Chapter 2 - THE BLOODLINE ON THE ICE
The VIP box erupted into chaos as Arthur Vance pushed past his security guards, knocking over heavy velvet ropes and expensive champagne flutes.
"Sir! It's not safe, she might be unstable!" his chief of security shouted, trying to grab the billionaire's arm.
"Get your hands off me!" Arthur roared, a dangerous, primal rage in his voice that no one had ever heard before. He practically threw himself down the concrete stairs, rushing toward the ice barrier.
Down on the ice, Clara was already pushing herself up. Her hands were raw, stained red from the rough ice, and her right ankle was swelling rapidly inside the ruined, split leather skate. The medical team was running toward her with a stretcher, but she lifted a single, mismatched gloved hand to stop them.
"Don't touch me," she whispered, her voice carrying an icy authority that stunned the medics into a halt.
Using the wooden barrier for support, Clara dragged herself to her feet. She refused to look defeated. She pulled the torn wool coat tighter around her shivering shoulders, her jaw clenched tight against the agonizing pain in her ankle.
"Clara!" Arthur's voice boomed across the ice as he reached the edge of the rink. He grabbed the top of the barrier, his knuckles turning white. "Clara, look at me! Where have you been?! We thought you were dead!"
Clara slowly turned her head. Her piercing blue eyes, cold and sharp as icicles, locked onto the billionaire's face. There was no love in her gaze. No relief. Only a deep, burning hatred.
"Dead?" Clara said softly, though the microphone near the barrier picked it up, broadcasting her words to the thousands of captivated spectators. "No, Arthur. You didn't think I was dead. You hoped I was dead."
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
Arthur? She had called the city’s most powerful, untouchable billionaire by his first name.
At the judges' table, the head judge quickly stood up, his face filled with panic. "Security, clear the arena! Turn off the audio feed! Now!"
But the audio technicians were too glued to the drama to move. The cameras that were supposed to be broadcasting the event to millions of viewers online zoomed in closer on Clara's face. The live-stream chat was moving so fast the servers were beginning to crash. Who was this girl? What was her connection to the Vance empire?
Arthur looked around frantically, realizing the world was watching. He tried to soften his tone, extending a trembling hand over the ice. "Clara, please. You're hurt. Come off the ice. Whatever happened in the past... the inheritance, the accident... we can talk about it in private. You don't have to live like this. Look at your clothes, look at your skates! This is madness!"
"Madness?" Clara let out a bitter, hollow laugh that sent chills down the spines of everyone listening. She pointed a bleeding finger down at her rusted skates. "These skates belonged to my mother, Helena Vance. The real champion of this city. The woman whose name you erased from the record books after you orchestrated the plane crash that took her life!"
The arena went dead silent. The truth dropped like a nuclear bomb.
Helena Vance.
Ten years ago, Helena Vance had been the undisputed queen of figure skating, an Olympic gold medalist and the beloved heiress to the Vance global fortune. But then, a tragic private plane crash over the Alps had reportedly taken her life and the life of her young daughter, Clara. Arthur Vance, Helena's ambitious cousin, had stepped in to inherit the entire multi-billion-dollar empire, claiming he was the last surviving bloodline.
But the daughter wasn't dead. She was standing on the ice, bleeding, wearing rags, and holding a rusted blade to his throat with her words.
"You took everything from us," Clara said, her voice rising, filled with a decade's worth of suppressed agony and survival. "You paid the investigators to rule it an accident. You locked me out of my own home. You forced me into the streets, hoping the winter cold would finish what the crash started. But I survived, Arthur. And I didn't come here tonight for your pathetic hundred thousand dollars."
She dragged her broken skate forward, standing tall right in front of him, separated only by the thin wooden barrier.
"I came for my crown. And I came to destroy you."
Before Arthur could speak, the head judge, sweating profusely, walked to the edge of the ice with a microphone. "Due to... due to structural failure of the equipment and an unlisted entry violation, the judges have reached a decision. Skater Clara is hereby... disqualified."
"Disqualified?!" a voice yelled from the crowd.
"She landed a quad! She won!" another screamed.
Suddenly, the crowd began to turn. The wealthy elite, who had been laughing just minutes ago, were now swept up in the intoxicating drama of a corporate coup on ice. "Let her skate! Give her the score!" chanted a voice from the upper tiers, and within seconds, thousands of people joined in. “Let her skate! Let her skate!”
Arthur Vance’s face contorted with malice as he realized he was losing control of the narrative. He leaned over the barrier, his voice dropping to a low, vicious whisper that only Clara could hear.
"You think you've won something because a bunch of peasants are cheering for you?" Arthur sneered, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You have no coach. You have no money. Your ankle is broken, and your skates are trash. Even if you survive tonight, you won't make it to the World Trials next week. I own the federation, Clara. I own this rink. And by midnight tonight, I will make sure you disappear for good."
Clara didn't flinch. She leaned in closer, her breath fogging in the cold air between them.
"Then you better watch your back, Uncle," she whispered. "Because I'm not the only one who survived."
Suddenly, the main lights of the arena violently flickered and plunged into total darkness.
A loud, metallic crash echoed from the back entrance of the stadium. Panic erupted in the dark. Screams echoed through the stands. When the emergency backup lights finally kicked in ten seconds later, casting a eerie red glow over the rink, the crowd gasped.
May you like
The ice was empty. Clara was gone.
Left behind in the center of the rink, stabbed deeply into the pristine ice, was a single, rusted skate blade. And tied to the blade with a frayed gray lace was a flash drive glowing with a small, pulsing blue light.
