Chapter 214

Chapter 214
Elora

"Seriously," Petra agrees. "This is basically the organizers putting pressure on the judges in the most obvious way possible. 'Hey, remember who's friends with the winner, so score accordingly.'"

My face burns. This is exactly what I was afraid of—that my connection to Cade, to the Rhodes family, to all that power and influence would taint everything I've worked for. That people would look at my achievements and see only manipulation and corruption instead of years of sacrifice and dedication.

But it gets worse.

The emcee, apparently not content with simply acknowledging Richard's presence, gestures for him to join her on the ice. "Mr. Rhodes, if you wouldn't mind, I think our audience would love to hear a few words from you before the competition begins. Would you do us that honor?"

Richard's smile widens. Of course he accepts. This is exactly the kind of platform he lives for—a captive audience, cameras rolling, the perfect opportunity to burnish his political image while pretending to care about women's sports.

Security personnel escort him down to ice level, where he exchanges his shoes for a pair of skates with practiced ease. He glides onto the ice with surprising grace for a man his age, clearly comfortable in this environment. The emcee hands him a wireless microphone, and the spotlight follows him as he positions himself at center ice.

"Thank you all for that warm welcome," he begins, his voice carrying the smooth confidence of a career politician. "I have to admit, I'm not usually one for public speaking at sporting events. But when I was invited to attend this competition, I couldn't refuse. You see, I've always been passionate about women's athletics—about creating opportunities for young women to compete at the highest levels, to push themselves beyond their perceived limitations, to prove that they're just as capable of excellence as their male counterparts."

The audience eats it up, applauding at all the right moments. I watch from the sidelines, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.

"I'm here tonight," Richard continues, "not just to enjoy the incredible artistry and athleticism these young women will display, but to support a vision of athletics as a force for empowerment. We need more women in competitive sports. More female role models. More examples of what's possible when talent meets determination."

The emcee nods enthusiastically. "Beautifully said, Mr. Rhodes. Your commitment to these values is truly inspiring. Now, before we let you return to your seat, we've collected some questions from audience members regarding your recent anti-corruption campaign. Would you mind addressing a few of them?"

"Of course," Richard says smoothly. "I'm always happy to engage with concerned citizens."

And just like that, my competition—the most important event of my skating career—transforms into a political rally. The emcee starts lobbing softball questions about crime statistics and legislative initiatives, and Richard responds with the kind of polished talking points that sound impressive but say absolutely nothing of substance.

I can feel my anger building with each passing second. This isn't about skating anymore. This isn't about athletic competition or artistic expression or any of the things that are supposed to matter. This is about Richard Rhodes using my sport, my passion, my entire life's work as a backdrop for his political theater.

Around me, the other competitors watch with varying degrees of disgust and resignation. Some have already started changing out of their skating dresses, clearly convinced that there's no point in even trying. Others stare at the ice with hollow eyes, their dreams of fair competition crumbling in real time.

And suddenly, it hits me.

How many careers has this destroyed? How many skaters have trained their entire lives only to watch it all mean nothing because someone more powerful decided the ice made a good stage for something else?

I've lived in this world long enough to understand how it works. I've even benefited from it.

But there has to be a line somewhere. And figure skating is mine.

I can't let this stand. I won't.

Before I fully realize what I'm doing, I'm moving—pushing off from the boards and skating toward center ice with enough speed that the security personnel don't have time to react. The emcee's eyes widen as I approach, her practiced smile faltering for the first time since the broadcast began.

I don't slow down. Don't hesitate. Just cut directly across Richard's line of sight and snatch the microphone from the emcee's hand with a smooth gesture that's probably going to look absolutely insane on camera.

The arena goes silent.

Richard stares at me, his expression cycling through surprise, confusion, and finally settling on something that might be anger masked by political instinct. The emcee reaches for the microphone, but I spin away from her, using my edges to put distance between us.

"Elora," Richard says carefully, his voice carrying even without amplification, "what are you doing?"

I face him fully, feeling the weight of thousands of eyes on me, the cameras capturing every detail of this moment. My heart hammers against my ribs, but my voice comes out steady and clear.

"I have some questions too, Mr. Rhodes." I lift the microphone, letting my words echo through the arena. "And I think the audience would love to hear your answers before you finish your speech."