Chapter 28
ISABELLA
Natalie Portman jumps back onto the couch the second the door clicks shut, reclaiming his spot with quiet authority. I stand at the door for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the space Cecilia occupied like it might still hold some version of her.
The house feels different.
The wind still moves through the aspens outside in the same steady rhythm, leaves brushing against each other in a soft, constant whisper. And everything is exactly as it was.
But something has shifted.
I’ve spent my whole life around elite skaters, and somehow Cecilia Montenegro is still the most impressive person in the room.
Not because she commands attention.
Because she doesn’t perform competence, doesn’t package it into something palatable or easy to endorse. She just… does the work. Sees things other people miss and refuses to let them go unnoticed, even when it would be easier—smarter—to stay quiet and let the system move the way it always has.
She doesn’t soften the edges of it, either. Doesn’t pretend it’s fair or meritocratic when it’s clear that it isn’t.
Yet Cecilia still shows up every day and makes it work anyway.
That should have made her bitter. It would make me bitter.
Instead, it made her exacting.
My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, the vibration sharp against the stillness.
I don’t need to look.
Mom.
I watch it for a second longer than necessary, like the name might change into something more appealing if I give it enough time.
“Hi, Mom.”
“We’re having dinner,” she says, her voice already settled into that tone that assumes compliance. “You should come.”
I lean back against the cold marble, crossing one ankle over the other.
“Is it optional?”
“It’s not.”
A small breath leaves me, something between a laugh and a sigh.
“I’ll be there in twenty.”
The house I grew up in sits at the top of a hill, spread wide across a sprawling estate in a way that makes no attempt at subtleties.
It doesn’t suggest wealth—it screams it in your face, loudly and without apology.
As a kid, it took me forty-five minutes to walk downhill to the rink, my skates slung over my shoulder, the air thin and sharp in the mornings.
I did it every day. Down before sunrise, back up when the day was already well underway, my body humming with that familiar bone-deep exhaustion and clarity of mind that only ever existed on the ice for me.
The door closes softly behind me now, the sound absorbed immediately by the space. Everything is exactly as it’s always been: the same careful lighting, the same restrained color palette, and every single object in its assigned spot, previously approved by my mother. Nothing here is accidental.
Nothing in the Pierce household is ever accidental.
My mother is already seated at the table, her posture exact without looking rigid and a glass of wine resting lightly in her hand. My father stands near the window, finishing a call, his voice low and even. A tone that carries authority without the need to be overbearing.
“Isabella,” my mother says, her gaze lifting to meet mine, steady and expectant. It makes me feel less like she’s greeting me and more like she’s acknowledging me.
“Hi,” I say, a soft, casual smile on my face. It’s the most I can offer them. “Where’s Nina?”
“Not here tonight,” she replies, placing her glass in front of her and folding her hands on her lap.
I take my usual seat across from her. The table is set but untouched. Plates, silverware, and glasses filled but not yet used, except for my mother’s. It’s a familiar choreography—the illusion of dinner when in reality this is about something else.
My father ends his call and joins us, folding himself into the chair beside her with the same composed ease he’s carried my entire life. He doesn’t speak immediately. Neither of them does.
Instead, they let the quiet settle, stretch just long enough to create space for whatever this is meant to become.
Growing up, I used to rush to fill it.
“We’ve been following your work this summer,” my mother says finally, her voice smooth, almost conversational. “The program you’ve been involved in.”
Ascend.
She doesn’t say the name.
I nod once, resting my hands loosely in my lap, matching her. “It’s been productive.”
“Productive,” she repeats, as if testing the word for fit. Her gaze drifts briefly to the window, then back to me. “That’s an interesting way to describe it.”
There’s no edge to her tone yet. It reads more like curiosity, carefully measured.
My father leans back slightly in his chair, one arm resting along the table, his attention fixed on me. It’s an evaluation.
“It’s drawn a fair amount of attention, Princess,” he says. “Though perhaps not in the way one would expect, given your position.”
I let that sit for a moment, considering the shape of it.
“My position,” I echo lightly.
My mother’s lips curve ever so slightly.
“You’ve spent years building a presence in our sport,” she says. “Access, recognition, credibility. There are very few paths you haven’t already opened for yourself.”
I know where this is going. I’ve known since I walked through the massive wooden door.
“And yet,” she continues, her fingers tracing the stem of her glass in a slow, absent motion, “you’ve chosen to invest your time and money into something that operates mostly outside the spotlight.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “It’s not about visibility.”
My father’s gaze sharpens just enough to register.
“No,” he agrees, almost thoughtfully. “That’s precisely what concerns us.”
A small silence follows, heavier this time, settling into the space between us like something that’s been waiting to be acknowledged.
“You’re stepping away from a trajectory that was—by any reasonable measure—very clear,” he continues. “The association has been receptive. There have been conversations.”
Conversations that they’ve had, behind closed doors, in a careful climb in pursuit of what they consider power and acceptability.
“You’ve been given access to rooms most people spend their entire careers trying to enter,” my mother adds, her tone still even and calm. “And instead of consolidating that, you’re dispersing your efforts.”
As if what Nina and I are building is a dilution or a failure to capitalize on something.
I exhale slowly, my gaze drifting for a moment to the sideboard, to a photograph I’ve seen a hundred times and never really looked at. My parents on the ice, frozen mid-performance, lines perfect. The image of control captured and preserved for eternity.
That’s what they understand.
Control. Structure. And recognition that follows a straight path into one singular direction.
“Not everything needs to lead there,” I say finally, my voice quieter than theirs but steady.
“To where, exactly?” my father asks with a kind of genuine interest that makes the question harder to dismiss.
I glance back at him.
“The association. Leadership. Titles.” I pause, choosing the next part more carefully. “Visibility for the sake of it.”
My mother tilts her head to the left, studying me. It feels like she’s trying to understand not just what I’m saying, but why.
“It’s not for the sake of it,” she says. And now her tone is sharper, a little more agitated. “It’s influence. It’s the ability to shape the sport in a meaningful way.”
I almost smile. Because that’s the version of influence they believe in. Just like Armand, and all the other officers in the International Skating Association and in some of the more influential federations. It’s the version that is sanctioned by people like them: structured and measurable.
“I am shaping it,” I reply.
“From the outside,” my father says.
“From where it actually matters, Dad.”
My mother’s fingers still against the glass. She watches me for a long moment, something quieter moving behind her expression now, something that looks less like disagreement and more like recalibration.
“You’ve always had a tendency,” she says slowly, “to move laterally when others move forward.”
There’s no judgment in her words, I don’t think. But this feels personal.
I let out a small sigh, my shoulders settling back against the chair. “Maybe forward isn’t always the right direction.”
My father leans back, his gaze drifting briefly towards my mom before returning to me.
“And this project, Princess,” he says after a moment, the dismissal of its importance right there in his words, “you believe it’s worth that deviation.”
It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.
“Yes.”
“Dinner will be ready shortly,” my mother says, pushing her chair back. She studies me for another moment after she stands, then nods once, almost imperceptibly, acknowledging something she doesn’t agree with.
She doesn’t move away immediately. Her hand rests lightly on the back of her chair, fingers tapping once against the polished wood while she decides how much further to take this.
“When you step outside of a structure like the association,” she says, her voice back to even and controlled, “you’re also stepping outside of the support that comes with it.”
I don’t say anything because I don’t need clarification.
“Introductions,” she continues. “Funding, access.” A small pause. “Protection.”
Each word is placed carefully, because she’s laying out an understanding that has been implicit and assumed but never explicitly stated.
My father doesn’t interrupt her. He doesn’t offer to soften her words, either.
“We’ve always made sure your work is positioned correctly,” he adds after a beat, his tone almost conversational. “That the right people are paying attention. That doors open for you when they should.”
I look between them, something tight and quiet settling in my chest.
“And if I keep going in this direction?” I ask.
It comes out calmer than I expect.
My mother’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Then you’ll need to be comfortable with those doors not opening.”
Not slammed shut in my face.
A subtle and meaningful difference, where their name carries weight.
My father exhales softly, like this is the reasonable conclusion of a reasonable conversation.
“You’re not being asked to stop,” he says. “Only to be intentional about what you’re stepping away from.”
Which means I need to choose correctly. Which, for them, means I need to choose them.
The room feels very still.
For a second, I can see it the way they do. The clean trajectory and the inevitability of it. The version of my life that moves forward in a straight, sanctioned line, where each stepping stone was laid out by them and built on the last one, each decision reinforcing the one before it.
It would be easier, of course. But it would also not be mine.
I push my chair back before I can think about it any longer. The sound is soft against the floor, but it cuts through the room anyway. “I have to go.”
My father watches me stand, his gaze steady, measuring. “Isabella,” he says, loud enough to stop me for a second.
I turn back slightly.
“You’ve always understood how this works.”
I hold his gaze. “Yes,” I say. And then, after a beat, I add, “I just don’t agree with it anymore.”