Saving Grace

CIEL'S POV

I whispered my own name, watching the white smoke of my breath mix with the arena's frozen air. The numbers above me blazed red and final. 98.7. First place. Regionals. Perfect score.

The crowd roared. My blades had carved history into the ice tonight, and for three glorious seconds, I let myself smile. Not the polite, practiced curve my mother taught me. A real one. Wide. Warm. Directed right at the judge's table, specifically at Judge Harrison, who'd given me the only 10.0 of the night.

That smile cost me everything.

"Get. In. Here."

My mother's voice cut through the cheering like a blade through flesh. I turned. Mara Laurent stood in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, her face a perfect mask of porcelain calm. But I knew the cracks. I'd spent eighteen years memorizing them.

I followed her.

The door slammed behind us, rattling the metal frames of the lockers. The crowd's noise vanished, replaced by the hum of fluorescent lights and my own ragged breathing.

"What the hell was that, Ciel?"

I opened my mouth. "I won. You saw"

"Don't." She stepped closer, her heels clicking against the concrete. "Don't you dare play dumb with me. Judge Harrison. You smiled at him. You practically winked at him like some cheap"

"He gave me a ten." My voice came out smaller than I wanted. "I was just being"

"Grateful?" She laughed, but there was nothing happy about it. "Grateful looks like a polite nod. Grateful looks like professionalism. What you did out there looked like an invitation."

I flinched. I couldn't help it.

Mara grabbed my chin, her fingernails digging into my skin. "Do you know who watches these recordings? Sponsors. Agents. The kind of people who pay for your skates, your costumes, your life. And do you know what they see when a male skater smiles at a male judge like that?"

I knew the answer. She'd drilled it into me since I was ten years old, standing on a frozen pond while my father drove away and never looked back.

"They see a liability," I whispered.

"They see a ft." She released my chin like I was contaminated. "And fts don't get sponsorships. Fts don't get gold medals. Fts get dropped. Forgotten. Broken on the side of the road like your worthless father."

My chest caved. I wanted to scream that my father left because of her, not because of me. That he told me once, in the driveway, that she'd drained every bit of softness out of him. That I was still soft, still human, still able to smile at a nice man who gave me a fair score.

But I said nothing.

I never said anything.

"Fix your face," Mara snapped, adjusting her blazer. "We have a press conference in ten minutes. You'll answer every question with 'yes ma'am' and 'thank you for your support.' You'll look straight into the cameras. You'll smile like a normal athlete. And if I see even a hint of that... that tenderness again, I'll pull you from Nationals myself."

She walked out. The door swung shut behind her.

I stood alone in the locker room, staring at my reflection in the smudged mirror. My silver-blonde hair stuck to my forehead with sweat. My gray eyes looked hollow. Dead. Like someone had scooped out the real me and left this shell behind.

I splashed cold water on my face and went to the press conference.

I answered every question with "yes ma'am" and "thank you for your support." I looked straight into the cameras. I smiled like a normal athlete.

Then I faked a migraine, skipped the celebration dinner, and walked back to my dorm at midnight.

But I didn't go inside.

The rink called to me. It always did. The main arena was locked, but I knew the side entrance, the maintenance door with the broken latch. I'd discovered it years ago, back when I still believed in escape.

The door groaned open. I slipped inside.

Moonlight poured through the high windows, turning the ice into a silver lake. No spotlights. No judges. No mother counting my rotations or critiquing my arm placement. Just me, my blades, and the cold.

I laced up my skates on the bench. The leather hugged my ankles, familiar as a second skin. I stepped onto the ice.

The first glide. That shhhh sound of steel carving into frozen water. I closed my eyes and let my body take over.

I spun. I jumped. I didn't count. I didn't worry about landings or edges or the conservative sponsors who'd pull their funding if they saw too much joy in my movements. I just moved. I became wind and moonlight and the whisper of blades.

For the first time all night, I could breathe.

I slid to center ice, chest heaving, arms spread wide. The cold air stung my lungs. My ankles ached from the hours of practice before the competition. My mother's voice still echoed in my skull, fts don't get gold medals, but out here, under the stars, it faded into background noise.

"Just this once," I whispered to the empty stands. "Let me have this."

I closed my eyes. The silence answered back.

But then, the silence broke.

A shuffle. A breath. The faintest creak of old wooden bleachers.

My eyes snapped open.

I wasn't alone.

I turned slowly, scanning the shadows in the highest rows. Nothing moved. Just dark seats and darker corners. But I felt it. That prickle at the back of my neck. That animal instinct that screams someone is watching you.

I gripped the edge of the boards. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"I know someone's there," I called out. My voice echoed, thin and trembling. "This is private property. I'll call security."

No answer.

But then a glint. A reflection. In the far corner, a pair of eyes caught the moonlight, icy blue, unblinking, fixed on me like I was prey.

My blood turned to ice.

I didn't wait to see who it was. I vaulted over the boards, grabbed my street shoes, and ran through the maintenance door without looking back.

The door slammed shut behind me. I leaned against it, gasping, my shaking hands fumbling for the lock.

I clicked it shut.

Safe. I was safe.

But as I walked back to my dorm, my skin crawled with the memory of those blue eyes. Hungry eyes. Calculating eyes. Eyes that didn't just see me, they measured me. Studied me. Already planned my ruin.

I didn't sleep that night.

And somewhere across the academy, in a penthouse suite overlooking the frozen lake, Derick Blackwood watched the video of my winning routine on his phone for the tenth time.

He smashed his glass against the wall.

"Beautiful," he muttered, wiping whiskey from his chin. "So goddamn beautiful. And you have no idea what's coming for you.”