My mother straightens. “We built something extraordinary.”
“Yes,youbuilt something extraordinary,” I agree. “I’m building something different that belongs to me.”
Behind them, I hear Cecilia inhale. She’s moved closer tothe 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. “Oneathlete 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.
