His Chains My Wings Chapter 08
Alivia almost thought she had misheard. She looked up and met his unfathomable eyes.
“In my name?” she scoffed. “And then what? Will you pin another fabricated crime on me?”
“In Micaela’s name,” Wesley replied, his voice calm and steady. “You need to wear makeup so the judges and audience won’t recognize you. Win the championship, and I’ll take care of the incident where you hit someone, as well as Professor Sheffield’s follow-up treatment.”
A wave of humiliation instantly seized Alivia.
Not only did she have to clear the name of a plagiarist, but she also had to hand over the glory that should have been hers, and couldn’t even fight under her own identity.
“Why should I?” Her nails dug into her palm, and her voice trembled with restrained emotion.
“Because this is the only way to ensure the gold medal doesn’t fall into someone else’s hands; because you are still the only active skater in America who can crush all opponents.”
Wesley stepped closer, looking down at her from above. “Alivia, your pride and your devotion to figure skating can’t fool me. Are you really willing to watch our glory trampled and mocked by those people?”
He had struck precisely at her weakness—national honor, and the figure skating she cherished as her life.
Alivia closed her eyes, and Everett’s kindly face flashed through her mind. He had once earnestly taught her, “Ali, when we stand on the ice, we never represent just ourselves.”
She also remembered the day he left, quietly slipping a business card into her hand—the contact information of a respected coach in the International Skating Union.
The competition arena was where Wesley would let his guard down, and also her chance to reach the outside world.
A plan began to take shape in her mind.
When she opened her eyes again, all emotion had been suppressed, leaving only a cold, silent calm.
“I agree.”
The day of the finals arrived.
Alivia wore Micaela’s costume and makeup so realistic it could fool anyone, standing in the shadow of the entrance tunnel.
The dazzling light of the ice was just steps away, and the thunderous cheers from the audience were all for the name “Micaela.”
Beside her, Wesley stood tall as ever.
He looked at her, his gaze complicated, and said in a low voice, “Remember, don’t make any mistakes.”
Alivia didn’t look at him; she simply fixed her gaze on the familiar ice rink.
It was once the place where her dreams soared, but now it had become her humiliating execution ground.
When “Micaela” was announced over the loudspeaker, Alivia took a deep breath and glided to the center of the rink. Under the spotlight, she lifted her chin slightly, burying all her humiliation, resentment, and anger deep within her heart.
The music began. Wesley took her hand, and their familiar lifts and throws unfolded one after another, the instinctive harmony of more than ten years flowing naturally.
Though they hadn’t practiced together in a long time and her old injury in her right leg still ached faintly, their movements remained smooth and flawless.
Alivia transformed all her emotions into the cold gleam of her blades; every jump was precise and resolute, every spin carried the force of burning her bridges.
She was not skating for “Micaela,” nor for Wesley, but for the national honor represented by the ice beneath her feet, and for her undying faith in figure skating!
As the final note fell, they froze in an unprecedentedly difficult synchronized spin.
The entire arena was silent for a moment, then erupted in thunderous applause and cheers!
The scores came out—an overwhelming first place!
The ten consecutive championships and Grand Slam she had missed in her previous life, and thought impossible in this one, were reclaimed by her own hands in such an absurd and humiliating way!
From the stands, the shouts of “Micaela! Micaela!” were deafening.
Wesley gripped Alivia’s hand tightly, his eyes filled with a feverish intensity of something lost and regained.
“Wait for me here,” he said hoarsely, his tone brooking no refusal. “After the award ceremony, I’ll take you home.”
After speaking, he gave her a deep look and turned to walk toward the podium.
Alivia watched him stand shoulder to shoulder with Micaela at the highest point, watched as the glory that belonged to her was enjoyed by an impostor, watched as golden confetti rained down for them… She turned away expressionlessly and walked into the athletes’ tunnel.
Back in the lounge, she quickly locked the door, wasted no time, and deftly changed into the plain clothes she had prepared in advance, removing the false makeup from her face.
In the mirror, her pale but resolute face finally appeared.
Outside the door, the cheers were deafening and Wesley’s approaching footsteps could be heard.
Inside, she took out the business card, now slightly damp with sweat, and dialed the number.
“Coach, it’s me, Alivia. I’m ready.”
***
When Wesley, clutching the trophy, finally escaped the enthusiastic media and Micaela and hurried back to the lounge, it was already empty.
Only Micaela’s costume remained, carelessly discarded on the bench like a shed skin.
The window was wide open, and the night wind blew in, carrying the distant, unending cheers, but all it brought him was a piercing chill.
The trophy in his hand fell to the ground with a loud clang.
The crisp sound of metal striking the floor finally drowned out the cheers for Micaela outside.
