Page 118 of Ice Princesses
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 havestopped 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 areyou so obsessed with forcing her into something she’s clearly not interested in?”
