**Chapter 6**
Eden stood frozen in the foyer, the grand chandelier overhead shining like it was mocking him. Vivienne's words still echoed in his ears: "No more skating. No more coach. No more pretending you matter."
The hope from the morning — the clean jumps, Lena's kind corrections, the feeling of being seen for the first time — shattered like thin ice under too much weight. He felt the trauma attack rising again, chest tightening, vision narrowing, the familiar wave of panic crashing over him. His hands shook as he clutched the strap of his bag, the faded pink skirt hidden inside like evidence of a crime.
Vivienne didn't wait for him to respond. She turned on her heel and walked away, her designer shoes clicking sharply on the marble floor, each step sounding like a door slamming shut. The sound faded down the hall, leaving Eden alone in the huge, empty space.
He made it to his small room in the guest wing before his legs gave out. He sank onto the narrow bed, the thin mattress creaking under him, and buried his face in the old blanket. The sobs came hard and silent, the way they always did when he was afraid someone might hear. His body shook with the force of it — hundreds of old wounds reopening at once. The nights she had locked him out of the main house. The public smiles at events 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 loved. The physical pain of skating without proper care. The crushing loneliness of being rich on paper but completely abandoned.
He cried for the ice he had just lost. For Izea, who would have told him to keep fighting. For the parents who had never loved him the way they loved Vivienne. For the boy who kept spinning even when the world kept cutting the ice out from under him.
When the sobs finally slowed, he was exhausted. His eyes burned. His ankle throbbed. His back ached from the layback spins he had pushed too hard during the secret session with Lena. He curled up on the bed, still in his hoodie and leggings, and stared at the ceiling. The room was bare — no posters, no trophies, nothing that might suggest the boy who slept here had any dreams worth protecting. It felt like a cage, and Vivienne had just locked the door for good.
Hours passed. The gray light from the window faded into evening. Eden didn't move. He replayed the morning in his head — Lena's warm smile, the clean triple lutz, the way the music had carried him. For two hours he had felt free. Now that freedom was gone.
A soft knock on the door made him flinch. Maria's voice came through, gentle and worried. "Eden? I brought you some soup. You didn't eat lunch."
He didn't answer at first. Maria waited, then opened the door a crack. She stepped inside, carrying a tray with a bowl of warm soup and a slice of bread. Her eyes softened when she saw him curled up on the bed.
"Oh, sweetheart," she whispered, setting the tray on the small desk. She sat on the edge of the bed and gently brushed the hair from his forehead. "I heard what happened. Vivienne told the staff not to let you near the rink again. I'm so sorry."
Eden's voice came out small and broken. "She canceled my access. She said I'm done. No more skating. No more coach. I… I don't know what to do."
Maria sighed, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "She's scared, you know. Scared that if you succeed, it means she wasn't the only one worth loving. But that doesn't make it right. You have real talent, Eden. I've seen you on the ice. You move like the music is inside you. Don't let her take that away."
He shook his head, tears slipping down his cheeks again. "She controls everything. The money. The house. The staff. If I try to skate somewhere else, she'll find out. She always does."
Maria was quiet for a moment. Then she leaned closer and whispered, "Lena called the house earlier. She left a message for you. She said the private rink is still open if you can get there. She'll pick you up two blocks away at 5 a.m. tomorrow if you want to try. But you have to be careful. Very careful."
Eden's heart jumped. A small, dangerous spark of hope flickered back to life. Lena hadn't given up. Maria hadn't given up. Maybe he didn't have to either.
But the fear was immediate and heavy. If Vivienne found out, she would destroy it. She would destroy him.
Maria squeezed his shoulder gently. "Eat something. Rest. And think about it. You don't have to decide tonight. But remember — you're not alone in this. Not completely."
She left the room quietly, closing the door behind her.
Eden stared at the bowl of soup, the steam rising slowly. He ate a few spoonfuls, the warmth spreading through his chest, but his mind was racing. Tomorrow at 5 a.m. He could sneak out. He could meet Lena. He could keep skating.
Or he could stay here, safe but broken, letting Vivienne win.
The night stretched long and dark. Eden lay on the bed, eyes open, listening to the rain. The trauma from the day kept replaying — Vivienne's cold smile, the final text canceling his access, the way the applause from the audition had felt so real and then so far away.
He thought about the new chapter he had written in his notebook the night before. The protagonist facing the cursed clock, fighting the ghost with desperate cleverness. Maybe he could be like that. Maybe he could find a way to trick the monster that was his sister.
At 4:30 a.m. he made his decision.
He slipped out of bed, dressed in the dark, and crept through the house like a shadow. The side door creaked softly as he opened it. The cold night air hit his face. He walked quickly, two blocks from the gate, heart pounding.
Lena's car was waiting, the engine running quietly. She smiled when she saw him.
"You came," she said. "Good. Let's go."
The drive to the private rink was quiet but charged with nervous energy. Lena didn't push for conversation. She let the radio play soft music, giving him space. When they arrived, the small rink was dark and empty, but the ice inside was perfect — smooth and waiting.
Lena helped him lace up his skates. "We start slow today. No jumps. Just basics. We build strength so you don't get injured. And we keep this secret. No one can know."
Eden nodded, stepping onto the ice. The blades cut clean lines. The cold air hit his face like freedom. He pushed off, the skirt fluttering around his thighs, and for the first time since the audition, he felt the magic return. The spins were cleaner. The edges sharper. Lena watched from the boards, calling out gentle corrections.
"You're doing great," she said after an hour. "Your body wants to move this way. We just need to protect it. We'll add dry land exercises next week — when it's safe."
The two hours passed too quickly. When Marcus signaled that their time was up, Eden's cheeks were flushed, his breathing hard, but he felt more alive than he had in weeks.
Lena drove him back, dropping him two blocks from the estate again. "Same time tomorrow. Be careful. And Eden? You're not alone in this. We'll figure it out together."
He nodded, throat tight with gratitude. As he walked the last blocks home, the hope felt fragile but real. Maybe, just maybe, he could keep spinning.
But when he slipped through the side door, Vivienne was waiting in the foyer, arms crossed, eyes cold.
"You're late," she said, voice smooth but dangerous. "And I know where you were. The rink manager called me. He said you were training with some coach behind my back. I told you — no more skating. Pack your skates. They're going in the trash tonight."
Eden's heart stopped. The hope he had felt on the ice shattered in an instant. Lena's words, the clean jumps, the feeling of being seen — all of it threatened to disappear.
Vivienne stepped closer, towering over his smaller frame. "You think you can hide things from me? You're my responsibility, and I decide what you do. No more ice. No more coach. No more pretending you matter."
The trauma attack hit fast. Eden's vision narrowed. His chest tightened. Memories flooded in — the nights locked out, the public humiliations, the endless comparisons. He fought it, but the tears came anyway, silent and hot.
Vivienne smiled, cold and satisfied. "Good. Cry all you want. It won't change anything. Now go to your room. And if I catch you near a rink again, I'll make sure every coach in the city knows exactly who you are — the family embarrassment who can't even place in a local audition."
She turned and walked away, heels clicking like a countdown.
Eden stood frozen in the foyer, the grand chandelier overhead mocking him with its crystal perfection. The hope from the morning was gone. The ice was gone. The only thing left was the dark, suffocating weight of his sister's control.
He dragged himself to his room, collapsed on the bed, and let the sobs come. The trauma attack washed over him in waves, hundreds of old wounds reopening at once. He cried for the ice he had just lost. For Izea, who would have told him to keep fighting. For the parents who had never loved him the way they loved Vivienne. For the boy who kept spinning even when the world kept cutting the ice out from under him.
In the silence of his room, with the rain still falling outside, Eden whispered the question that haunted every single day:
"How much longer can a broken pirouette keep spinning before the world finally lets it shatter?"
The answer felt closer than ever.
*To be continued...*