Chapter 14
ISABELLA
“Isabella, dear.”
The door opens without a knock, even though this is my office, and they do not belong here.
Everything here is mine—the role I have at this facility, the foundation, the work—but the air when my parents are around shifts the same way it did when I was sixteen and they stepped rink-side before a free skate.
Lake Jasper Training Center is the only place that feels fully mine, and even here, they make it feel smaller the second they walk in.
My father enters first. Navy blazer and no tie. Casual with the ease powerful men have when they expect to be obeyed. My mother follows, immaculate and bright-eyed, scanning the room as though she’s assessing the potential of it.
Nina is leaning against the credenza, arms folded, pretending to scroll on her phone. She looks up once, meets my eyes, and says nothing. Anchor, not shield.
“Princess. Hi, Nina,” my mother says warmly, as casually as one would say to their daughter when they’re meeting for Sunday brunch and not about to negotiate control. “We were in the neighborhood.”
“Colorado is not a neighborhood,” Nina mumbles, and I hope to everything that is holy that our parents didn’t hear her. It’s the people pleaser in me, who inevitably comes out when they are around.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, closing my laptop slowly instead of snapping it shut like I want to. “You could have called.”
My father glances at the stack of files on my desk. Rodrigo’s performance breakdown is visible, his name in bold at the top of the page.
“We did call,” he says mildly. “You didn’t answer.”
I hold his gaze. “I’ve been working.”
A small silence settles. It’s familiar territory. They don’t like being reminded that my work is no longer theirs to direct, even if I’ve given as little details as possible of what I’m up to these days.
My mother moves closer, fingertips brushing the edge of the desk. “We watched your broadcast,” she says. “The boy from Argentina.”
“Rodrigo,” I reply evenly.
“Yes, him.” She smiles. “You were very… passionate.”
I know what she means. That I let too much through and I didn’t mask the admiration in my commentary.
My tone suggested what I’ve been saying to them for years about access, infrastructure, what talent looks like when it’s underfunded.
I stepped as close to criticism of the sport and the ways of working without outright naming it.
“That’s my job.”
“No,” my father corrects softly. “Your job is influence. We’ve talked about this before.”
Nina’s thumb stills on her screen, and I swear I can hear her eye roll.
My mother continues before I can respond. “Armand mentioned you’re building something with this boy. Some sort of developmental residency program here. You didn’t think to include us?”
It only took a few minutes before it showed up.
Not anger nor accusation. Something colder.
Ownership.
“I’m not including anyone yet,” I say. “It’s just me and Nina.”
My mother scoffs, and Nina lifts her head to look at her, that brief, familiar pause where she decides how much of herself to offer, if this is worth a fight or not.
“Small things become large things when handled properly,” my father says. “Especially when attached to our name.”
Attached to our name. Not mine. Theirs, is what he’s saying.
I lean back in my chair. I can feel the old reflex rising—explain, justify, smooth. I swallow it down.
“This isn’t about branding, Dad,” I say carefully. “It’s about developing athletes who have a ton of potential and not enough resources to do so.”
My mother’s expression shifts to something that I can only describe as pleasant, but sharpened. “Yes, resources.”
“I have resources,” I say, tilting my head to the side. Nina’s eyes are ping-ponging between us, not interrupting the conversation but also somewhat acting as a witness between us. She’s always had this… sort of power over our interactions, almost like a neutral mediator who grounded us.
“Yes,” my father agrees with me. He lifts one of the papers off the desk and studies it with forced nonchalance. But nothing with my parents is casual. “Because of us.”
The door behind them is still open.
I don’t look towards it at first; I don’t need to. But I hear a small gasp and feel a presence.
A stillness that doesn’t belong to my parents.
Cecilia.
She must have come to drop off the updated training schedules. Or the paperwork I asked her to review this morning. Or something mundane and professional.
Instead, she’s standing just outside the threshold, witnessing this.
Good. Let her hear.
“This is not an association project,” I say, voice steady. “And it’s not a campaign.”
My father’s brow lifts slightly. “Campaign?”
“For presidency,” I say plainly. But the reality is that I want to scream at them.
Silence.
My mother exhales through her nose. “It would be foolish not to consider it.”
“It would be premature,” I reply. And I’m not interested.
“Princess,” my father counters. “It would be strategic, and you know it. You have credibility, visibility, respect. And Armand’s term is ending in two years.”
“And?”
“And you could shape policy instead of critiquing it from the sidelines,” my mother says. Nina’s face snaps to mine and she raises one eyebrow.
The word sidelines feels deliberate. Controlled. Chosen. As if what I’m building is a hobby.
Sidelines.
Because development is decorative, it seems. And proximity to power matters more than proximity to the work and the actual athletes.
I look at her and understand, with a clarity that surprises me, that in her mind influence only counts when it’s public. When it’s titled and comes with a vote.
What I’m doing doesn’t photograph at all. And that’s the problem.
“Mom.”
Cecilia shifts in the hallway. I hear it—the faint scrape of shoe against the commercial linoleum floors. No one else seems to notice her presence.
I meet my father’s eyes.
“I don’t want the job.”
My mother laughs lightly, like I’ve made a charming safe-for-work joke. “Of course you do, Princess.”
“I do not.”
“You always want to win,” she retorts.
The air tightens.
I stand slowly.
“This is not about winning,” I say, and I don’t raise my voice. “It’s about making sure someone like Rodrigo—and others we’ll probably never even hear about—don’t have to be exceptions just to survive.”
My father studies, weighing whether I’m serious.
“And you believe you can do that from a place like this?” he asks.
“Yes.”
He considers that.
“And the coach?” my mother asks. “She’s involved?”
That’s it. The real curiosity.
I don’t look towards the doorway.
“She’s his coach,” I say.
“And?” my mother presses.
I hold her gaze. “And that’s the only role that matters here, Vivienne.”
Another silence. This one much, much heavier. Nina has her arms crossed on her chest and is looking at me, eyes slightly wide at the use of my mother’s name.
My father’s gaze flicks to the files again. “You’re investing emotionally.”
“I’m investing responsibly.”
“In a foreign federation.”
“He’s an athlete, Dad. And practices the sport you love.”
He steps closer. “Your legacy—”
“My legacy,” I interrupt quietly, “is not a brand extension.”
The room stills.
My mother straightens. “We built something extraordinary.”
“Yes, you built something extraordinary,” I agree. “I’m building something different that belongs to me.”
Behind them, I hear Cecilia inhale. She’s moved closer to the door, and I can see her shoulder and half her arm peeking over the frame.
My father holds my gaze for a long moment. Evaluating whether this is rebellion or resolve.
“And if this fails?” he asks.
“Then it fails,” I say. “But at least I tried to give everything I had to people who deserve it.”
“And if it succeeds?”
“Then it won’t belong to you.”
The words leave my mouth clean and sharp, and for a split second I feel the impact of them—how final they sound, how close to unforgivable.
Nina shifts beside me, stepping forward just slightly.
Not to block anyone or to rescue me, but to stand there, shoulder to shoulder, like she has since we were children in too-bright arenas with our last name stitched across our backs.
My eyes flick briefly towards the hallway just enough for Cecilia to know I’m aware she heard every word. The corner of my mouth lifts a fraction before she nods, and then I see her turn away in the direction of the rink.
“Isabella,” my father says as he exhales through his nose, the sound low and controlled. “You are turning down an opportunity that would cement your legacy.”
“I don’t want my legacy cemented!” I protest, and I can hear the heat in it now. I don’t bother hiding it. “I don’t give a shit about a legacy, Sebastian.”
He blinks at me, and Nina bumps ever so slightly against my shoulder.
“You are thinking too small,” my mother says. “One athlete and a private initiative. That is not structural change.”
“And what? Sitting at a table and congratulating yourselves for incremental reform while the same countries keep winning because they can afford to is?”
My father’s jaw finally tightens. “Careful.”
“No.” My voice is louder this time. The word echoes in the office, ricochets off glass and framed photographs and the careful life they curated for me. “I am building something that doesn’t require your approval to exist.”
My father steps forward. “Lower your voice.”
“You are being dismissive,” I say before I can stop myself. “You talk about shaping policy like it’s the only way to matter. As if what I’m doing is extracurricular. As if standing on the ice with kids who’ve never had a shot is somehow less significant than a title.”
“Isabe—”
“No,” I repeat for the third time, and now the word is a sharp blade. “You do not get to minimize this because it doesn’t center you.”
For a moment, I see something flash across my mother’s face—anger, yes, but also something more complicated. Recognition, maybe. The realization that I am no longer negotiating for permission.
“We will discuss this later,” she says finally, straightening her fur coat like she’s wrapping herself back in control.
“No,” I reply, steady now. “We will not.”
My father’s expression hardens. “You will regret closing doors this early in your retirement.”
“I am not closing doors. I am choosing which ones I walk through.”
Neither of them responds. My mother turns first. My father lingers half a beat longer, searching my face for the version of me who used to bend to every word they said. He doesn’t find her.
The door shuts behind them with more force than necessary.
The office is quiet again, and I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until Nina exhales beside me.
“Jesus,” she says softly.
I let out a short laugh that feels nothing like humor. “Too much?”
“No,” she replies. “Exactly enough.”
I sink back down into my chair, and only then notice my hands are unsteady. The adrenaline drains out of me in a slow, embarrassing wave.
“We can’t cave,” she says, leaning against the edge of the desk.
“I know.”
She studies me for a second longer, then nods once, satisfied. “Good.”
There’s a beat of silence. The office smells faintly like my mother’s perfume, sharp and expensive. I stand and open a window without thinking. Crisp Colorado air slips inside, clearing the space.
Nina checks her phone. “I’m heading to the club in twenty,” she says. “We have mixed doubles practice.”
I blink at her. “You’re still doing the curling thing?”
She rolls her eyes. “I just go for the beer and the laughs, honestly.”
“I’ve heard otherwise.”
“Please,” she says, slipping her phone into her back pocket. “I am deeply unserious about it. That’s the whole point. It’s a ridiculous sport, if you ask me.”
I cross my arms, leaning back against the chair. “Didn’t you buy your own broom a few months ago?”
“A brand sent it to me.”
“You have custom gloves.”
“They were on sale!”
“And, Nina, you memorized the rulebook.”
She points a finger at me. “Because no one else was explaining it right to me. And if I’m going to stand on ice yelling ‘harder’ at someone, I need to know what I’m talking about.”
I narrow my eyes. “You yell?”
“Oh, I yell,” she says, delighted. “It’s oddly cathartic. Everyone else treats it like they’re auditioning for the Olympics and to me it’s just like recess.”
I can see it immediately—her in some loud sweater, hair pulled back, laughing in the middle of a match while everyone else measures angles and debates sweeping strategy with the seriousness of a doctoral defense.
“And yet,” I say slowly, “you win.”
She shrugs, feigning innocence. “That’s not my fault. Apparently being calm and not spiraling every time a stone goes slightly off line is… effective.”
I let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Shocking.”
“It’s the only place,” she continues, softer now, “where nobody cares who I am related to. Or what our last name is. Or whether I’m leveraging something.” She pauses. “I show up. I sweep a little. I drink a beer. That’s it. You should come sometime.”
There’s no bitterness in her voice. Just relief.
I study her for a moment. “You like being underestimated.”
“I love it,” she corrects. “It’s very peaceful.”
She grabs her jacket from the chair and swings it over her shoulders. “Anyway, I do it for the bit,” she says lightly, as if she hasn’t just admitted something important. “And if I accidentally get very good at it, that’s between me and the ice.”
“Please, Nina.” I shake my head. “You’re a Pierce. We are naturally athletic and competitive.”
“Umm, excuse you, Ms. Five-Time Olympic Gold Medalist,” she says. “I don’t have an athletic bone in my body. It’s just really fun to yell at people.”
“Sure.”
She steps towards the door, then glances back at me. “And Izzy?”
“Yeah?”
Her expression turns knowing. “You don’t fight like that for things you don’t care about.”
I don’t answer.
She doesn’t need me to.
The door closes behind her, and I’m alone in the office again—with the spreadsheets, the training schedules, the single name at the top of the document that shifted my entire axis and helped me realize that I have purpose. And I feel certain I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.