**Chapter 2**
**Locked Out**
Eden lay on the narrow bed in the guest wing, the phone still glowing on the floor where it had fallen. Vivienne's text burned behind his eyelids even after the screen went dark: *Your access is revoked effective immediately. No more midnight sessions. No more "hobby."*
The words repeated like a blade scraping across ice—sharp, final, and impossible to ignore. He curled tighter into himself, knees drawn to his chest, the damp practice skirt twisting uncomfortably around his thighs. His body ached from the fall earlier, the fresh bruise on his hip throbbing in time with his heartbeat. Every breath felt too loud in the small, windowless room that Vivienne had turned into his prison years ago. The walls were bare except for a single crack in the plaster that he sometimes traced with his finger when the silence became too heavy. No posters of skaters. No medals. Nothing that might suggest the boy who slept here had any dreams worth protecting.
The trauma attack that had started in the bathroom returned with full force, crashing over him in waves that made his vision blur and his chest tighten until he could barely draw air. He rocked slowly on the mattress, nails digging crescents into his palms, trying to ground himself in the present. *I'm here. I'm breathing. The rink is gone, but I'm still here.* But the memories refused to stay buried.
He was thirteen again, standing outside the estate gates at 2 a.m. after Vivienne had locked him out for daring to ask why she never came to his local competitions. The night had been freezing, the garden shed his only shelter, rats scurrying in the corners while he huddled under an old tarp. He had cried silently that night, terrified she would find him and punish him further. The next morning she had smiled sweetly over breakfast and said, "You look tired, Eden. Maybe skating is too much for a delicate thing like you." The misgendering had become routine by then—staff calling him "miss" or "young lady" because Vivienne never corrected them, and Eden had learned it was safer not to either.
Another flash: fourteen years old, after a competition where he had landed his first clean triple lutz in public. He had come home glowing, only for Vivienne to intercept the coach's congratulatory email and reply that "the family does not support frivolous activities." The coach never contacted him again. Sponsor inquiries dried up one by one after that. Vivienne's influence was quiet but absolute—wealthy donors, rink board members, even local media knew better than to cross the CEO of the family empire.
Eden's breathing hitched as the present slammed back in. The rink was gone. His only escape, the only place where the world saw beauty instead of shame, had been ripped away with a single text. No more midnight sessions to bleed out the pain. No more ice to silence the voices in his head. Just this room, this house, and Vivienne's unrelenting control.
He forced himself up, legs shaking, and stumbled to the tiny attached bathroom. The mirror showed a boy who looked far younger than seventeen—wide, frightened eyes, damp hair plastered to his forehead, delicate features that made strangers smile and call him "pretty." The feminine grace he couldn't suppress had always been both gift and curse on the ice. Now it felt like another chain. He splashed cold water on his face, but the shaking wouldn't stop. Another wave of panic rose, memories layering so fast they blurred together: the funeral where Vivienne had gripped his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises while smiling for the cameras, the nights she "forgot" to unlock his door until morning, the casual cruelty of staff who had once been kind but now avoided his eyes because associating with the unfavored sibling was dangerous.
A soft knock at the outer door made him freeze.
"Eden?" The voice belonged to Maria, the longtime housekeeper who had been with the family since before the crash. She was one of the few who still used his real name without hesitation, but even she spoke in whispers when Vivienne was home. "I brought you some tea. You sounded… upset earlier."
Eden wiped his face quickly and opened the door a crack. Maria stood there with a small tray, her eyes filled with quiet pity she never dared voice aloud. "Thank you," he whispered, taking the mug with trembling hands. The tea was lukewarm, the way he liked it—something Maria remembered from years of sneaking him snacks when Vivienne wasn't looking.
Maria hesitated, glancing down the hall toward the main wing. "She's in her study. Working late. If you need anything…"
She didn't finish the sentence. They both knew she couldn't do more. Helping Eden too openly risked her job, and Vivienne paid well enough that loyalty was bought with silence.
Eden nodded, forcing a small, broken smile. "I'm okay. Really."
Maria's eyes lingered on the damp skirt still clinging to his legs, the red welts on his ankles visible even in the dim light. She sighed softly but said nothing more, slipping away down the corridor like a ghost.
Alone again, Eden sipped the tea, but it did nothing to warm the cold knot in his stomach. He opened his phone with shaking fingers and stared at the blank screen where sponsor emails used to appear. Nothing. No replies. No interest. His genius—those flawless jumps, the intricate footwork that left judges speechless—meant nothing when the person controlling the family fortune actively worked to bury him.
He tried to distract himself by mentally running through his program, visualizing the spins and jumps that had once brought him joy. But even that turned dark. The triple lutz he'd fallen on tonight replayed in slow motion, the impact jarring his already damaged ankle. Without the rink, how long before his body gave out completely? How many more trauma attacks could he survive before something inside him finally snapped?
A new text lit up his phone. This one from an unknown number, but the area code was local. His heart leaped for a fraction of a second—maybe a coach, maybe a sponsor who had somehow slipped past Vivienne's net.
The message was short and devastating:
*Heard from a friend at the rink that your access was revoked. Sorry kid. We all saw your talent, but with your family situation… no one wants the drama. Good luck.*
Eden stared at the screen until the letters blurred. Even the few people who had noticed his genius were now backing away. The "family situation" was code for Vivienne's reputation—her power, her money, her willingness to destroy anyone who crossed her.
The trauma attack surged back stronger than before. Eden dropped the phone and slid to the floor, curling into a tight ball as sobs tore through him again. His mind flooded with hundreds of layered wounds: the jet crash that took his parents and left him at Vivienne's mercy, the years of emotional starvation, the physical pain of training without support, the constant misgendering that made him feel invisible and exposed at the same time, the crushing knowledge that his own sister hated him enough to systematically erase every trace of his existence.
He rocked on the cold floor, whispering the grounding mantra that barely helped anymore. The tea spilled from the overturned mug, soaking into the thin carpet like tears he couldn't stop.
Outside, the estate was silent except for the distant hum of Vivienne's study light. Inside Eden's small room, the boy who could spin like silk on ice lay broken on the floor, his genius trapped in a body and a life designed to destroy him.
The last fragile thread of hope—that someone, somewhere, would see him and offer a way out—had just been cut.
And in the suffocating dark, Eden wondered how much longer he could keep spinning before the fall finally came.