Chapter 2: The Ice That Broke Me

CIEL'S POV

FLASHBACK

I was ten years old when my father left.

I remembered the cold more than his face. The way the winter wind bit through my thin jacket. The way my fingers went numb around the skate lace I'd been trying to tie for fifteen minutes.

"Like this, mon petit." His voice was soft. Tired. He knelt beside me on the frozen pond and looped the lace with practiced ease. "You pull. Then you loop. Then you pull again. See?"

I nodded, sniffling. "Papa, when will Mama come watch?"

He paused. His hands stilled on my skate. For a long moment, he just stared at the ice beneath us.

"She won't, Ciel." His voice cracked. "She's... she's busy. But that's okay. You don't need her. You have me."

I smiled up at him. He smiled back, but his eyes were wet.

Then he stood up. He brushed the snow off his jeans. He looked at me like he was memorizing my face.

"I have to go now."

"Go where?" I grabbed his sleeve. "Papa, we haven't even skated yet. You promised. You promised we'd practice the spin"

"I know." He knelt again, cupping my face in his rough hands. "I know I promised. And I'm sorry, Ciel. I'm so sorry. But I can't... I can't stay here. Your mother... she's going to turn you into something I don't recognize. And I can't watch that happen."

"Don't leave." The tears came hot and fast, freezing on my cheeks. "Please. I'll be good. I'll be so good. Just don't"

He kissed my forehead. Then he walked away.

I watched his back disappear into the trees. I screamed his name until my throat went raw. He never turned around.

That night, my mother found me still sitting on the frozen pond. My toes were blue. My lips were purple. She didn't ask where my father was.

She just laced up my skates herself. Pulled me to my feet.

"Crying is weakness," she said, her grip iron on my arms. "He left because you were too soft. You cried too much. You clung too much. And no one wants a boy who clings."

She pushed me onto the ice.

"Spin," she ordered. "Spin until you can't feel your legs. Spin until you forget his name. Spin until you become something worth keeping."

I spun.

I've been spinning ever since.

PRESENT. BLACKWOOD ACADEMY. EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD.

The cold woke me.

Not the good cold, the clean, sharp cold of the rink. This was the damp, creeping cold of a dorm room with broken heating and a mother who refused to pay for repairs.

I sat up in bed. My ankles ached. My ribs ached. My heart ached with the ghost of a memory I'd buried so deep I'd almost forgotten.

Then my phone buzzed.

Mara: Report to the main rink. 8 AM. Don't be late.

That was it. No congratulations for winning regionals. No acknowledgment that I'd skated a near-perfect program last night. Just orders.

I dressed quickly. Black leggings. A white fitted jacket. Clean blades. Professional. Neutral. Invisible.

When I walked into the rink, I felt the tension before I saw it.

A crowd of students and coaches gathered around the main board, whispering. My mother stood at the center, arms crossed, her face a mask of forced calm. Beside her, the academy director, a squat man with a combover and a permanent nervous twitch.

"Ah, Ciel." The director waved me over. "Good. Good. We were just discussing the exhibition."

I stopped. "Exhibition?"

"Annual showcase." My mother's voice was ice. "You'll be participating. With a partner."

My blood went cold for the second time in twenty-four hours. "I don't have a partner. I'm a singles skater. I don't"

"You do now." The director unfolded a piece of paper. "Due to budget cuts and a directive from the board, we're pairing senior athletes for a mixed pairs exhibition. Audience loves the drama. Sponsors eat it up. And the board thinks it'll boost ticket sales for Nationals."

"Who?" My voice came out strangled. "Who am I paired with?"

The director glanced at my mother. She gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Derick Blackwood."

The name hit me like a blade to the chest.

Derick Blackwood. The billionaire's son. The disgraced hockey player. The man who'd been spotted watching me from the shadows at midnight.

"No." I heard myself say it. "Absolutely not. He's a hockey player. He's not even a figure skater. He'll"

"He'll what?" My mother stepped closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper only I could hear. "Embarrass you? Make you look bad? Or maybe, just maybe, he'll remind the sponsors that you're still marketable. Two handsome young men. A rivalry turned partnership. The media will eat it up."

"I don't care about the media. I care about Nationals"

"And you'll get Nationals. After the exhibition." She smiled. It was the same smile she'd given me when I asked where my father went. "Unless, of course, you'd rather withdraw entirely."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

Nothing came out.

Because I was still that ten-year-old boy on the frozen pond. Still waiting for someone to turn around and save me. Still believing that if I just spun long enough, fast enough, perfect enough, someone would finally think I was worth keeping.

"Fine," I whispered. "I'll do it."

The director clapped his hands. "Excellent! Practice starts tomorrow. You'll meet your partner at"

"Tomorrow." My mother cut him off. "He'll meet him now."

She nodded toward the far end of the rink.

And there he was.

Derick Blackwood.

He leaned against the boards, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. His hair was jet black, slicked back. His jacket was leather, expensive, too flashy for an ice rink at eight in the morning. And his eyes—

Those blue eyes.

The same eyes that had watched me from the shadows last night.

He pushed off the boards and walked toward me. The other students parted like water. Even the coaches seemed to shrink back.

"Laurent." He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could smell his cologne. Something expensive. Something possessive. "Heard we're partners. Don't worry. I don't bite."

"I doubt that."

His smirk widened. "Feisty. I like that."

I stepped back. He stepped forward.

"I watched your routine last night." His voice dropped lower. "You're good. Really good. But you're hiding something."

"I'm hiding nothing."

"Liar." He leaned in, close enough that his breath ghosted against my ear. "I saw your face when you thought no one was watching. That wasn't a champion's face. That was a cage animal. And I know exactly how to unlock cages."

My heart hammered. My hands trembled. Every instinct screamed at me to run.

But I was frozen.

Just like I'd been frozen at ten years old. Just like I'd been frozen every time my mother's voice cut through my chest.

"Stay away from me," I managed. "Whatever game you're playing, I'm not interested."

"Not interested." He laughed, a low, warm sound that made my stomach flip in ways I hated. "Sure. Tell yourself that. But I know what I saw in your eyes last night. You're lonely, Ciel. And loneliness? It's the easiest thing in the world to exploit."

He walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling something cheerful.

I stood there, frozen on the ice, and I felt the walls around my heart start to crack.

LATER THAT NIGHT. DERICK'S PENTHOUSE.

He watched the video again. His phone's cracked screen glowed with Ciel Laurent's face, silver-blonde hair, gray eyes, that perfect, untouchable expression.

"Posing as a love-struck admirer," Derick muttered, typing notes into his phone. "Step one: gain his trust. Step two: seduce him. Step three: break him so publicly he never recovers."

He'd used this playbook before. It always worked.

But then he paused the video on Ciel's face, that brief, genuine smile he'd given the judge. The one that lit up his whole being. The one that was so breathtakingly real it made Derick's chest ache.

"Beautiful," he whispered. "So goddamn beautiful. And you have no idea what's coming for you."

His hand tightened around the glass in his hand.

He smashed it against the wall.

Red wine dripped down the pristine white paint like blood.

"Three weeks," he said to his reflection in the window. "Three weeks to make him fall. And then?"

He smiled.

"Then I ruin him completely."