Instead, the moment the door opens, the world surges at them.
Lights.Shouts.Cameras.
“Isla!Isla MacLaren, this way!”
“Is it true about your father?”
“Keir MacLaren is dead.Do you have a statement?”
“Did you know before your performance?”
“Was your piece dedicated to him?”
Microphones shove toward Isla’s face.A bright light shines from a camera almost in her face.The.press formed a semi-circle outside the venue, waiting like predators who’d scented blood.
Isla’s heart beat once, hard.
Alisa grabs Isla’s hand and pulls her forward.“Keep your head down,” she hisses.“Don’t say anything.”
Isla’s jaw tightens.
She hates this.
She hates the way her father could still take center stage in her life without ever being present.She hates that in the same night she won something she had earned with her own hands and her own discipline, the world decided the headline would be about him.
Keir MacLaren.
A reporter shoves closer.“Isla—were you close with him?”
Close?
Isla almost laughs.The absurdity of it.
Alisa pushes harder, dragging Isla toward the waiting limo.A security guard tries to hold the press back, but the crowd surges.Someone calls Isla’s name again, loud and insistent, as if saying it enough times would crack her open.
Isla keeps moving, face composed, eyes forward, posture flawless.
A microphone is shoved in her face, the reporter stepping alongside her.
She stumbles a half step.
Alisa’s grip tightens like a vise.“Move,” she snarls.
They reach the limo.The driver holds the door open.Alisa shoves Isla inside first, then followed, slamming the door shut behind them with a finality that muffled the shouting outside.
The interior is dark and cool, smelling faintly of leather and expensive cologne.
The limo lurches forward.
Isla stares out the tinted window as the press dissolves into streaks of light and movement.Her reflection stares back at her, perfect hair, perfect makeup, a medal glinting coldly at her throat.
A winner.
A daughter of a dead rock star.
Beside her, Alisa turns sharply, rage colliding with fear in her expression.
“I told you,” Alisa growls, “we needed to leave earlier.”
