Chapter 41
ISABELLA
We walk in hurried steps through the corridor and in the direction of the rink. I know they’ll be perched just outside the VIP section, perfectly positioned to be seen without ever appearing to seek attention, as if the entire structure of this sport naturally arranges itself around them.
I feel the shift of Cecilia’s grip. I hesitate for a second, because whatever I’m about to do has only very little to do with the conversation we were just having and everything to do with something much older, much deeper.
Something that has been simmering under the surface long before she stepped into any of this.
My mother sees me first. Her expression changes almost imperceptibly, a quiet satisfaction slipping into place, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment, knowing that I would come to her.
I stop in front of them, close enough that there is no room for politeness and the faux smiles we’ve grown up around. I take a moment to look at them, taking in the calm and the composure. The complete lack of urgency in their posture.
“Did you do this?” I ask without preamble.
My father’s gaze flicks briefly to Cecilia, to the place where our fingers are laced, then back to me, assessing, recalibrating.
My mother doesn’t look away and instead, her smile tightens a notch.
“We supported you,” she says, as if that answers the question. “You are our daughter.”
“Supported me? You put my name forward,” I press, my voice steady in a way that feels almost detached. “Without asking me.”
“We advocated for you,” she corrects, and there’s something in her tone that makes it absolutely clear she doesn’t see the difference. “Because you are the obvious choice, darling.”
“Obvious to who?” I ask. “To the board? To you? Or to the version of me that exists only when it serves your idea of what this sport should be?”
There’s a shift now.
My father steps in, his voice lower, more measured, trying to bring things back into alignment.
“This is about influence, Princess,” he says. “About the ability to enact change at the structural level. You’ve proven you can build something. This is the natural next step.”
“Stop using the word influence, for fuck’s sake!”
My mother’s lips press together, not in anger, I don’t think. But in something closer to disappointment.
“Ascend is my next step. My forever step. That is the work and that is the change.”
“You’re thinking too small,” she says.
And I almost laugh. Because that’s always been the accusation.
“That program exists because we gave you access to the most influential people in the sport,” she continues, her voice calm, controlled. She looks to the right, smile pasted on, and nods to someone as they walk by. “Imagine what you could do with actual power.”
I take a deep breath.
“It exists because I chose to build it,” I snap, and I can feel the shift now, the heat rising under my skin, the control starting to thin.
“Because I stayed on the ice when it would have been easier to walk away, just like you did. Smiling for the cameras and saying idiotic things about nothing to anyone who would listen. I did the work without asking you to approve it.”
“And now you don’t have to do it alone,” she replies. Almost like this presidency is an offering, a gift she’s making me. Generosity.
I let go of Cecilia’s hand and step forward, close enough that my mother has to tilt her chin to maintain eye contact.
“I am not interested in a position that pulls me away from the thing that actually matters,” I say, each word placed carefully in the sequence.
“I am not interested in sitting in a room full of people who have spent years deciding what this sport should look like without ever stepping onto the ice themselves.”
“That’s a naive take, Princess,” my father says. I want to scream in his face so bad.
“No,” I reply. “It’s specific.”
There’s a beat. Then my gaze sharpens.
“And the timing?” I ask. “Armand retires, effective immediately, and suddenly my name is being passed around like it’s already decided. That’s convenient.”
My mother’s expression shifts. “What are you implying, Isabella?”
“I’m asking.” I hold her gaze, steady, refusing to soften the question or give her a way out of it. “What did you have to promise him for him to retire so abruptly?”
The silence between us tightens.
“His wife is ill,” my father eventually says, sharper. Long gone is the tone he uses when he wants to sound like a reasonable man. “He made a personal decision.”
“Of course he did,” I reply, but I don’t step back, don’t soften, because the coincidence still sits wrong with me, feeling orchestrated even if it isn’t. “And you just happened to be ready with a solution.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Isabella,” my mother says. “This is exactly how leadership works.”
“That’s how control works,” I counter. “And what would you know about leadership? You haven’t done anything significant in your life in decades, except leech from my name.”
“Isabella!” My father’s voice cuts in, tighter than before, a warning wrapped in restraint. Nina flinches beside me. “That’s enough.”
I’m aware of how the people nearby have stopped pretending they’re not listening. No one is moving around us anymore, giving polite smiles and nods of acknowledgment as they pass us.
“Why are you so invested in pushing me into something I’ve never said I wanted?”
My mother studies me, and for a second I see it, the version of her that exists outside of strategy and calculation. It’s gone in an instant, replaced by someone who thrives on attention, even if it’s not hers in the first place.
“Because you are capable of more,” she says simply. “You carry a legacy, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not.”
“I’m not limiting myself, Mom,” I reply. “I’m choosing something.”
“And choosing poorly,” she returns.
I hear Cecilia's small gasp. I’m aware of her next to me in a different way now—not just presence, but weight, the quiet steadiness she brings even as the situation spirals somewhere neither of us planned for.
“That’s enough,” Nina says, stepping fully between us now, her voice harsher than I’ve ever heard it.
We all turn to her. Cecilia has moved to the side now, quietly observing these fucked up family interactions. Her brows are furrowed, and it’s almost like every chip is falling into place for her.
Nina is looking at our parents, arms crossed at her chest and chin high, defiant.
“If it is so important to you,” she continues, her tone rising just enough to cut through the control my parents are trying to maintain, “why don’t you do it yourselves? Why are you so obsessed with forcing her into something she’s clearly not interested in?”
My mother’s gaze shifts to her, slow. And something colder than the ice down below settles into this specific spot around us.
“That’s not your concern,” she says.
“Isn’t it?” Nina shoots back. “Because it seems to be affecting everyone around you.”
There’s a pause.
“Oh,” my mother says softly, like she’s just remembered something. “I wouldn’t be so quick to position yourself outside of this, Nina. Not when you’re still relying on the same structures to support your own career.”
Nina freezes.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I ask immediately.
Nina doesn’t move. She’s staring at our mother now, a hard, contained anger building behind her eyes. My father looks between them, genuinely confused.
“Vivienne,” he says, quieter now. “What are you talking about?”
My mother doesn’t look at him. “Nothing that concerns you, Sebastian.”
“That’s not how this works,” he says, more firmly. “If you’re making moves—”
“I am not making moves,” she interrupts, and for the first time there’s irritation in her voice. “I am ensuring continuity. Stability.”
“At whose expense?” Nina asks.
“At no one’s expense,” my mother replies. “This is how things are done.”
“No,” I say, stepping forward again, pulling the focus back where it belongs. “This is how you do things. And I am not participating in it.”
My mother’s gaze snaps back to mine.
“Be careful,” she says quietly. And that fucking polite smile returns to her face.
“No,” I repeat, smiling back. “You be careful.”
“Princess,” I hear from behind me. “Why don’t we—”
“Coach Montenegro,” my mother says, as if this is a completely different conversation, as if we are suddenly standing in front of cameras instead of in the middle of a situation that is very clearly unraveling. “I did want to thank you.”
Everything in me goes still.
Right next to me, Cecilia does the same, her body going rigid immediately and instinctively.
“Your willingness to participate in the program has been instrumental in demonstrating its viability,” my mother continues, her tone measured, polished.
It sounds like she’s reciting a memorized press release, the version that will be circulated to all the media outlets that cover our sport. “Results like this don’t go unnoticed.”
So fucking polite. So completely disconnected from the reality of what actually happened on the ice.
Cecilia shifts beside me, enough that I feel the brush of our shoulders, the smallest break in alignment, when she understands exactly what my mother is doing.
“Jesus, Vivienne,” I say, reaching for Cecilia’s hand without thinking, grounding myself in the feel of her skin, into something that belongs to me and not to them. “Cut the shit.”
“Jesus Christ, Isabella!” my father snaps, sharper now, the control slipping just enough to show through. “Who taught you those words?”
I laugh. It comes out easier than anything else has in the last five minutes—five years, even—short and disbelieving, almost as if we’ve suddenly stepped into a version of this conversation that belongs to a completely different decade.
Nina lets out a small chuckle.
“Oh my god,” she says, dragging a hand down her face before looking up at them. “She’s thirty-five years old.”
My father’s expression doesn’t change. “That doesn’t mean—”
“No, it actually does,” Nina cuts in, stepping forward again, her tone edged with acidity. “It means she can say and do whatever the fuck she wants, whenever she wants, without running it by you first.”
I glance at her for a second, and she shrugs one shoulder like this is obvious, like we’re the only ones in the room who understand how ridiculous this sounds.
My mother’s smile drops instantly.
“Language is not the issue here,” she says coolly.
“No,” Nina replies immediately. “It really isn’t.”