rink key I "forgot" to give you next time will be the least of your problems. And stop wasting electricity on that pathetic hobby. The estate bills aren't free.
Eden's stomach dropped. It was already 10:47. The walk back to the estate took twenty-five minutes on a good night. He had no money for a cab—Vivienne made sure of that by controlling every cent of "his" allowance. He yanked off his skates with trembling fingers, the lace bite leaving fresh red welts on his ankles. Changing in the cold locker room, he pulled on the oversized hoodie and leggings that hid his figure as much as possible. The feminine grace he couldn't suppress still showed in the way he moved, the delicate line of his neck, the soft sway of his hips. He hated how visible it made him feel on the street at night.
The trauma attack threatened to return as he hurried out of the rink, the night air hitting him like a slap. Streetlights cast long shadows that looked too much like Vivienne's silhouette. Every passing car made him flinch, remembering the way she had once "accidentally" locked him out overnight when he was thirteen after he'd dared ask for new tights. He'd slept in the garden shed, curled up among tools and old tarps, terrified of rats and of her finding him there in the morning.
By the time he reached the estate gates, his lungs burned and his ankle throbbed with every step. The grand house loomed ahead—beautiful, cold, and suffocating. Lights were on in the main wing where Vivienne held court. The small guest wing where she kept him was dark, as always. He slipped in through the side entrance, heart pounding, praying she wouldn't be waiting.
She was.
Vivienne stood in the foyer, arms crossed, designer suit impeccable even at this hour. At twenty-five she was everything their parents had wanted: tall, commanding, ruthlessly successful. Her eyes raked over him with open disgust.
"Late again. Still playing dress-up on the ice like some delusional little girl?" Her voice was velvet over broken glass. "I had a board meeting today where someone actually asked if my 'sister' was the one who skates. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? Fix your hair. You look like a mess."
Eden kept his gaze on the marble floor, shoulders curling inward. "I'm sorry. The session ran long. I—"
"Save it." She stepped closer, towering over his smaller frame. "You're seventeen. Old enough to contribute instead of draining resources. The estate pays for your little hobby out of pity, but that ends if you keep embarrassing me. No more late nights. No more new equipment. And if I hear one more rumor about 'that feminine skater boy' from the family, I'll sell the rink access altogether."
The words landed like physical blows. Eden felt another trauma attack rising—chest tightening, vision narrowing, memories of being dragged by the arm as a child while Vivienne hissed that he was ruining the family image. He fought it back with everything he had, nails digging into his palms until they bled.
Vivienne smiled, cold and satisfied. "Good. Now go to your room. And Eden?" She used his name like a weapon. "Try not to cry tonight. It makes your eyes puffy, and you already look enough like a weak little girl."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking like gunshots on the marble.
Eden stood frozen in the foyer for a long moment, the grand chandelier overhead mocking him with its crystal perfection. Then the 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.
Eden 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 sneak practice time if he could. 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 rink manager today. Your access is revoked effective immediately. No more midnight sessions. No more "hobby." Consider this your last warning. If you want to keep living under my roof, you'll start acting like the disappointment you are and stop pretending you matter.
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.