“Manhattan.”
Another pause, longer this time.“You should come home.You’re exhausted.”
Isla lets out a quiet laugh.“I’ve never been more awake.Meet me at the hotel.We need to talk.”
She hangs up without waiting for permission.
The hotel lobby smells like polished stone and restraint.Neutral.Impersonal.Safe.Isla checks in under her own name, no assistant, no manager, no handler, smoothing the edges.
She barely closes the door to her room when there’s a knock.
She opens it to find her mother standing there, impeccably dressed, composed as ever.The woman who taught her how to perform long before she ever touched a piano.
“May I come in?”Alisa asks.
Isla steps aside.
Her mother takes in the room with a quick, appraising glance.“A hotel?”
“I needed space,” Isla replies.
“You need rest,” Alisa counters.“And to get back on track.How can you practice here?”
Isla closes the door and turns to face her.“I’ve rented space in a studio.”
Her mother’s expression is concerned.
“I read the divorce decree.”
The words drop like a match.
Alisa stills.
“That’s not appropriate reading,” her mother says coolly.“Those were private matters between your father and myself.”
“It was my life,” Isla snaps.“And you made decisions about it without me.”
Alisa exhales sharply.“I protected you.”
“No,” Isla says.“You controlled me.”
Her mother’s eyes flash.“You were a child.He was into drugs and wild sex parties.Something a child didn’t need to be around.”
“He changed.”
“Oh, don’t believe that.”
“When I was eighteen,” Isla fires back, “my father wanted to see me.”
“That’s not?—”
“I know he told you he was coming,” Isla interrupts.“I know you threatened him.”
The room tightens.
Her mother shrugged her shoulders and licked her lips.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alisa says.
