Chapter 1 #2
Inside, she feels… nothing about Keir. Not sadness. Not shock. Not even anger in the way people expect anger to be, hot and emotional and messy.
Her anger is clean.
It has been clean for years.
A choice made over and over: she didn’t matter to him, so he didn’t get to matter to her.
When Isla was a child, she had made excuses. She had believed the stories people told about famous men: busy, brilliant, trapped by the demands of their gifts. She had imagined Keir was coming, that he would walk through the door one day with arms wide and regret shining in his eyes.
By twelve, she knew better.
By fifteen, she had stopped asking.
By nineteen, she had learned that the absence itself could be a kind of presence, a shadow that followed you into every room, shaping you without ever touching you.
Isla had decided she would not be shaped by him.
She would be shaped by practice. By discipline. By precision. By Alisa’s relentless expectation.
That was the only inheritance that mattered.
The stage manager motions, and Isla walks out beneath the lights again.
The applause is polite now, the audience settling into the ceremony. The judges speak, praising artistry, technique, and interpretation. Isla listens with the same calm she wears for everything that matters. She waits for her name.
When the head judge smiles and announces that Isla MacLaren is the winner, the hall erupts again, this time with certainty, as if everyone had been holding the same conclusion in their mouths.
Isla accepts the medal. Shakes hands. Smiles in the correct places.
She does not think about Keir.
The rest of the night comes in fragments.
A photographer asks her to tilt her chin. A journalist tries to corner her for a quote. Isla declines interviews with a graciousness that leaves no opening for argument. She moves from one congratulation to the next like a dancer stepping through rehearsed marks.
Alisa hovers close, answering where Isla refuses, steering her away from clusters of people, tightening her grip every time someone says, “We heard about your father…”
Isla doesn’t respond.
She doesn’t give anyone the satisfaction of watching her flinch.
At the reception, champagne glasses clink, and strings of light glow overhead. People congratulate Isla in warm, eager voices that blur together. The competition director praises her artistry. Someone asks about her future career.
Isla nods. Smiles. Thanks them.
All the while, she feels Alisa’s tension humming beside her like a warning.
Finally, as the room begins to thin and the clamor softens, Isla slips toward the side corridor leading to the exit.
Alisa catches up instantly.
“We go now,” she says, too sharp to be merely a suggestion.
Isla pauses near a framed poster listing past winners, names that had become legends. She touches the edge of the frame, grounding herself, then looks at her mother.
“What did you mean,” Isla asks, “when you said it’s about what happens next?”
Alisa’s eyes harden. “Don’t ask questions here.”
Isla’s mouth tightens. “He’s dead. That’s the only fact you’ve given me.”
“That’s enough, for now.” Alisa’s voice is brittle.
Isla studies her mother’s face, the tightness around her mouth, the strain in her eyes. Alisa MacLaren does not panic easily. She doesn’t do messy. Everything in Isla’s life, every lesson, every schedule, every decision, has been arranged by Alisa like a masterpiece under glass.
So why does Alisa look like the glass is about to shatter?
“Is the money going to stop?” Isla asks quietly.
Alisa freezes.
For half a second, the silence between them is loud.
Then Alisa’s face flashes with indignation. “Is that what you think this is about?”
Isla doesn’t flinch. “Isn’t it?”
Alisa’s eyes go glossy with rage or grief or both. “That money was owed.”
“Owed,” Isla repeats, tasting the word. “For what? For leaving?”
Alisa’s jaw clenches. “For the life he destroyed. For promises he broke. For—”
Alisa stops herself, swallowing the rest.
For the first time, Isla wonders if there are more details in Alisa’s history with Keir than she’s been allowed to know.
Isla knew the official story: the rock star father who walked away from his wife and daughter.
The furious mother who rebuilt a life, the monthly payments like hush money disguised as support.
But there were always more shadows behind official stories.
“Did you love him?” Isla asks before she can stop herself.
Alisa’s eyes snap to hers. “Years ago.”
That is answer enough.
They move toward the side exit, away from the reception, away from the remaining well-wishers. Alisa keeps her hand on Isla’s back like a guide and a guard, pushing her forward.
Outside, the air is cool and damp, laced with the scent of the ocean carried inland. The night should have felt victorious, the winning medal around her neck secured, the future cracking open into possibility.
Instead, the moment the door opens, the world surges at them.
Lights. Shouts. Cameras.
“Isla! Isla MacLaren, this way!”
“Is it true about your father?”
“Keir MacLaren is dead. Do you have a statement?”
“Did you know before your performance?”
“Was your piece dedicated to him?”
Microphones shove toward Isla’s face. A bright light shines from a camera almost in her face. The. press formed a semi-circle outside the venue, waiting like predators who’d scented blood.
Isla’s heart beat once, hard.
Alisa grabs Isla’s hand and pulls her forward. “Keep your head down,” she hisses. “Don’t say anything.”
Isla’s jaw tightens.
She hates this.
She hates the way her father could still take center stage in her life without ever being present. She hates that in the same night she won something she had earned with her own hands and her own discipline, the world decided the headline would be about him.
Keir MacLaren.
A reporter shoves closer. “Isla—were you close with him?”
Close?
Isla almost laughs. The absurdity of it.
Alisa pushes harder, dragging Isla toward the waiting limo. A security guard tries to hold the press back, but the crowd surges. Someone calls Isla’s name again, loud and insistent, as if saying it enough times would crack her open.
Isla keeps moving, face composed, eyes forward, posture flawless.
A microphone is shoved in her face, the reporter stepping alongside her.
She stumbles a half step.
Alisa’s grip tightens like a vise. “Move,” she snarls.
They reach the limo. The driver holds the door open. Alisa shoves Isla inside first, then followed, slamming the door shut behind them with a finality that muffled the shouting outside.
The interior is dark and cool, smelling faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
The limo lurches forward.
Isla stares out the tinted window as the press dissolves into streaks of light and movement. Her reflection stares back at her, perfect hair, perfect makeup, a medal glinting coldly at her throat.
A winner.
A daughter of a dead rock star.
Beside her, Alisa turns sharply, rage colliding with fear in her expression.
“I told you,” Alisa growls, “we needed to leave earlier.”
Isla doesn’t look away from the window. Her voice is quiet, controlled, cutting.
“He left first.”
Alisa’s breath catches. For a moment, Isla thinks her mother might say something cruel, something honest.
Instead, Alisa stares at her, eyes bright with something she refuses to name.
“You don’t understand,” Alisa says.
Isla finally turns her head. “Then explain it.”
Alisa opens her mouth.
Closes it.
Her gaze flicks to Isla’s medal, as if even that had become dangerous.
“We’ll talk when we get home,” Alisa says tightly. “Not here.”
Isla’s lips thin. “You mean when you can control the narrative?”
Alisa’s hand curls into a fist in her lap. “I mean when it’s safe.”
Safe.
The word makes Isla’s skin prickle.
She leans back against the leather seat, posture still elegant even in exhaustion. Outside, the streetlights slip past in an even rhythm. The limo’s motion is steady, controlled, unlike the night.
Isla presses two fingers lightly against the cold of her medal, grounding herself.
She won.
That is real.
Keir MacLaren’s death is also real, apparently.
But Isla refuses to let that reality rewrite her own.
He had chosen absence.
He had chosen everything but her.
He doesn’t get to claim a place in her heart now just because the world wants a tragic story.
Isla closes her eyes briefly, listening to the hum of tires on pavement, feeling the weight of the medal at her throat.
Somewhere beyond the tinted glass, the ocean keeps moving, indifferent.
And somewhere, far away, a man who has never been a father has died, leaving behind consequences Isla does not yet understand.